#it is stream of consciousness the whole way through

[coricoping]

Okay y'all, Act 2!

Moments of Happiness

Gotta be honest, not usually one of my fave songs. It usually just doesn't hit me much. This version tried to rip my heart out of my chest though

We end intermission with Old Deut and Sillabub onstage, Sillabub still holding Grizzabella's scarf. Old Deut sings basically this whole number directly to Sillabub

Deut ties Grizz's scarf around Sillabub's neck on the "many generations" line, as a whole passing of the legacy/continuation of the community thing

The other cats are around the edges of the stage but not on it or in light, contributing backing vocals but not taking any of the focus

There is a screen lowered at the back of the stage right before the song. They use it to project a tribute to the founding mothers of ballroom

The tribute names many real life figures who were instrumental to the creation of ballroom as it stands today, including (by my memory) Crystal LaBeija of House LaBeija, Dorian Corey of House Corey, Avis Pendavis of House Pendavis, Duchess La Wong of House La Wong, and Paris Dupree of House Dupree, and Angie Xtravaganza of House Xtravaganza

It ends with a recognition of Grizzabella as the founding mother of the House of Glamour and a selection of highlight clips of Tempress performing at balls throughout her career.

Gus the Theater Cat

We end our tribute to important and iconic figures of the ballroom scene by bringing on stage an actual ballroom icon, Junior LaBeija.

As is now pattern, I have to mention costumes again. Gus has a fabulous robe, a gorgeous headscarf + great hair, makeup, and giant golden jewelry claws. Jelly also gives him a pink boa

Jellylorum is younger than normal in this production, explicitly being Gus' granddaughter, and has such a lovely combination of respect/love for her incredibly impressive grandfather and snark at the parts of his stories that just seem like bragging. "He says, in his time," is delivered behind her hand turned away from Gus with a big smile

Demelurina are fully lying on each other during this number, we love lesbians here

Rumpleteazer is right up next to Gus looking so excited about all of this

There are a bunch of playbills and photos that Gus and Jelly show off

"And once I played the Rumpus cat" doesn't go into Pekes and Pollicles, but instead there is a ghost of Gus' younger self (played by Mungojerrie's actor) in a toned down version of Gus' costume

Gus dances simultaneously with the ghost as if he's remembering his youth, and it is gorgeous

When the ghost leaves at the end of that segment, Old Deut stares after it for a long time looking immensely haunted (this scene and Grizzabella's whole deal are the cornerstones of my thoughts on age in this show, which will be a post of its own)

Category Is: Opulence. An unfamiliar category for me, but seemingly judged based on presenting an image of luxury, regality, and tasteful excess. Won by Gus

Skimbleshanks the Railway Cat

Latina MTA Conductor Skimble, 10/10

Amazing wig, yellow and black stripes and long

Song is sung in alternating English and Spanish sections, which is super fun

The fake train segment is done by all of the actors packing together and pretending to be on the subway

The energy for this whole number is so good

Rumpleteazer and Skimble both give amazing dance performances here

Skimble looks offended when Rumple wins, and continues to do some really impressive posing

Eventually gives in and gives Rumple a big hug

Kinda want Rumple to be Skimble's ballroom daughter, tbh, this number has those vibes

Category Is: Old Way vs New Way. Performers must showcase elements of both Old and New Way performance. Won by Rumpleteazer, other competitors are Skimbleshanks, Mistoffelees, and Tugger

Macavity

Macavity shows up as a shadow in the upper window area, silhouetted by police lights, and drops a bunch of bags down through an open window

Demeter grabs the bags, which are revealed to be designer brand clothes. She shows them off and gets so adorably excited about it

Deme and Bomba sing about Macavity, and their tone is much more braggy than scared. Makes sense, as he is their house father. Their voices are both great

They both change into some of the designer clothes and start walking for their category, looking gorgeous

Mac comes out in a full orange ensemble, giant fur coat and all, at the climax of the song

House Dots have black and white polkadot fits, which look very good

Category Is: Labels. Fashion category judged based on the number of designer items you have on and how well you wear them. Won by House Macavity, other competitors are the members of House Dots (Jenny, Tumble, Vickie)

The Fight

House of Dots gets pissed at the loss, I hear a shouted "check my receipts" from Jenny, and some of the cats storm onstage with some of the clothes Mac brought to show that they still have anti-theft tags on them

Deut takes Mac's trophy away because of this, which makes Mac look crushed and then very quickly he covers it up with anger, gets in an argument with Deut, and storms off

The police sirens start after Macavity leaves

Deut gestures for the cats to lay all the stolen stuff at his feet, which they do with varying levels of protest/resignation

The police storm in, see Deut surrounded by the stuff,and go to arrest him.

Mungojerrie tries to lunge at an officer as they reach Deut, and has to be held back by Rumple and I think Demeter for the rest of the scene

Bustopher and Jelly pull out their phones and record the police the entire time, even when officers get up in their faces

Everyone generally looks angry, sad, and hopeless

As soon as the police get out of the building with Deut, Mac comes back in. He looks like he was planning to come apologize, he was wrecked, and he looks completely shellshocked by what he walks into.

"Macavity's not there" is spoken directly at him as an accusation by the entire tribe, and damn does it get to him. He stumbles back out, leaving the Jellicles sitting around the stage

Line change: "We have to save Old Deuteronomy," because they know where he is they just can't do anything about it

Mr Mistoffelees

Tugger looks so immensely destroyed by what just happened. This is the dude who competes and wins on his ability to maintain a tough masculine facade, and he is curled up into a little ball on the stairs, head in his hand

The start of the pre-song speaking is not hopeful. He's not excited about asking Misto when he starts out, it very much feels like this is just the only thing he thinks might help

Everyone is very dismissive of the idea, there are audible scoffs from most of the Jellicles after "don't scoff". These people are hurting, and they can't take Tugger seriously

In reaction, Tugger restarts the ball. He takes over as MC, announces the next category, and does his damndest to get everyone back into the swing of things. I have very strong feelings about this bit, but that would get too long for this summary

And then Misto comes out, and the crowd goes wild. Silk is so so pretty, and the costume!!! Tugger immediately perks up more, and the other jellicles start to get back into it

The Magic!!! Misto, in short order: pulls a streamer out of Demeter's mouth that continues getting pulled out even after he struts away, magics Jelly's new wig up to the ceiling to drop on Tugger's head (great rigging work here), and sticks two handkerchiefs into Tugger's pants and pulls them out tied around Tugger's sparkly leopard jockstrap.

Tugger’s tone on “Magical,” a line that comes directly after the handkerchief trick, cannot be considered SFW

Costuming: There is a giant fluffy coat and giant fluffy bag. Under the giant fluffy coat is a perfect adaptation of Misto's song outfit, turned from a suit into a corset situation, and covered in so many sparkles. There is also a gorgeous giant sparkly headdress that I am so tempted to try and make

Misto is strutting for this entire number, stealing pieces from the outfits of every person who comes up to try to compete against him

Silk's dancing is amazing, people should not be able to split like that

Old Deut is summoned back magically in a pretty classic covered box trick. This is pulled off very well, I did not catch the mechanics even though I generally know how that trick works

There are conjuring turns!!!

Deut comes back frozen still in the box. Everyone looks super confused. Eventually Macavity, who has slunk back in, walks up to his frozen Father looking half exasperated and half sad, waves a hand in his face, and then jumps a solid foot up and back when Deut lunges towards him a little

Also Tuggogelees makes out at the end, it's great

Category Is: Runway. In this case, a selection of fashion/look based categories including Women's (category focused on cis women) and Foot, Eye, Bag (like Labels kinda, but focused on shoes, sunglasses, and bags). Won by Mistofelees, other competitors include (but are not limited to): Jellylorum, Demeter, Bombalurina, and Macavity

Memory Pt 2

Everyone is gathering around for the Jellicle Choice, all ready to go, when Grizzabella comes through the curtain in the sparkly dress Sillabub laid out for her earlier

I like the positioning of the cast in this version. I am a giant fan of versions of this song where all the cats start out facing away from Grizz and turn around independently when they hear her sing something that convinces them specifically, but in this no one starts out looking away. They pull away to the sides, they look uncertain and huddle together, but they're still looking at her and it seems like they already want to take her back and are scared to admit it

Tempress has a gorgeous voice, and does such justice to Grizz. She looks nervous about her acceptance into the tribe, but there's so much determination & strength in her.

And when that strength breaks briefly, and she turns to walk away from the stage, Sillabub is there

It feels like this is a song that Sillabub already knew, like Grizz sang a song like this before that was happy and Sillabub is just reminding her of it by singing a verse of that version and proving that she knows and cares about Grizz both as who she is now and as who she was. They sound so good together

At the end, Deut acknowledges Grizz with the paw salute thing that all the Jellicles have been doing to each other

Tempress has a gorgeous voice

She looks nervous about if she’ll be accepted, but there’s a steely determination under it

She is here and she’s going to do this, damn it

Then that determination breaks and she turns around to leave

Sillabub

This reads as Sillabub knowing the song because Griz has sung something like it before

Like, there was a happier version she performed earlier in her life

They sound amazing together

Sillabub encourages her back onto stage, and off we go

Grizzabella is acknowledged by Old Deut with the paw salute thing, and that is the symbol of her being accepted

Heaviside Layer

There is a giant hug line. The Jellicles are so happy to see Grizz return to herself and ascend

The stairs to the Heaviside Layer are a giant fire escape that folds down from near the ceiling

When Grizz passes through the door, the sounds of a New York street play

The Addressing of Cats

Similarly to Naming, this just works so well in the themes of the show

Everyone gathers at the back of the stage by the sparkly curtains, there is a lot of pretty posing and interactions between the cats

The two ensemble, dressed as waiters, bring in champagne for the cast

Everyone's voices sound good

Bows

MC-ed by Munk in the style of a proper ball

Everyone gets their own personalized beat and a chance to strut their stuff

This includes some really damn good dancing

The conductor also gets to come out and vogue down the runway, which I love

They use Jellicle Songs as the post-bow song, not Mistoffelees like I've normally seen.

Also Old Deut is in a gown, I think this is important to mention

My Conclusions

If you can't tell, I loved this

I have a lot of thematic (ageism, naming, gender, etc) and character-specific thoughts to express in later posts that I won't clutter this with

Being in the audience of this show was such a powerful experience of queer joy. I'm not sure I can actually express how good it felt to see people who love and live the way I do on stage being celebrated with such enthusiasm, and having that happen using a show I already love made it even better.

The cast and crew of this show worked their asses off, and every bit of it paid off. I'd like to give specific crew shout-outs to Qween Jean (the costume designer) and Nikiya Mathis (the hair and wigs designer) for never once missing and delivering an amazing set of looks.

CATS: The Jellicle Ball Summary

Sourced from my (admittedly imperfect) memory. I love this production, and this is an abridged summary of my memory of the events of the show. Specific/detailed character thoughts will be saved for their own posts, same with thematic deep dives. If there is any character/theme/question y'all want my thoughts on first, I can move them to the top of my queue of thoughts. That being said: on with the show!

Tumblr decided to post early, so this is just Act 1. I will add Act 2 as a reblog when I finish it

Pre-Show

The set for this show is really well done. Talked to one of the workers during intermission, and the whole thing (seating, stage, and all) is completely modular and movable. Floor levels are also all adjustable. It really inclines itself to audience interaction, both with the runway structure and the individual tables at the cabaret level seats.

Junior Labeija handles the pre-show announcements (put your phones away once you've googled me, cheer your heart out, don't film, etc)

Overture

Hearing this live for the first time made me cry

The DJ's introduction is great, he has a collection of queer and black artists' vinyls that he pulls out, followed by a Cats vinyl filled with glitter

The eyes (projected up onto the back wall/window panel) have the white cat solo animated inside of them

Shadow outline of a dancer (I think Primo/Tumble on the night I saw) starting out w/ ears and a tail doing classic Cats-style choreo blending into a removal of the ears/tail and a shift to ballroom choreo

Jellicle Songs for Jellicle Cats

Did the thing I love for this song where there are clear and well-timed spotlights on every cat as they sing their line, w/ everyone else in darkness

Cast appears throughout the audience (Tugger was behind me at his start, I think) before gathering into the area around the stage

Get onto stage for the Mystical Divinity section

The group catwalk is absolutely gorgeous, this show has great choreo

The Naming of Cats

The perfection of this song for a queer viewing of Cats cannot be overstated, and will likely be its own post eventually

Munk as an MC leading this number is lovely to me

"Man over there" is given to Macavity, as the first clear indication to his altered role in this version

There are spotlights on every cat whose name gets said in the song, not just Bombalurina, which makes me happy

White Cat Solo

Gets its own segment because Baby is that good. She is dance captain for this show and you can see why

The white outfit here is gorgeous, kinda sad she changes out of it later

Pink lighting is doing good work making this section feel ethereal

Was way closer to the vibes of the original than I was expecting from a vogue choreo. There were a couple moves I saw as clear references to the original

Invitation

Emcee Munk continues to be amazing, the rhythm of this was very satisfying

"COME OUT tonight"

They bring in guest judges to sit until Old Deut arrives

Gumbie Cat

Jenny is a tired single mother of three kids who cannot for the life of them get organized

Puerto Rican drag queen Jennyanydots has my heart, as does her stylist

The "sits and sits and sits" line here is not used to imply that Jenny is lazy, it is very explicitly saying that she has a lot of sex (as acted out jokingly by her choreo)

Cassandra is adorable here, both while dancing and after she realizes she's won

Category Is: Virgin Vogue. A category for people in their first year of doing vogue (or similar). Won by Cassandra of House Dots, other competitors are Tumblebrutus of House Dots, Electra 007, and someone I am currently forgetting

The Rum Tum Tugger

I think I've made my love for this setup for Tugger clear before, and will continue to do so in the future, so this is gonna be little moments I liked/noticed

There are some line/blocking switch ups. Bomba gets the "terrible bore" line (said reclined on the stage as Tugger leans over her) along with her standard. Victoria is the girl flirting with Tugger on his "No" drop

Tugger flirts with everyone here. His competition, the other cats, the audience, etc.

Everyone but Misto, who is off to the side mocking his riffs

Sillabub is the one to faint during the ending bit

Category Is: Realness. Ability to pass as a (in this case) a cishet man in a variety of categories (pretty boy, thug, schoolboy, executive, etc). Won by Tugger, other competitors are Tumblebrutus and Mungojerrie

Grizzabella the Glamour Cat

I really like the interpretation of the Jellicles' relationship with Grizz in this show. They aren't angry at her, more...distressed? It seems like her being around is making everyone worried both about her and for her, so they react differently

Munk tries to give her money, she refuses

She comes in holding a trophy that is clearly old, showing that her glory days were a while ago. She also looks like she's likely been homeless.

Demeter's voice is gorgeous here, and she looks really conflicted about Grizz

There is a Demelurina vibe to this whole show, which I started noticing here

I have a lot of thoughts on Grizz and her relationships with the Jellicles here, which will probably be a post pretty soon after this one.

Grizz tries and fails to convince the judges to allow her to compete, and is far more determined/steely in this first appearance than usual.

Sillabub. Making them a giant Grizzabella fan was such a good choice. This is one of the most sweet and genuine through-lines of the musical. They're so genuinely remorseful and excited to see Grizz, but still back off when Demeter warns them.

Bustopher Jones

I know I gave Jenny my heart earlier, but it's been stolen. Nonbinary Bustopher Jones as played by Nora Schell is, I think, the ideal Bustopher. This is what this character was meant to be, for me

Oh gods the costumes. Tugger has a sparkly leopard print jockstrap. Bustopher has a full bustier situation covered in a bedazzled Union Jack. Mistoffelees and Demeter both have lovely sheer situations going on. This is amazing, and I've been informed is even better if you're bi

Nora Shell has pipes, y'all. Their voice is so strong and clear

This number has almost no true choreography, it's just the competitors showing off how hot they are (posing, strutting, stripping, grabbing their asses and shaking them at the judges, etc)

The amount of offense Tugger takes to losing is hilarious to me

Category Is: Body. Usually divided into Femme Queen and Butch Queen, but competed as an Open-to-All for this show. How good does your body look, and how well can you show it off? Won by Bustopher Jones, other competitors are Tugger, Demeter, and Mistoffelees.

Macavity Scare 1

Flashing lights and sirens

Demeter is so done with this. I have rarely heard a clearer "bitch really?" tone than I did in her calling Macavity's name here

Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer

Making them come from Jersey is amazing, top tier choice paired with some amazing accent work

Costumes are again amazing, Mungoteazer have a lime green/neon pink color scheme going on here

They spend a long time behind some changing racks, and I spent that whole time watching Munk as he got more and more annoyed with every passing second

I really love the dancing in this song, they get very up in each other's faces

Y'all, they steal the trophy when they lose. It's perfect

Category Is: Tag Team Performance. Vogue performance done as a pair. Won by Victoria and Tumblebrutus, stolen by Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer.

Old Deuteronomy

Munkustrap: a professional, on his shit, announcing his House Father right

Tugger: unprepared, eating a snack, oh god why is he giving me the mic

I love the setup for the duet here, Tugger is so surprised to be picked and is both nervous and honored. They sing into the same mic y'all

Andre De Shields, what more do I need to say?

His presence, his voice, the note he held for a solid 30 seconds, he deserves that throne

Jellicle Ball

Macavity again! In his dressing gown, with his bags of stolen stuff, looking like a deer in headlights when the spotlight catches him

The dancing continues to be absolutely gorgeous

Grizzabella is up on an audience balcony for this number looking tragic

The Jellicle Moon is a disco ball and it brought me so much joy

Munk has a killer egyptian look, including full-size wings

There are giant complicated cat face wigs and a giant hat made of hair

Category Is: Bizarre. Fashion category judged on the quality and strangeness of the outfit. Munkustrap was the only competitor, and Old Deut chopped him

Category Is: Hair. Not a category I actually know, but clearly in this show is judging based on the size, design, and quality of wigs. Won by the House of Dots, as sole competitors

Probably other categories I didn't notice clearly enough to remember

Memory

Grizzabella comes on and everyone walks off annoyed, except for Old Deut who comes and hides behind a riser. He's right in front of me, so I'm watching this number over his shoulder

Grizz recreating her dance moves is painful for my heart, as usual

Tempress has a gorgeous voice

Sillabub re-enters and looks so starstruck, then runs off again

Comes back with a sparkly dress to offer to Grizz

Grizz sees the dress, starts crying, and runs away. She grabs her coat, but leaves her scarf

We go to intermission on the image of Sillabub holding the scarf to their face and crying

[crookedfivefingers]

3.13 | ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ʟᴏʀᴅꜱ

link to the post I accidentally wound up prattling endlessly about in the tags 💀

[atopvisenyashill]

atp i’m kinda fifty fifty on whether dany goes genuinely dark or whether she does similar fucked up shit (ie burning KL, sacking cities with the dothraki, & killing aegon vi) before attempting some level of redemption (in her eyes & her followers eyes) by going out in an ultimately useless attempt to destroy the others. like. i think the idea that she goes out trying to stop the tide of others (probably near the trident) and her people & maybe the riverlands are touched but the north is just kinda like “that was functionally useless & also she did still fuck up the crownlands” would fit george’s idea of “light and dark both” while also fitting with the general anti war, anti violence stances of the book.

because…part of why i don’t think she ever goes north or plays a huge part in the long night is because i think that “dany destroys the others with her blood magic dragons that george has compared to nukes” doesn’t really fit with the story? i think it’s notable that jon treats ghost like a genuine, beloved pet and not a war machine & all the violence ghost has done has been his own love of jon - my dog has barked at people when he can tell i’m uncomfortable! they’re good at picking up at our underlying emotions - and this is similar to summer as well. bran explicitly forgets to treat summer as a war machine bc he’s too busy enjoying the feeling of running & hunting and doing wolf things! vs robb is implied to use grey wind to kill & it’s part of why he eventually sends grey wind away - he’s unsettled by the violence he’s caused & made grey wind cause. i think when arya gets back to the riverlands, it’s not just her mother’s violence she will have to contend with, it’s nymeria’s as well! vs dany…explicitly wants to use the dragons to conquer. so going out in a blaze of glory that does nothing to change the tide of the war, the last scion of house targaryen trying and failing to escape the clutches of a prophecy that has plagued her family for hundreds of years but at least she tries to escape unlike her family…fits with where i think characters like tyrion & jaime are going where the point is even though they do genuinely evil shit, they at least attempt a breakaway even if it’s not wholly successful.

i reserve the right to wildly change my mind on this as i keep reading tho!!! it’s just where i’m feeling in asos. she is very similar to tyrion in that she is very much of her house & embodies her house’s weaknesses & sin while also having its strengths. and given that george is very fond of tyrion and has mentioned being fond of dany…i know a lot of us bitch about how it feels like tyrion won’t get a proper “comeuppance” for like, the sheer amount of sexual abuse he partakes in bc george doesn’t have as great of an idea of consent as the average person under 50 does rn or even like, the average woman/gay has lol, and i’m wondering if he’ll do some similar “an attempt at an eleventh hour redemption” thing with her.

[spelldealer]

i had an insane dream last night…

[avocado-writing]

Avo please I need Pregnant reader x DP&W headcanons 😩 I love both these men so much. I just wanna a little life with them. These men have been through so damn much. Let them have some softness in their life.

I don’t really want kids but good lord- if they asked me too, I would push out an entire hockey team for them

Wade is so fucking happy when you tell him you're pregnant. They've been trying to knock you up for ages now, about damn time it worked!

Logan is pleased too but he's a little more... reserved about it. Doesn't want to run around telling everyone like Wade does. It's hard for him to embrace happiness, because he's so used to it slipping through his fingers. Get past your first trimester and he's able to start smiling about it though.

Expect to always be sitting down. If you get up to do something, one of them will be gently guiding you back to your seat. "Sweetie you sit your fine pregnant ass right back down, I'll get whatever you need. Soda? Chips? A whole tub of Ben & Jerry's?" or a softer, "Stay there baby, I'll grab it."

One of them is always with you, like a fucking guard dog. They're dangerous men after all, who knows who might be looking for them? Usually you can handle yourself but they have an extra reason to worry now.

Al makes it very clear she does not want a baby in the apartment (can you blame her?) so you have to find a new home. It's an added stress for you so the boys usually go out scouting. Eventually you're able to find a cute little place to afford with the three of you (being in a polycule is the only way to make rent these days)

You love to spend those days doing up baby's room and singing silly little songs as you do it. "Am I gonna paint your nursery green or yellow, who knows... ♫" If one of them catches you, they'll lean against the doorframe and watch you with absoloute heart-eyes.

Logan's been around for long enough that he's had experience with young kids before, so when you or Wade panic about something, he's usually the one to temper it. Reminds you that you'll both be fine.

Wade never shuts the fuck up talking to your bump. Truly, a stream of consciousness about the world to baby. Gets little Deadpool onesies for them too, because he thinks they're cute. Logan is quieter, hand on your belly, a quiet few sentences just so they know that he has a voice and it's not just Wade.

They're pretty good when you go into labour. Wade panics a bit but Logan hits him with a look which implies that now is not the time, and he buckles down. Delivery goes smoothly. It's great to have two guys who can heal their bones when you need to grip down on something as you push.

And when you get home? Crib is barely used. Baby is pretty much always in someone's arms: Wade's who's always babbling to baby's delight; Logan's solid embrace as he hums quietly; against your chest as you whispered how loved they are.

taglist: @falsewordz @malfoys-demigod @belilwen @mildly-salted @tvwebs @childeslegstrap @getmeoutofhell @s1eep-o @just-a-beatlemaniac69 @yrthr @momopad @sugarplumz100 @captainjinkx @madspads @acrosstheunivcrse @yeethaw13 @na-is-salty @florduarte @hunterispunk @starfleetteddybear

[hoseoksluna]

BOOKWORMS | knj

pairing: boyfriend!namjoon x reader

genre: smut; fluff

word count: 4.4k

summary: namjoon thinks of you when he reads a smut scene in his book.

warnings: boyfriend namjoon!!!, kimi namijoon reading, mentions of sex (riding), oral sex (f. receiving), nipple play, the importance of consent, teasing, raw sex, breeding kink <3, big dick namu!!, dom/sub dynamics, spanking, joonie's chain dangling in ur face, tummy bulge, creampie, bruising, hickeys, aftercare:(

note: it took blood, sweat and tears (hehe) to write this and i'm so happy it's finally here!! i loved writing about namjoon. he's my whole soul and the entirety of my heart and i have to write abt him again soon. please take your time reading this and enjoy urself! let me know what you think in the comments mwah (or tell me anonymously in my inbox) and as i always say please like and if u want to - reblog, but i won't pressure u baby. love love you!!

side note: if you want to jump straight to the smut, it's right under the asterisks &lt;;3

You revel, you truly do, in seeing your boyfriend in such a serene state of mind. 

Nose buried in a book, Namjoon pays no mind to the surroundings fleeting by him with each flutter of his eyelashes. It goes unnoticed by him, strangely so, how you tidy up the apartment you share. How you feed the two cats that chose you and him to be their human parents. How you fondle their soft ears. How you bend over the furniture to whisper ‘pspsps’ at them when they need a moment away from you just to see their round eyes look up at you stupidly. Namjoon usually observes these moments; this utmost natural behavior of yours. He draws strength from the homeliness of it all with each and every swell of his lungs. Needs it to survive. That is until he gets a hold of that one papery portal and sits comfortably on the couch, one ankle propped over the knee. Then, he ceases to exist in this world. 

You’re happy for him. Over time, you’ve come to find that you have a certain fondness for the way he remains stoic. Because you always know what kind of book he’s reading, a smile blossoms on its own over the line of your lips whenever your eye catches the sculpture-like look on his face. It’s like even if he let himself hold his breath, his consciousness would waver back to the earth and the wretched awareness that he’s here, among mortals and the unfair capitalist system aftermath, would stream in his bloodstream, poisoning his experience. It takes the leisure out of it and makes the bed for misery instead. He doesn’t like it. Hates it, in fact. It’s a necessity that he focuses, as he embarks on the journey, because he does it for you.

Namjoon confides in his feelings and his literature with you almost on a daily basis. On the same couch, with the same cats snoring faintly, their small bodies spilling over the perimeter of your tangled legs. Doesn’t matter if it’s his thigh or the curve of your hip. The animals always find a warm crook to doze in, eavesdropping in, with their curious little ears, on the conversations you’re having. Though you reckon they like the meat of his thigh the best. You do, too. Can’t really blame them. The same serenity that intimately knows the person of Namjoon perceives the person of you when he prompts you to rest your head on his lap while he brushes his book-kissed fingers through the silky waterfall of your hair. Thoroughly explains the intricacies of the plot he’s invested in to you. Describes the characters as if they’re real people he’s become acquainted with. They are real to you as you listen. As you ask additional questions and gaze up at his eyes just to catch that one body of a shooting star fiery hot in the glossiness of his eyes. As you wonder, openly, what will happen to them.

“I’ll tell you when they tell me.” He sunk the promise onto the smooth skin of your forehead with the pucker of his lips.

It’s how you discovered, in all seriousness, that the plaster of his stoicism breaks during these literary moments.

Various colors of emotion tug and twist his features, the bare kind. The unrestrained kind. You know it’s a relief for him when the dam bursts open, soaking you in the beauty of humanness one only finds in literature these days. You can’t help but fall in love with him all over again when his eyebrows furrow. When his orbs nearly burn a hole in the ceiling when he’s trying to think of the right word that will ultimately help him convey the unfolding of the storyline. When he gives up and weaves English into his sentences, relying on his hands to say what his overstimulated brain fails to do. 

He reads to pass knowledge to you. The serenity whispered it into the chambers of your heart, a puff of hot breath in winter’s cold. It soothingly rubbed his shoulders when Namjoon told you there used to be a time when he couldn’t stand the sight of his books lining up the walls of his apartment. Wanted to burn it down and watch as the evidence of his melancholy dies in front of him. Because that’s what most of his book collection consisted of back then. The innermost shadowy faces of his pain. Loneliness. Sadness. Despair from life, from it not being enough for him, from it not saving a spot there for him–not once throughout the course of his life. That’s why he reads different kinds of books now. Ones that do not reflect his survival before you.

The reader has to get wiser, ruffled by life in order to gain more, gain what they need from those once deeply loved pages. It’s what the serenity believes. It’s what you believe and hope for Namjoon. That one day, somehow by the healing of the love you give him, he will look back and pick a souvenir from that moonless country of pain. Put it up somewhere between the spines of his new cluttered collection. Look at it from time to time and sense that it’s telling him something. Something that will fill the stitched-up cracks in his heart with sunlight. Something that he will pass over to you. It’s your love language after all. Namjoon reads because you read. It’s his own personal healing thing. 

You two are just a pair of two bookworms. Unfit for the world outside. Fit for the land you two created. Whose soil you take care of together.

***

Dinner is almost ready by the time you feel his fingertips gripping your hips. You hum, acknowledging his presence. Glad for the homely heat that radiates off of his body and seeps into your bones as you stir the risotto you decided to make on the stove. Coldness had been embracing you all day while he read so you’re overjoyed that he ripped it away from you.

Namjoon places a kiss on your temple and you sigh in relief. You might be too dependent on him, but so is he. He wouldn’t be nuzzling his face in your hair, squeezing your waist, peppering kisses on your tender skin if he wasn’t. It’s the perfect balance. And it’s not that you’re not able to be away from each other. The principle of looking forward to one another is what makes it so sweet, so endurable for the pair of you. Of the coming back and coming into contact at the end of the day. It’s natural. Simple. Human.

“Missed me?” Namjoon husks into your ear. 

You smirk and turn off the stove, turning around to face him. “Terribly.”

His body is clad in a black T-shirt that fits his broad figure well and a pair of baggy sweats of the same color, having discarded the warm crewneck he was wearing earlier somewhere in the universe of his book. A long silver chain twinkles in the middle of his chest in the yellow light. You caress it with your fingers and leave your palm there, on the hardness of his pecs. 

“I finished the book,” he says and you blink up at him. You’re not surprised at all. “Couldn’t put it down.”

Sleepy wrinkles have left their mark on his face from the cozy position he laid in for too long on the couch. His short sunlit hair, grown healthily from his military service, is tousled in all directions and you smooth it down for him. How did God bless you with such a beautiful man is something you’ll wonder about for the rest of your life. 

“What happened to Theo in the end?” you ask, genuinely curious about whether one of the characters you’ve grown attached to is okay after all the shit the author put him through. 

Namjoon was reading a coming-of-age book about a boy named Theo. A panorama of his childhood and adolescent life, you’ve heard all about it. Namjoon cared a lot about this story, cared a lot about the protagonist’s emotions and reactions to the reappearing storms. What made him stick with it, despite the nearly triggering themes, is the fact that Theo never let go of his optimism no matter what. It was incredibly inspiring for Namjoon. Something new. Something that he never thought could be possible. You’re proud of him for daring to read a book so reminiscent of his past.

“You’re not gonna believe it,” Namjoon says, a blush creeping along his cheeks.

You raise one of your eyebrows in question. 

“Theo got laid,” Namjoon reveals, laughing softly. “I’m so happy for him.”

You gasp and burst into giggles. “What?”

“He got some!” 

Your laughter rises in volume. “He lost his virginity and that’s the end?”

“It was a big moment for him. A triumph of some kind. Like he shed his old skin and left that broken life behind. It was amazing.” Namjoon’s eyes glint with tiny shooting stars and you melt. He always finds poetic meanings in the varieties of the character arcs. You think you just fell in love with him all over again. 

“That’s really beautiful,” you admit. It reminds you of something. Of something quite personal. “My first time with you changed my life as well.”

Namjoon’s eyebrows curl in tenderness. Dragon eyes widen and round in fervent emotion. He squeezes his arms around you, enfolding you in a hug. Kisses you warmly. Strokes your hair down your back. Your own eyes pool with little tears with the intimate knowledge that you chose the right person to unfold your raw femininity with. No one, no man other than him could have created such a safe for that to happen.

“Tell you what,” Namjoon says a bit hoarsely. “I saw us in it.”

You hum, encouraging him to continue. Crave for more of his thoughts and confidential findings. Its fire spreading through your body, as each word of his registers in your brain, always makes you feel phenomenally alive. You’re not timid to avow that it’s your addiction. Shame doesn’t know you.

“Elena was on top and he was watching her. In awe of her,” he murmurs, caressing your cheek with the tip of his thumb. “Made me think of our last time. A life changing experience of mine as well.”

You welcome the fire and suspire with sudden desire, eyes lidding. Your heart begins to thump. Namjoon studies your reaction. 

“You remember well, don’t you?” He nudges his nose against yours. “I was in awe of you just the same.” 

It’s impossible not to remember. The memory consumes your mind every waking hour. Gets you needy in ways you haven’t felt before. Namjoon had you sat on his lap among the fluffiness of your innumerable pillows and plushies. Had you do all the work as he focused on the sleekness of your freshly moisturized calves, its coconut aroma interfused with the scent of sex and the euphony of your bounces, ragged breaths and broken moans making his head all fucked up. He was loud himself, more loud than you ever recalled him being. Reading your body at the mercy of the pleasure his hard length was giving you with his bottom lip sucked between his teeth. Not once did he take his eyes off of you, not once did he help you. Just gripped your calves. Your thighs. Your tits all in his face. Only when you came hard, out of your own delightful merit, did his eyes roll back. You left his hips glazed with the evidence of your well-deserved orgasm, a porcelain statue made glossy.

A little later, during your pillow talk, he told you he’d found the idea of you using him while getting yourself off extremely hot. Made him more hard than he’d been in a while. Begged you to be even more selfish next time, adding an indistinct, ‘well, of course, if you want’ to the end of his sentence because he’s Namjoon.

“I do,” you breathe. “Touched myself to it this morning while you were still asleep.”

Namjoon groans. “God.” He kisses the side of your neck. Gets close to your ear. “You wanna do it again, hm? Wanna fuck me?” 

You might burst. His closeness, his heat, his need to ask for your consent turns you unstable. You’re choked up on your words, mind too fuzzy to say something. Turned on. Fucked up.

“You wanna show me how you touched yourself?” Namjoon continues, but you shake your head against the side of his face. 

You had touched yourself in the shower. Couldn’t say no to the impulse. Sharing that part of you for his eyes to see isn’t something you’re quite ready for. To you, it’s still something that’s yours. Something private. A courage you have yet to pluck up. You’re afraid to give him this last part of your femininity.

“Not today,” you whisper, planting a kiss on his neck. Feel him shiver. “I’m sorry. Do you mind?”

Withdrawing from your neck, Namjoon looks you dead in the eye, brows twisted in stern seriousness. “Don’t ever apologize for something like that again. Hear me when I say that.”

You squeeze his shoulder, the corners of your mouth lowering in a pout. Thankfulness grips your heart and suddenly it’s hard to breathe. 

“You know this is why we do this right?” he asks you. “Why I ask you these questions? I need to always know what you’re comfortable with so I don’t make a mistake.”

You nod. “Yes, Namjoon, I know and I’m so thankful.”

“Good. I’ll never push you to do anything you don’t want. Don’t forget that, okay?”

“Okay, I won’t.” 

“That’s my girl. 

You grab him by the back of his neck and engulf him in a hug. Luckiest girl in the world? That you are. The fact that you’re his is still something you can’t wrap your head around.

“We can stop. We don’t even have to do anything tonight—”

“No, Namjoon.” You withdraw. “Look.” Wrapping your hand around his wrist, you slip his hand beneath the confines of your panties. 

His breath shakes when he reaches your soaked folds. He traces your hole with his middle finger and your hips follow his movement, the pleasure so faint but so good that you flutter your eyes closed.

“Fuck, baby.” 

“Yeah, I need you. Need more,” you breathe out. “Can’t leave me like this, can you?”

Namjoon hums. “No, I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of this pussy.” 

He kisses you. Massages his tongue against yours. You buck your hips into his hand and Namjoon hears your body language. Takes his fingers up and rubs your swollen clit from side to side, quickening his pace as he swallows your moans down his throat. Gets angry at your tight leggings hindering him in giving you more, so he gets on his knees and swiftly pulls them down along with your underwear. 

“Sit on the counter.”

You comply right away. Namjoon takes your feet in his hands and gently removes your slippers, removing your garments fully so they don’t pool around your ankles. He needs your legs spread and he needs them spread wide for what he’s about to do to you. 

Torso long enough to reach you, he remains on his knees. Runs his hands up the back of your thighs to guide you into the position he wants you in. “Lock your arms around the back of your knees. Don’t let go.”

You do as he says, biting your lips in nervousness. Intertwine your hands together. Prepare yourself to die. 

Namjoon studies your dewy pussy, index and middle finger mimicking the letter V as he slides them up and down your folds, squeezing just right to hear you mewling. Your knees being so close together makes her look a lot more pillowy and you hear Namjoon breathe hard, absolutely hypnotized by the beauty of your flesh. 

“Fuck, baby, you’re dripping down my hand.” He withdraws his fingers to show you how your slick trickles down the lines on his palm, changing the course of his life once and for all. 

Your clit throbs, breath matching his. “Please, Namjoon.”

He curses inaudibly. Brings his fingers back down to your folds, squeezes your lips and your clit together. Hisses at the sweet whimpery sounds spilling out of your mouth. Presses tighter so you whine needily for him. Takes you into his mouth when he accomplished what he wanted, tonguing your clit in slow agonizing circles that has you buckling your hips again. Puts his hands on your thighs to keep you down, flicking fast to absolutely abuse the fuck of you. Dragon eyes zeroing on yours, he gives you the hypnosis that your pussy did to him as he sucks on your bundle of nerves. You can’t even scream. Can’t breathe. The pleasure overwhelms you wholly and straps you down. There’s nothing you can do but take it. 

You come hard on his tongue. Namjoon laps it all up gladly. And when he’s finished, he stands up and slips those two digits that ruined you into your hole. Doesn’t move them. Lets you adjust instead.

“One more,” he mutters. “Please.”

You nod.

“Use your words or we’re stopping.”

You groan and close your eyes, your thighs visibly shaking in your iron grip from your orgasm. “Yes, Namjoon, one more. I’ll come for you.”

Namjoon places a wet kiss on your thigh to praise you, and to thank you as well. Begins to move his fingers promptly, but can’t seem to get enough of your skin. Proceeds to make it shiny with his liquid love, sucking it to bruise you. To remember this moment a little more fondly in the morning. 

Creating a trail up to the back of your knee, his digits pick up the speed. The pool of slick you left in his palm sloshes with each rapid thrust of his hand. He looks back at you and sees you lost in the pleasure, eyes lidded and unfocused. “Look at me.” 

You do, weakly.

“Just a little bit more and I’ll fuck you, all right?”

You’re about to nod, but decide against it. “Mhm, yes, Namjoon, fuck.” 

He smiles down at you. Your relief inches closer. “I’m so proud of you for speaking up today. For letting me know.” 

You could cry right now. Because of his fingers making you feel so good. Because of his kindness making you feel so safe. It all closes in on you and you whimper. 

Abruptly, Namjoon unravels your grip on your knees and kisses you, tongue slipping in. You come all over his hand, without meaning to, and he doesn’t stop. On the contrary, Namjoon fucks you harder. Takes all four of his fingers and strums your clit, prolonging your orgasm, swallowing down all of your moans. 

“Come on.”

Namjoon helps you down. If it weren’t for his arms holding you steady, you would’ve collapsed on the floor. Your legs shake, muscles taut and tense. 

“I got you.”

Sat on the floor with his joggers and boxers pulled beneath his crotch, he pulls you down on his lap. A wisp of precum adorns his tip and you wrap your hand around it, collecting it with your thumb. Watch him as you swirl your tongue around the digit before sucking on it, letting go with an obscene pop. Namjoon licks his lips, hands clasping your hips hard enough to bruise you. Twitches in your other hand.

“Don’t fucking do that to me, baby.” 

You laugh almost inaudibly, drunk on him. “Are you gonna come in me?” 

He replaces your hand, holding his length at the base for you to sink down. And you do, gasping softly at his thickness. Your dewiness helps it to be a smooth ride.

“Gonna pump you full. Leave you dripping,” he promises, voice restrained. “Gonna fuck you so good you’ll remember it for the rest of your life.” 

One thing about Namjoon, he’s a man of his word. 

Seated perfectly on him, he waits for you to adjust. Alleviates the tremble of your thighs with his palms, massaging the muscles. Takes off your shirt and flings it across the kitchen. Gropes your tits, rolling your nipples between his fingers. You start to grind on him, throwing your head back. He latches onto your nipple and flicks the nub with his tongue. You lose your mind, leaking down his balls. 

“Ready?” he asks against the fullness of your breast. 

“Yeah, fuck me, Joon.” 

He thrusts into you once to watch you fall apart. Locks your arms behind your back. Grabs your forearms for his use.

“You forgot something.”

He thrusts again, harder this time.

“What?” you breathe out, meekly. 

“What word do you use when you want to ask for something?”

He watches you as you work it out in your brain. Fucks into you three more times, equally hard, to disrupt you. 

“Fuck, sorry. Please, Joon, please.”

He grinds, hips rotating in circles. 

“Uh-huh, that’s right. Now use it.” 

Namjoon envelops your tit in his mouth, swirling his tongue around your areola. Sucking. Keeping up the agonizing pace. Groaning when you clench down on him. 

“Please, hmph, fuck me.”

Your breast bounces back when he lets go, biting his lip. “Knew you could do it,” he coos. “Smart fucking girl.” 

He begins to fuck you properly. Thrusting up and down as he holds you steady, keeping his eyes locked on yours. As he takes control of your squirming, leaving his fingerprints on your forearms and waist. You’re breathless, whimpering, on the verge of sobbing. So turned on and needy for him that the emotions brim in you, threatening to spill over. 

“Aren’t you?” Namjoon continues. “Aren’t you a smart girl?” 

You nod, knowing exactly what he wants to hear. “I’m a smart girl.” 

He spanks your ass to reward you and you arch your back. Tits all in his face. He’s mesmerized watching them bounce and nearly slap against each other, nubs hard and pointed. He licks them up, flicking them with his tongue. You round your shoulders a little in pleasure, his strong grip not letting you fold like your body wants. 

“That’s right. So smart and good for me. So fucking wet. Making me lose my mind.”

Namjoon kisses you. Inhales you. Withdraws only for a mere second before he’s back, tongue in, toying with you the way you like it. You feel your relief calling your name.

“Namjoon, I’m so fucking close. I’m so close. I’m gonna come,” you whine, forehead pressed against his, face twisted in ecstasy.

Namjoon stops out of the blue and slips out of you. You whine loudly, but before you know it, he carries you to the couch and lays you down on it. Takes off all of his clothes until only his silver chain remains, shining bright in the dim light. He spreads your legs, one limb over the backrest, the other around his thigh. Grips his length and tugs at it a few times, the feeling of your wetness making him slippery pulling moan after moan out of him. 

He enters you again and resumes his fast pace, holding your calf in his hand. “Smart girls come on the couch, not on the floor like whores. You got that?” 

You nod almost too eagerly, fucked out beyond measure. “Yes, Joon, please make me come. Please, come here.” 

Namjoon leans towards you, propping his elbows by your head, cradling you. “I’m here. I’m gonna make you come.” 

From this angle, he fucks you more deeply than before, his tip reaching your cervix. You roll your eyes back, but bring them right back to his face when his chain taps you on the chin. You find it so hot that you grind your hips against his, meeting his thrusts, encouraging him to fuck you harder. The chain meets you in erratic staccatos and you scratch your nails down his bare back, the sword-like pendant hurting you in a way that you like. 

Namjoon notices. Slows down his movements. Pinches the chain from the back of his neck. Prompts you to lift your head and slides it over, letting it rest in the middle of your breasts. Then fucks you back into the couch.  

“So fucking beautiful,” he murmurs against your lips. “Gonna breed you. Hm. You want that, don’t you?”

The cord tightens in your lower belly. The bulge of where his tip is hitting you nudges him in his stomach and he looks down. Curses. 

“Look.” 

You follow his eyes and moan. “Namjoon, Namjoon, please come in me. I’m so close. Wanna feel you. Please.” 

He grunts, nodding his head. Licks his fingertips and presses them against your clit. Pleasures you in fast and swift jerks until you’re knocking your head back. Only when he grabs your jaw and kisses you does the cord snap, his lips being your ultimate undoing. 

Namjoon presses you down with his body, keeps you calm and collected. Kisses you all through it, your jaw, your neck, your cheeks. Then his thrusts turn sloppy and his cock twitches in you. He gives you one final hard thrusts and fills you up, groaning against your mouth.

You’re smoothing down the sting of your scratches on his back when he pulls out of you and his cum drips out of you. You wish you could see what he sees, hand on his mouth, careful to catch his drool. You push out more for him and he curses, fondling your pussy with his thumb before he pumps it back in. 

He comes back to you and kisses you. Fixes your hair. Caresses your cheek. Helps you stand on your feet as he leads you into the shower. Washes every inch of your body, heedful of the bruises he left on the back of your thigh. Lathers your hair in your favorite shampoo. Wraps you in a towel. Wanted to moisturize your body, but you told him off, knowing both of you would get horny again. You let him brush your hair, though, placing a comb in his hand. He’s gentle as he undoes the knots, then he blowdries your hair. 

And you do the same for him.

Once the pillow touches your cheeks, you’re both out like a light. 

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

BACK to masterlist

[toskarin]

sorry to ask, but can you explain your last post to someone who knows nothing about the musician community youre talking about... it sounds like a really really good post if i just understood it better

this is another one of those posts where I'm transcribing a stream of consciousness, so I'll throw in a courtesy readmore

the musician community, as a whole, is much more segmented than the visual artist community

this leads to good and bad things, but generally it allows for more awareness of one's position and an acknowledgement that the needs of an underground folk artist are going to be different than the needs of a composer who receives a name credit. this means there is always going to be heavy pushback when someone tries to impose ethics downward

one element of this is the inward acknowledgement that the monolithic musician community isn't actually real in a way that isn't really mirrored in the visual artist community. besides making music and navigating the financial (and legal) landscape of that, there is very little that intrinsically unites musicians

this acknowledgement allows discussions about concerns among poorer musicians to exist without being completely shut down by someone who has different concerns, because they're not seen as the subject of the discussion unless they are respectfully contributing to it

one big reason for this being possible is that musicians are less respected than visual artists in the professional world

that might sound absurd if you only know of one landscape, but think of how many game (and movie, and tv, and etc. etc. etc.) franchises with identity-defining composers go on to swap out the composer at the first sign of a labour dispute, to very little protest as long as the quality of music isn't seen as dropping

hell, if someone else can copy your style satisfactorily, there's often no fuss at all! this leads to a pretty violent disillusionment with your place in the creative world

even beyond that, there exists an entire industry based around creating a parasitic body of IP landlordism for anyone whose music isn't attached to another product. the musician is, in a way that is deeply and thoroughly beaten into them, a labourer

the visual artist community (until recently) didn't tend to have this disillusionment, so it often follows the sway of its most popular and established members

in fact, the modern visual artist community as a broad cultural body is carved almost entirely from social media discussions that treat the community as one entity. accordingly, becoming established basically requires participation in this online entity

to further poison the well, the position of a visual artist is regularly talked about in spiritual terms rather than labour terms. there is something special that makes you a visual artist. it's the exact mentality that people rightfully made fun of in those ordinary people vs creative people comics. it's the unspoken cultural assumption that natural talent exists, even if most people would deny believing in it if put into explicit terms

while this does feel very good, it means that acknowledging labour-originated conflicts of interest is a bit rude

when a community unites itself around a spiritual core, it can't properly assert "your experiences are not applicable to what is being discussed and you should not be imposing yourself" because, by all metrics, an artist is a fundamentally unique demographic that can speak in all conversations about art

it's a warped form of anti-gatekeeping, a one-way gate through which you can strike down at other poor artists, but not up, enforced from below and framed as a desire for openness

the visual artist community's relative homogenisation of popular consensus is, on the whole, very very very bad for what it does to its norms. it hashes out and legislates within itself with an unspoken assumption that its most prolific members are simply further along the artist lifecycle, and therefore the most trustworthy

discussions with direct parallels ("is it okay to be obviously influenced by someone else's style?") come to much hazier conclusions which lean towards the opinions held by people with the most followers

most egregiously, this manifested in how visual artists react to piracy

the past ten years (in large part because of patreon making viable the paywalling of material behind a regular subscription) have been consumed by arguments about piracy that all seem to terminate in the assumption that piracy is theft, with little stratification of opinion between the hobbyist and professional scenes on this matter

this assumed spiritual core of the community is felt strongly in every conversation. look at the difference in attitudes around the distribution of cracked VSTs and the distribution of brush packs. hell, even on the corporate level, look at the difference in attitudes around pirating DAWs vs visual art programs

even when people are implying an approval of piracy, they find ways to frame it from a position of revenge on a company for something wrong it did, because they still need to conform to the community understanding of piracy as theft

individual visual artists can be (and often are!) more conscious of this stuff, but even then, people react with shock when these visual artists aren't horribly concerned about the possibility of their paywalled work existing on a torrent site

in a word, if you can see the ways these conversation spaces are different and similar, it's all so exhausting

[calmcoldevening]

Back at it again with a prompt idea!

What if the slasher/s are trying to kill a victim but they are immortal and keep coming back

And the victim keeps following the slasher only to annoy and be a little menace to them >:3

(maybe they fall in love later O.O)

What ever slasher you choose is fine for me ;)

Art the clown x immortal!reader

Tw: blood, murdering, torturing? well, yeah. Art is an ass sometimes

• Art has always been a fan of violent and noisy 'games' that chilled the blood in his veins. That was his sadistic nature, and the whole of Miles County and people for hundreds of miles around had already heard a lot about it. A strange man in a clown costume, who sent at least a dozen unhappy teenagers and adults to the next world. He loved blood and horror, and no one would dare stand in his way, not wanting to become another victim of brutal violence.

• Maybe it was fate's will, or maybe it was just your bad luck or an accident, but one day Art saw you in one of the cafes late at night. He was watching you from a dark alley, so it's unlikely that you would have seen him even if you really wanted to. He clutched his garbage bag in his hands, and a cruel grin appeared on his face. You were a good little thing and you definitely could have brightened up this cold night for him.

• Without thinking for long, Art hit you on the head at the most unexpected moment and took you to one of his 'game rooms', which in fact was just a room of one of the old factories in the city. He wasn't in the mood to hunt you down and catch you in your own house for a long time. This game was supposed to be fast but colorful.

• The clown involuntarily licked his lips, watching you slowly regain consciousness and open your big innocent eyes. He walks around you like some kind of fancy Christmas tree. You're sitting on an old wooden chair, badly scratched and already soaked in blood from past victims. Your limbs are tied in wooden material with strong leather straps, and thick barbed wire with rusty, blunt teeth is wrapped around your neck, chest and abdomen. There was a smell of dampness and fear in the air, which made the Clown giggle noiselessly.

• Finally, Art stopped right in front of you and gestured at the trash bag to your right. Making a playful, almost pretended sweet expression, or reached into the bag as if looking for a Christmas present for a small child. In the flickering light, a long thin tool with a convex handle and a bizarrely curved metal tip appears, more like a sharply sharpened blade. A man comes behind you and caresses your tense shoulders with almost uncharacteristic tenderness. His fingers are rough and rough. The clown's palms slowly descend lower, sliding along your clothed back through the open part of the back of the chair. The movements are slow and measured. Suddenly his movements stop and in the next moment they are replaced by acute pain. Sparks dance in your eyes and you emit a strangled cry, reflexively your body gives way forward, blunt spikes painfully dig into your tender flesh. Art laughs soundlessly, continuing to press the blade deeper into your spine, and then abruptly moves his hand down. With a nasty creak, the fabric of your T-shirt is torn, and at the same time your soft flesh is torn. Art rejoices, seeing how his hands and white gloves are stained with maroon lingonberry liquid, flowing in a thick stream onto the concrete floor. Tears are pouring from your eyes as you desperately bite your lower lip in an attempt to control yourself. Your back, which was once a flawless canvas of pale skin, is now covered with a network of terrible red lines, each of which testifies to the cruelty of Art's tools and his relentless thirst for suffering. There is a pungent smell of iron in the air, mixing with the acrid smell of fear that remains on your sweat-soaked skin.With deliberate slowness, I pick up the razor-sharp instrument again, its sinister curves gleaming in the dim light. Your body is trembling, every muscle is tense with fear, while the man is preparing to inflict even more torment on you.In the flickering shadows, a grotesque smile appears on his painted face, a silent promise of future torment.

• Suddenly, the blade hits the blood-soaked concrete with a ringing thud and bounces off somewhere to the dark wall. Art goes back to his "magic" bag and takes out some kind of leather strap. With a deft movement of his hands, he hooks the clips connected by a strap onto your wet cheeks, the gloves wet with blood rub unpleasantly against your face. Art smiles his creepy smile and gently touches your chin with his fingers. Your eyes were swollen and your cheeks were wet from tears and saliva flowing from your open mouth. But not that you can complain here. All you had to do was mumble something, barely moving your limp tongue.

• An unpleasant crunch filled the half-empty concrete room. With a strong crack, Art broke off a piece of your tooth with pliers, the fragment unpleasantly scratched the already bleeding gum. All you had to do was mumble something indistinctly, to which Art just grinned madly and jokingly grabbed your tongue with the edges of the pliers, watching the despair in your eyes. He broke off tooth after tooth until a dozen teeth had been pulled out in his hand.

• Your throat burned from screaming, and your eyes burned unpleasantly from the tears you shed. You wanted it to be over as soon as possible. Realizing that Art won't get the right reaction from you anymore, noticing your exhaustion, he snorts soundlessly, clearly losing interest. With a graceful movement of his hand, Art deftly takes out an old battered pistol from a trash bag. He slides the edges of the gun over your cheek, drawing uncomplicated patterns. His movements are slow and upward. One. Two. Three. Finally, his hand reaches your head, the muzzle of the gun is pressed against your painfully throbbing temple. You wearily close your eyes, feeling a leaden heaviness in your limbs. His arms and legs were already blue from lack of blood.

• Art blows on the smoke coming from the shower of the gun and throws the weapon back into the bag. The man steps back, admiring his work and your smoking wound on his temple for a couple of moments. After that, he carefully removes the straps from the dead body and puts them in a bag, slowly leaving the building.

• Art pinned a young man to the ground, slowly cutting the meat from his face and putting the skin in his mouth. A soft laugh was heard abruptly behind him, and another pair of hands, softer and softer palms, covered his hands. The man raises his eyebrows questioningly and turns back, meeting your satisfied gaze. Your face still looked tired and tear-stained, and there were bruises and streaks of blood on your neck, but overall you looked almost.. normal?

• Without thinking twice, you grab the scalpel from his hand and with a sharp movement stick the blade into the clown's eye. He screams soundlessly, raising his hands to his face. You step back, watching his agony with a satisfied expression on your face. "You didn't think it would end so easily, did you?" You purred, folding your arms over your chest. The clown frowns, baring his sharp black teeth, and jumps up from the lifeless body. He walks towards you with quick steps and grabs your throat with his cold hands, lifting you off the ground. No matter how thin he looks, the guy has plenty of strength. You giggle, covering his hands with yours. You can already feel the air leaving your lungs, being replaced by an unpleasant burning sensation. Without thinking twice, you reach out your hands, touching the clown's face with your fingers, and scratch his painted face, mixing the paint with the blood from his wounded eye. He presses harder, enjoying the crunch of your airways.

• It quickly turned into a constant game of cat and mouse. Wherever Art was, you were always there. And I was in his way. Art was angry, cursed, and killed you. But you were coming back. Each time, your body was still decorated with old scars, but the man added new ones. He realized that the old scars would disappear. He had to make new ones. It was as if he was celebrating his favorite, best victim in this way. He can't be uninterested in your natural stubbornness and immortality.

• Over time, the clown really begins to look forward to your recovery and return, despite the slight irritation that you cause in him. He feels it in the pleasant piercing of his fingers. His hands crave you, your body, his fingers want to touch your scars and leave new ones.

• Your constant presence in Art's life begins to gradually change his thinking and thoughts, your image has settled in his head like a damn poison.

• Your immortality and lack of fear make you a really worthy partner for Art, he realizes this on an unconscious level. There's something about you. Something that makes his blood boil in his head. He's falling in love with you. Yes, in his own way, but he falls in love. Despite your initial maniac-victim relationship, Art is starting to see you as almost an equal. This is surprising. He loves you in his own twisted way.

• Art and you are in a love-hate relationship, constantly joking and arguing with each other. Despite the constant quarrels, you are united by a deep connection and understanding, which becomes apparent in your communication. You both feel extremely comfortable in such a relationship in your own perverted way (this is especially damn noticeable in sex..)

• Art begins to crave your company and gets annoyed when you are not around. There's something nice about knowing that after a bloody murder, he can properly combine his anger and passion on you. Especially in your intimate moments. Playing with blood, strangulation and other elements of bdsm is an integral part of your pleasure. You are a perfect match for each other, you are feared by all the states in the district.

[trulyumai]

care for me?

pairing: Messmer the Impaler / Wife! Reader

synopsis: exhausted, you try to stay up for the arrival of your husband. only he doesn’t come back the same man.

wk: 1.1k

warnings: mention of death, violence. mostly fluff

A/N: EJ come, water! (no seriously enjoy Messmer lovers) this was a request, thank you for the suggestion anonymous!

Enjoy!

It was so cold.

Dreary winds busted across the little home, invading the shack with freezing temperatures that nipped at one’s bones.

The girl of said residence could not battle such a feat alone; so she lay bundled up in many cottons and wools that cascaded her form just in front of the fire pit.

With her teeth clanking together, she drew in a particular large blanket that seemed to swallow her whole being.

She was trying— attempting, to stay away for her husbands arrival.

“He— he will be here soon,” giving herself words of comfort, little fingers smoothed over the skin of her arm.

Back and forth they went, seeking any form of warmth they could gather.

But, she was getting tired. It had been hours since his departure.

So, with a defeated huff, her lashes fluttered.

Eyes now shut, her form slumped against the wooden boards.

Maybe she could greet her doting husband upon the fields of dreams

Everything went wrong.

His mother… his own mother…

A cry, weak and low left Messmers lips as he shuddered in pain—agony.

Instead of telling the citizens, the people what had been done of the shadow lands of between, his mother lied.

She blamed the knight of flames for his part in the destruction. Blamed him for the plans, the deaths, the innocent lives gone—

“O, Mother!” Just outside the home, Messmer sat. His head tilted towards the ground in shame as his long nails twisted and pulled at his cheeks.

Blood seeped down almost instantly, yet he couldn’t find the energy to care.

Tears streamed down his face in waves, meeting the bloody patches along the way.

His nails tore and scratched at any skin that came in contact, only making his wounds worse.

“Does thou… not perceive mine own consciousness?” A yellowed Iris glanced forth upon the house.

His home.

Only now realizing he made it back, a shudder ran through him.

“Wife,” he whimpered. “Please… forgive me.”

Only the sound of wind greeted his ears, as his now bloody and weakened form pushed against the stone. Slowly making his way to the wooden door merely a foot away.

The flowers lay dormant, the fields around him lay bare and dead. Much like the lands he left behind his wake.

With bodies, upon bodies—

“Augh! No more!” With a slam, the door receded against his strength, banging out against the wall behind.

The ball of blankets jumped up in surprise, a head peeked out from the warm egg shaped cocoon the girl placed herself in.

Messmers eyes softened upon such a sight, he couldn’t help but let out a little smile seeing the girls attempt to warm herself.

“little wife,” he called. Already on his way to the girl sitting about the floor.

“husband!” she cried, reaching out her hands to signal for the man’s embrace.

He gladly accepted, sweeping her into his arms and cradling her head soothingly.

“I’ve missed you,” little sweet kisses dotted across his neck, to his jaw and up the face.

“What— what happened?” Her lips met with a red and open wound, to which the flame winced at.

He had forgotten about such a display.

“It’s nothing, dear wife,” big palms rubbed along her sides. “an accident, nothing more.”

Fear began to corrode his mind, it crumbled and tore at the seams of sanity.

People will come for him.

For his betrayal, his slaughter.

His wife— gods what has he done?

A hand pulled him back, it was soft and careful as it cradled the man’s left cheek.

“It’s okay,”

She didn’t know what was wrong, only that something was amiss.

For the man was troubled, that much was clear.

“I… listen closely, my heart.” Setting her upon the ground he looked down at her form, so much smaller than his own.

His back had to bend uncomfortably to meet her gaze but he ignored such pain.

Big palms surrounded her face, angling her eyes to meet with his.

“We need to go, does thou need anything before our leave?”

“Leave?” She shrieked. “This is our home… why would we leave so—“

“Please, please wife understand me so. I cannot dote on such a matter yet but please.” A desperate yellowed eye looked upon both of hers

“I will protect thee. With mine own blade, with mine own body. But we need to leave, most ardently”

Confused and somewhat scared, the girl could do nothing but nod her head. Even when he placed a mirage of kisses upon her, she did nothing but look upon the man.

Almost as if to study him— understand him.

Soon, she was lightly pushed into the direction of their room.

“Grab what thy can carry and need.” Messmer had said.

So she did.

She grabbed her favorite blanket, the one that had been with her since birth.

She grabbed her jewelry box that lay full of gifts from the knight.

And finally, she grabbed the last vials of homemade oils. Lavender scented, which always seemed to calm her husband down whenever it graced her soft skin.

Seeing his wife’s hands full, Messmer acted. Gently picking her up, the objects shifted about as a bridal style posture was given upon her.

Head now bumping with his armor with every movement, she decided to speak.

“Are you alright, husband?”

This was an opening.

A pristine opportunity to tell her of his forthcomings.

Of his tidings with his mother.

Of the burning lands.

Even of the soon to be castle that will be there home for god knows how long.

Messmer only looked down, peacefully admiring his wife so.

“Everything will be fine, my wife. Thou can sleep while the travel begins.”

He was a coward. Biting down upon his cheeks blood ran across his tongue, to the back of his throat.

Past all the lies and short comings, two thing stay true; he adored his wife

and he would do anything to protect her.

[nanenna]

This Stream of Consciousness Could've Been an Epiphany

More Sleepy King AU HERE

Can you guess what days of the week I usually have off LOL

-----

Danny isn’t entirely sure what’s going on. He feels like he should be more worried about that, mostly because of how weird Dad had been acting all morning. He’d been so… quiet. Calm, quiet, soft, gentle. Not that Dad wasn’t always gentle. Sure, his hugs and back slaps could pack a punch, but Dad knew he was big and strong and tried hard not to do anything too hard. Danny’d seen what Dad’d done to walls, the way he hugged was downright delicate in comparison. And Danny was a lot tougher now, he could take Dad’s bone crushing hugs easily. So yeah, gentle for Dad was usually still too much for normal people.

But Dad was also usually excited, loudly excited! He was being really quiet today, and it was kind of weird.

Maybe Danny should be a bit more worried about being lost?

But surely if he should be worried Dad would tell him so. Dad knew now, had for a few weeks. In that time alone he and Mom had set about reinforcing the portal so no one could get through without permission. Danny had even taken them on a couple trips into the ‘Zone to introduce them to friendly ghosts. It was embarrassing to introduce them to Frostbite, but also kinda necessary so he’d sucked it up and done it. So Dad knew that Danny has powers, knew just how strong he was. If Dad were worried he’d want Danny to know so he could help.

But still, Dad was acting weird. Nervous. Danny couldn’t figure out why. If he didn’t trust these strangers they were just hanging out with he wouldn’t have left Danny alone with them, right? Then again maybe he felt it was safest to not talk to Jazz in front of them. To keep Danny safe from ghost hunters they’d all agreed it was best to keep it secret, so if Dad and Jazz were talking about him as Phantom it made sense he’d want to step away.

Danny nibbled on his poptart, still trying to puzzle through it. He looked around at the strangers and well… he knew some of them at least. Dad had called the dark one Batman, everyone knew who Batman was. He remembered his parents debating whether he was a ghost or a cryptid, a huge debate that they couldn’t come to a conclusion on. Unlike Santa, that one could crop up at any time. Unlike Santa, this one wasn’t so divisive, guess his parents were less invested or something.

So the woman next to him… looked a lot like Pandora wearing a human disguise. She looked at him and smiled, then reached forward and nudged his mug. “Drink it while it’s hot,” she said warmly.

Yeah, she sounded a lot like Pandora too, something about the way neither were actually speaking English. Danny nodded and picked up his drink, if Pandora and Dad thought they were okay, if they both trusted Batman and the other people dressed weirdly then Danny would too. Even if they smelled like ozone and lab cleaning solvent.

The smell kept getting stronger too, there was a pressure in the room. It had stopped suddenly when Jazz called, but it was picking up again. It was weird, like being in a bubble getting dropped in the ocean. At this rate his ears would pop, or the whole room would implode like that one sub going to visit the Titanic. Kinda ironic, waaaaaaay more people have died exploring the bottom of the ocean than space. Technically, no human has ever died in space, the closest was the Challenger disaster and they didn’t make it to space before the explosion. That was so sad. But it was still pretty amazing no one had died going to the moon, not even Apollo 13! No one had even died in the Justice League, so far as Danny’s heard. Not even a cop-out “technically died in space” while actually fighting bad guys on an alien planet technicality.

“Jazz was just checking in on us, I told her we’ll see her at dinner tonight.” Dad sat down next to Danny, peeking over at whatever Batman was working on as he did so.

Danny nodded and hummed in agreement. That was good, it seemed Dad thought they’d be home by dinner despite being lost right now. That was good.

It was weird though, he hadn’t called her “Jazzypants” like normal. In fact, Dad hadn’t pulled out a single nickname, not even “Danno.” So was Dad worried about them being lost or not? Danny couldn’t figure it out.

The pressure was building again, Danny yawned, trying to make his ears pop. It didn’t help. It hadn’t the last two times either. Or was it three?

Dad nudged the plate with his poptarts on it, Danny picked up his half eaten rectangle and started nibbling again. Chocolate wasn’t his favorite flavor, he kinda wondered what happened to the strawberry from before. It would go nicely with the hot chocolate, a nice contrast of flavors. There was just something about artificial strawberry flavoring that Danny really liked.

Danny slumped over, his body leaning against Dad. He still wasn’t entirely sure what was going on, if he should be worried or not, but Dad was there so everything was going to be okay.

Kinda wished Mom was there instead though. He had no doubt she could easily kick Batman’s butt if he did need to be worried though. But Pandora was there, even if it was a new human disguise he’d never seen before, so that was just as good. Pandora liked him, she wouldn’t let anything happen to him.

The pressure suddenly stopped again. Danny yawned, his ears still didn’t pop. It was so annoying.

“Oh my god,” the guy with a metal bucket on his head hissed, “it’s a god egg!”

[shomatoriashi]

12/03/24: 04:45pm

lovesick!sung jinwoo x fem.reader

notes: loosely based on the hallmark movie drew gooden was watching and reviewing titled timeless love.

warnings: unedited; canon divergent to fit with this oneshot's storyline; potentially ooc; dark content; obsessive behavior; read at your own caution.

alternate title: your heart belongs to me.

sunlight streams through the open windows, painting the bedroom in brilliant hues of gold. dawn had long since morphed into morning, rousing a once sleeping couple back to consciousness.

the husband was the first to awaken, stretching out his limbs as a yawn escapes from his parted lips. wiping the sleep from his eyes, he trails his stormy grey eyes toward the form settled achingly close to him.

pulling down the comforter, he reveals your sleeping figure with your head buried within his chest. letting out a grunt of approval, he gently delves his fingers into your hair, massaging at your scalp, already grinning the moment you began to awaken.

he was the first to notice the smile that was beginning to spread across your features, basking in your sleepy giggles when he continues massaging at your scalp. "h-hey, if you keep doing that, i'll end up spending the whole day in bed."

jinwoo simply lets out a rich chuckle in response, allowing the tip of his nose to nuzzle against yours, eyes filled with adoration for you, "well, maybe that's what i want to do... keep you here in bed with me for the rest of the day-"

he stops speaking, eyes now turning affectionate at the pitter patter of footsteps quickly approaching your shared bedroom. already accustomed to such sounds, you sit up in bed, already anticipating their arrival when your kids, min-jun and sera, rush into your room.

hearing his children's laughter fills his chest with joy, allowing his son and daughter to jump on his bed, eyes already regarding the way his kids cling to their mother. he rests his cheek against the palm of his hand, admiring the way you pressed kisses against both of their tiny cheeks.

"hey, you guys are making me jealous over here."

sera was the first to move away from you, grey eyes lighting up when she suddenly lunges at him, "papa!"

welcoming his little girl in his embrace, he gives her a series of kisses as well, only stopping when min-jun comes closer to him as well, "dad, i'm getting hungry, can you make breakfast?" sera's eyes light up at the thought of having breakfast soon, with her nodding her head in agreement to her brother's words.

"well, who am i to deny my children's needs?" jinwoo was grinning down at his kids, "how's this for a plan: why don't you and your little sister brush your teeth and wash your face while your mother and i prepare breakfast?"

"yay!" both of his kids immediately rush away from him, giving him a private moment with you. just as you got out of bed, jinwoo wraps his arms around your waist, managing to capture your lips in a sweet kiss while basking in your soft giggles.

"behave, i need to take a shower real quick, then i'll join you in the kitchen." letting out a groan of your name, jinwoo allows you to escape from his loose embrace, not moving from his spot in bed until you disappear into your shared bathroom and locked it.

running a hand through his hair, making them even messier while letting out a yawn. he gets out of bed, remaking it as he places the sheets and comforter in place, adding the finishing touches by fluffing up the pillows and settling them against the headboard.

making his way towards the kitchen, he makes sure to make a fresh batch of cooked rice before making the rest of his side dishes ranging from his famous omelettes with sausages and a side of kimchi. with the table all set, jinwoo calls out to his beloved family.

"min-jun, sera! breakfast is ready!"

he strains his ears, trying to detect any sounds of pounding footsteps. yet... when all he hears was dead silence, concern began coursing through his veins. rushing out of the kitchen, he calls out their names again, voice cracking when he cries out to you-

only to receive the same, deafening silence in response.

the room was felt spinning around him, making him stumble before falling to his knees. his eyes look straight into the digital clock settled in front of him, the time reading 0800 as an incessant beeping sound breaks jinwoo out of his reveries-

"BOSS!!"

sung jinwoo wakes up with a start, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his heart pounding in tune to the heart monitor his body was connected to. no tubes or wires covered his mouth as jinwoo takes in a deep breath to help with steadying his heart.

"boss, are you okay?! you've been out of it for a while now! i was so worried about you-" from beside him, jinho continues on with his concerned rambles as he looks away from him to see the familiar blue screen of the system:

[ player sung jinwoo's slumber has lasted for 21 days and 8 hours... ]

"where's min-jun and sera?" jinwoo asks in a hoarse tone, making jinho furrow his brows at him. "what? who are they?"

"tch, they're my kids." jinwoo was glaring at jinho, as if silently scolding him for his ignorance. "and my wife-" yet the moment he says your name, jinho's expression remains confused.

"boss, i hate to break it to you, but- you're not married at all. you've been single the whole time that i've known you."

"that's-" yet jinwoo's words were cut off the moment a nurse enters his room. she sees him sitting up in bed while pressing down on her communication device, "dr. choi, patient sung jinwoo has just awakened, come to unit d501, quick!"

jinho was immediately rushed out of the room, and the young hunter finds himself surrounded by a plethora of medical staff-

without a single sign of you in sight.

{ ... }

the weeks pass by in a blur, with his sister helping him back home. she keeps a steady hand behind his back, rubbing comforting circles behind his back, "oppa, are you alright?"

lifeless grey eyes meet with his sister's concerned gaze, making him force a smile as he gently ruffles her hair. "yeah, i'm alright."

he continues the trek back to his and jinah's shared apartment, thinking back on the events that had happened so far (according to jinho's recollection).

apparently, they had entered a dungeon together, and jinho had simply witnessed him taking on hundreds of enemies. jinwoo vaguely recalls how the system had ordered him to take out at least a hundred enemies within the span of an hour and how he had fought tirelessly against them with a single dagger-

only to feel something sharp pierce him at the back of his head, successfully rendering him unconscious.

that single attack was enough to knock jinwoo out for a total of three weeks-

within the span of those three weeks, he had dreamt of living a blissful and happy life with you-

but now that he was awake, he had long since lost such feelings of happiness.

"you know..." jinah's voice breaks him out of his momentary reveries, "jinho told me what happened, and he said that you... you wished to see your kids-"

"i'd rather not talk about it." jinwoo grits his teeth in response, hurriedly pulling up the hood of his jacket to help with hiding his expression from his sister. it wasn't like he wanted to remain so closed off from jinah-

it was the sheer fact that acknowledging how it was never real put an even deeper hole within his chest.

detecting the pain in his voice, jinah simply nods, walking beside her brother while softly sighing to herself. somehow, she knew that whatever jinwoo had went through truly took a toll on not only his mental health-

but his heart as well.

{ ... }

jinwoo felt guilty for remaining so closed off with his sister that he decided to cook her favorite meal later that night. while eating, he saw his sister trembling in her seat, eyes filling with tears before admitting to him, "w-when i saw you sleeping so deeply, like you were trapped in a glass coffin, i was so afraid that i would lose you- just like with mom a-and dad."

his heart twists even further upon hearing her admission, making jinwoo stand from his seat. he takes jinah's trembling form within his embrace, delving his fingers into her hair, "ssssh, i won't ever leave you... and i'm so sorry for making you wait for so long."

jinah sniffles and gives him a nod, "y-yeah, but, when you were still sleeping... jinho stopped by and helped a lot. he stayed by your side and gave me updates, s-so..." as his sister trails off, jinwoo felt a strange sense of relief at the thought of jinho helping his sister.

making sure that jinah was well fed, jinwoo makes sure to send her off to bed at a reasonable time for school. with all the dishes cleaned, jinwoo heads back to his room before taking out his phone. his gaze remains expressionless when he searches through the device while typing in a single name.

{ ... }

jinwoo and jinho were settled within ahjin guild's new building, with jinho looking over the thick notebook that held an almost frightening amount of notes pertaining to his boss's so-called dreamwife.

"this is the reason why you won't let hunter cha join our guild?" jinho looks away from the pages to meet jinwoo's gaze as he sipped on a cup of instant coffee. "yes, because i am already a married man and don't wish to have any distractions."

"does she know she's married to you?" jinho wasn't brave enough to flat out tell jinwoo how insane all of this was, since he still held him in high regard. after all, he knew that if it wasn't for jinwoo, then he wouldn't have had much success in kickstarting his own guild.

which was why he kept his own personal musings to himself, still doing his best to support the man he saw as his big brother despite it all.

"not yet." jinwoo glares down at his cup of coffee, "it's just... i know it's crazy, but you don't know what it's like to be in a coma for that long while experiencing something so vivid."

focusing his gaze on the dark liquid, jinwoo continues to reminisce about his dreams, "in my dreams, she was so real to me. her smile, her laughter, and the way she made me feel- every single thing about her has been imprinted on my soul."

finally meeting jinho's gaze, he gestures toward the filled notebook, "those pages contain every little detail that i know about her. from her favorite color to her favorite foods, to even her favorite books and movies- everything was written based on my memory of that dream."

jinho heaves out a little sigh before closing the notebooks all while sliding it back to jinwoo from across the coffee table. "you're right in saying that it is crazy, however, i'm stupid enough to follow with your whims and support you, boss."

{ ... }

jinwoo had a meeting to attend with the chairman, which was what brought him back to the hunter's association. he vaguely recalls go gunhee mentioning a new healer that would be transferring to seoul, and how he responded in a polite manner, doing his best to hide his disinterest.

when he steps out of the chairman's office, he nearly runs into someone, clicking his tongue as he wrapped his arms around the unknown person to keep them from falling to the ground.

"are you alright?" jinwoo asks, only for his eyes to go wide upon seeing a familiar head of hair.

"sorry, i got a l-little lost, is this the chairman's office?"

it was at that moment that jinwoo felt his heart cease its beat-

for he had finally found you.

{ ... }

heat was felt settled on your cheeks the moment you came face to face with sung jinwoo.

and gods above, he was far lovelier than you could have ever dreamt of. despite coming from a different country, you remained achingly aware of how a single hunter from south korea rose to the ranks, losing his former title of being the weakest in the world when he became korea's 10nth s-ranker.

in every candid shot you had seen of sung jinwoo, he appeared goofy yet incredibly cute at the same time. sure, you acknowledged his attractiveness on screen-

but nothing could prepare you when it came to finally meeting him face-to-face.

his boyish features were now amplified, with jinwoo standing well above you with his lanky frame. you take in the sight of his crooked smile and how his beauty seemed to be further accentuated by the sight of his sharp jawline.

you kept gawking at him for a few more seconds before quickly snapping out of it with a shake of your head. an introduction was felt settled on the tip of your tongue, yet jinwoo ends up further surprising you when he says your name.

"it's nice to finally meet you, my name is sung jinwoo."

you open and close your mouth in response, asking in an almost dumb manner, "h-how did you know my name?"

your question succeeds in making jinwoo stiffen in response, his outstretched hand remaining frozen. his mouth kept opening and closing, without a single word being said. "ah... well, the chairman was talking about you being our newly transferred healer earlier, that's why i knew your name."

you visibly relax upon hearing his explanation, letting out a sigh of relief, "oh, right, that makes sense!"

wishing to diffuse the awkward situation, you let out a gentle laugh and gesture toward the chairman's office, "ah, so, i guess i'll attend my meeting now-"

a gasp was felt lodged within your throat when jinwoo grips at your wrist, preventing you from moving forward, "wait."

you give him a questioning glance, earning a warm smile from jinwoo, "i'd like to welcome you here, so... would you care to join me for dinner later?"

the same warmth was felt against your cheeks, making you feel a bit shy when you give jinwoo a nod, "sure, i'd love to join you for dinner."

an overwhelming look of joy takes over jinwoo's features, with him letting you go to attend your meeting with go gunhee. "awesome, that's... great."

feeling dazed at the sight of his smile, you knew that the butterflies that kept erupting all across your abdomen prevented you from truly acknowledging the alarm bells that went off in your head, your mind slowly taken over with romantic daydreams pertaining to the famous hunter you had finally met.

and sadly, you would never know the true depths of sung jinwoo's obsession for you.

{ ... }

jinwoo had spent months preparing for this very moment-

and once he finally had you sleeping in the same bed with him-

there was no way he was going to squander it.

moonlight paints his room in subtle, glowing silver hues, painting our sleeping figure in an almost ethereal light. the powerful hunter was unable to sleep now that he had you so close to him-

exactly where he wanted you.

his whispers of your name remained constant, becoming so frequent that the syllables that made up your name felt like a prayer that fell from his parted lips.

of course it was like a prayer-

for jinwoo solely worshipped you.

you had come into his life in the most unorthodox of ways, where his first meeting with you happened during a mutual raid that happened when he first began his career as a hunter. he was barely out of high school when he attended a raid that nearly killed him.

somehow, he had gotten lost, nearly dying of starvation as he was left to rot-

life was felt quickly seeping out of him-

but that was when you came along.

you, with your gentle healing aura and kind eyes-

you, whose beautiful features were forever imprinted within his very mind the moment you healed him and offered him some food to help with regaining his strength-

you, who never once left his heart ever since that fateful day.

you became his sole source of light, using your existence as a means to push him forward when he was struggling so much with keeping his own life together (a sickly mother with a sister who relied on him in the wake of his father's disappearance).

you were the one who gave him the sole courage to face the many challenges that came with being the weakest hunter-

yet even when he was so close to death, your comforting presence never once returned to him.

by then, he was desperate to know all he could about you, and it was during this time that he realized that you had lived in a different part of the world, saving the lives of other hunters in gates that were more prevalent within your city.

but that didn't stop jinwoo's obsession from growing.

he kept what felt like thousands upon thousands of notebooks pertaining to you and your accomplishments, never once stopping his writings when it came to you all while praying for the day he would see you again.

up to the point where his fate had been altered by the events of the double dungeons-

jinwoo had never once stopped thinking of you. and when the system offered him another chance at life-

your face was all he could see the moment he accepts being the system's player.

while he performed all of the missions and tasks given to him, jinwoo had no intention of getting knocked out by the enemy, falling into a coma that left him helpless-

yet at the same time, the fact that he dreamt of you and the perfect life you had built together-

it only served to further solidify jinwoo's belief that you were made for each other-

made for him.

and it was only a matter of time that you would serendipitously appear within his life.

in fact, jinwoo had carefully orchestrated your transfer to seoul's hunter association branch. using the funds jinho had provided for him, he manages to find you, paying off your guild all while convincing your guildmaster to keep such a transaction a secret as the promise of your arrival further fuels his desires to see you again.

the waiting game for your arrival nearly killed jinwoo-

yet when chairman gunhee tells him about your transfer to seoul-

the hunter couldn't have been happier.

upon seeing you once more, he basks in your presence, knowing that you were by far the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. he ignores the need to chain you to him, wishing to take his time when it came to courting you-

because deep down, he wanted you to naturally fall for him more than anything else.

now, six months later, sung jinwoo finally has you exactly where he wanted you. unable to hide his feelings of pure devotion for you, he makes love to you after celebrating being together with you for half a year. after waiting far too long for you, there was no way he was going to ever let you leave him.

had you been awake, you would have noticed the crazed expression settled within jinwoo's gaze, his voice letting out soft coos of your name before laying beside you. he allows the back of his hand to caress at your bare skin, swearing an oath to never leave your side.

sliding his eyes shut, jinwoo carefully places your body against his naked chest, basking in your gentle hum as you buried your face deeper into his chest. hazy grey eyes look over toward his closet, knowing of the stacks upon stacks of notebooks he had dedicated to you were behind that closed door.

jinwoo supposes he could let his loyal shadow soldiers help with burning those books away-

after all, the shadow monarch had no need for them now that he has you in his arms.

end notes: lmao when the delulu is the solulu in jinwoo's eyes ♡

all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!

[seravphs]

ੈ♡˳·˖✶ — KNIGHT! GOJO x PRINCESS! FEM READER

Gojo has devoted his entire life to protecting you as your dedicated guard. A greater force is conspiring to keep you apart. 

wc — 3.7k

tags — royal au, childhood friends, forbidden love, protective Gojo, sneaking around/flouting social etiquette, period drama-esque tension between repressed princess and rakish knight, mutually possessive, title from Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

part 1 of the hand which holds the knife

Everyone knew Satoru Gojo was supposed to be yours. 

You claimed him the day you knighted him. He wore your colors and answered to your demands. The physical evidence of your ownership was all over him, the way someone would mark a well loved pet. Even the neck of his jacket carried your embroidery like a collar. To anyone with eyes, he was your adored guard dog. 

When all of your memories blur into one stream of consciousness, the day you knighted him remains clear. You remember everything, including your father stealing him out from under you. 

You were the only one who truly thought he was ever going to be yours. It was part of the promise you had sworn to each other as children, playing princess and the guard with wooden swords and flower crowns. 

Looking back, you can see the gears of court machinations turning. It was no simple coincidence that the only heir to House Gojo ended up in close proximity to you, any more than any other of your introductions to sons of highborn houses. 

Gojo has no interest in pretending to be a prince. It was boring for him to be trapped in restricting uniforms complete with epaulets. He found more pleasure in protecting you from danger while you preened in your gilded cage, none the wiser through his efforts. Safe and unaware, the way he liked it. You would never have to know how dangerous the world was if he simply destroyed everything in your path before it got to you. 

You didn’t understand the way the adults looked at the two of you. All you knew was that you couldn’t bear to be apart from him. You rose each morning looking for him, and went to bed waiting for the minute you’d be reunited again. He was your whole world, your one and only friend. It was his hand that guided you through childhood adventures. He was the sword and shield that had cut down kidnappers and serpents for you. 

The first wedge in your relationship comes with his twelfth birthday. 

You chase his back through the years, watching it broaden in front of your eyes. His body changes. His voice drops. The first time you hear it after the pitchy squeaks of puberty clear from his throat, you feel the sickening wrench of something in your stomach. It had never mattered before that Gojo was a man, potentially your betrothed. 

Now it burns you to look at him. He became gorgeous while you weren’t looking, all long willowy limbs and snow white hair. The women of the court have started looking at him now. They call him the beautiful dragon, after his house crest. 

Even though you know reasonably that you can do nothing about this, really, you have no right to, that galls you. You’re a princess. You’re used to being able to deal with things that upset you with little more than a nod to Gojo. But he can’t solve issues that he’s the root of. 

The only way to show everyone that Gojo’s devotion belongs to you is to tie him to your side. At twelve, he’s already the strongest squire in the entire kingdom. Better than most knights, even. It’s a clear path to being the greatest knight of his time, throughout all of history, even. He already promised to be your sword when you were children. All you have to do is wait. 

Gojo trains and you begin to learn the extent of your royal responsibilities. Study etiquette. Marry well. Become a dutiful wife. Give the king heirs. 

Gojo becomes Lord Gojo. He calls you princess now. Although part of you rebels at the idea that he would ever call you anything other than your name, another part of you can’t help the queasy feeling you get when he says your title, low and soft. Like he means it for your ears only. Like princess is just another way of showing how much of him is yours. 

Gojo is not usually a proud man because he doesn’t have to be. His abilities speak for himself. But he’s cocky to a fault. He knows the extent of his capabilities, which means he won’t capitulate to anyone. Why would he? 

When it comes to you, however, he bends his neck and accepts the collar willingly. The strongest can only be tamed by what he allows to tame him and it’s you, it’s always been you. 

Perhaps that’s why things turn out the way they do on the day you knight him. 

Or, as you find out later, your father knights him. 

It was the day after your sixteenth birthday. Gojo himself had turned seventeen three months and six days before. It was strangely old for a boy of his caliber. He was so talented he could’ve been the youngest knight in the realm, but no one could make Gojo do something he didn’t want to do. 

There was no shame in it, either. Everyone knew Gojo was too talented and well-connected for it to be anything other than his own choice. The only heir of House Gojo, he was destined to become a knight even if he did nothing to earn it. And he had done much to earn it. 

Winning wars single handedly tended to do that. There were already legends blooming from the battlefield by the time he came home and tossed the unlucky enemy commander’s head at the king’s feat. His bow wasn’t nearly low or respectful enough to be addressed to the king, but he had been lighter-hearted back then, more willing to forgive. 

Especially for Gojo, who had cut a killing swathe through the ranks of the opposing army so ruthlessly they began to call him a god of death.

Gojo kneels at your feet, his white head still high. He’s a little too tall for you, even at this angle. Lord Commander Yaga clears his throat. Gojo looks up through the wisps of hair that have escaped to obscure his eyes. They’re piercing, an attractively violent blue. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, so low no one else could’ve heard the two of you even if you hadn’t been standing alone on the podium in front of the king’s throne. “Am I too tall for you now, princess?” 

“Don’t tease,” you whisper back, flustered despite yourself. The pommel of the sword is clammy in your grip. You’re scared to drop it and accidentally take a finger off with it. 

You’re taking too long. It’s making you anxious. You’re distinctly aware of your father’s stare boring into your back. You’ve been sheltered since you were young by your father’s paranoia, but he’s recently begun letting you apply yourself more to your royal duties. You can’t give him any reason to doubt you. 

Gojo dips a little lower. 

With this change in angle, you can place the flat of the blade on each of his shoulders. It’s your father’s sword, too large and unwieldy in your hands. Standing over Gojo is a strange experience. It’s uncomfortable looking down on someone who’s been taller than you for all your life. 

You wish he would stop looking at you like that. His gaze is searching. You feel naked underneath it, even with layers of dresses on. When he says his vows, it feels intimate, like he’s speaking them to you. For you. 

Gojo rises, shaking his hair out of his eyes like a shaggy dog. Like this, you’re reminded suddenly of how strong he is. His shoulders are broad underneath his silver armor. Lean muscle cords his legs. There’s an easy, effortless grace to the way he moves - the confidence of a man who has never been bested in his entire life. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs. He’s still standing too close. If it were any other man, your father would have demanded he be whipped by now, but Gojo has always gotten away with things no one could. He ducks his head so he can speak directly into your ear - dangerous, even for him. He says his piece fast. “I’ll see you in your rooms, my lady.” 

Then he pulls back. 

There are thunderclouds gathering across the king’s face, but when you shake your head, your father relents. He smiles and kisses your temple as you climb up the steps of the platform of his throne to return the sword to him. 

Years later, you learn that the moment you leave the throne room, your shoulders sure with the knowledge that Gojo is finally secure in your grasp, your father takes up the sword you had held and knights him. Princesses have no authority to confer knighthood. Only kings. 

You know your father means well. He loves you. You’re all he has left. If Gojo pushed for your hand to be one that he swears loyalty to first, then your father would have been happy to comply either way. You just wish you would’ve known that it meant nothing. 

There’s a sharp rap on your door, followed by two short, one long. A code you had devised a long time ago. You pull open the door and Gojo all but falls into your room. He’s pressed up against you, front to front as he closes the door behind him, tumbling you into your bed. 

“Hi, princess,” he says, his breath warm against your neck. You squirm in his hold, feeling heat rush through your veins. It’s getting harder and harder to hide the way he affects you, but you don’t want anything to change between the two of you. Though sometimes, you swear Gojo likes using your title so much precisely because he knows how you react to it. 

“We have to stop doing this,” you tell him, like you tell him every time. “It’s inappropriate.” 

He groans and pushes away from you. You mourn the loss of contact. “Come on, don’t make me do this again. Who cares if it’s inappropriate? Who says?” 

“Dame Zenin thinks we’re too close.” 

“Dame Zenin is an idiot,” Gojo says. “You know she only says that because she wants to get rid of me so you’ll look at Naoya. As if you would ever, even if I was gone.” 

“Still.” 

Gojo grabs your chin in his hand. “You are a princess and I am the only heir to House Gojo. We bow to no one, understand? What right do mice have to judge dragons?”

He’s the dragon, you think. Your crest is the rose. You exist to be judged. That’s the role of a princess. 

Gojo sprawls out on your bed. He’s so tall he takes up more than half of it, even though your bed was built to be more than twice your size. His eyes are shut, his long white lashes soft. He looks gentle in repose, almost like a lamb with his coloring. 

He’s beautiful. He always is. You want to touch, to hold, to claim. You want to press your ear against his chest and steal the thunderous beat of his heart for your own. You want to press your rouged lips to his neck and collarbones, to mark his body with a muted rose. 

Instead, you sit stiff, prim and proper. 

He opens his eyes. “Come here,” he says, his arm reaching for you. You let him pull you closer. 

As always, he has to reach out first. You can’t allow yourself to take what you want. It’s not in your nature, the way you were raised. 

You bury your face into the space between his neck and his shoulder. 

“There we go,” he coos. Your face burns with the condescension of it, the way he treats you like an animal that has to be carefully coaxed closer. But he’s not wrong, and that’s why you let him pet you into submission, gently stroking your sides as he tangles his legs with yours. 

You were never so affected by him as children. Somewhere along the way, Gojo had become unmanageable to you, and you don’t know what to do about it. 

“Stay with me,” he murmurs against your hair. “Where are you going off to in that pretty head of yours?” 

“I’m with you,” you whisper against his neck. “I’m always here.” 

You’ve spoiled him, you think. When you were a child, you didn’t know any better. Gojo was just Gojo. Letting him stay by your side even as you got older was an indulgence that he now pushes the limits of. He’s never cared about propriety. 

“You have to go back to your room now,” you whisper reluctantly. You’re always the more cautious one of your duo. It’s been too long. Someone will become suspicious. For once, you wish you could just let go of your worries, but someone has to check Gojo. If both of you just did whatever you wanted, it’d be the ruin of your houses. This is how it has to be: Gojo pushes and you pull back. 

The dim light of the dying candles make his blue eyes appear black. “Give me something of yours first,” he says. 

You know what he’s asking for. You climb up from the bed and go into your dresser to search, turning up one of your handkerchiefs. It bears the colors of your house and your careful embroidery.

He kneels at your feet. 

“Stop,” you say, trying to pull away. 

Gojo presses a kiss to your hand. His lips are soft against the skin of your hand, temptation incarnate. Your fingers tremble lightly in his grasp, torn between wanting to seize him and wanting to run away. The enormity of your desire for him terrifies you. If you ever let him in for one second, you can see how easy your descent would be. 

“I’m yours, princess. Don’t forget it.” 

With that, he ties your favor around his wrist and finally leaves you to your room, panting like you’d run through the halls. No matter how old you get, Gojo always leads in your interactions. He plays with you, enjoying the way he can make you react to him. 

It’s normal for a princess to visit the training yard, you try to convince yourself the next day. There’s nothing strange about stopping by while you’re on your afternoon walk. After all, you should keep abreast of everything within your castle. 

Gojo stands in the center of the yard. He’s demonstrating one of his self created drills, a complicated set of maneuvers only he can pull off. In short, he’s showing off while pretending like he’s doing the class a favor by trying to teach them something. 

Lord Commander Yaga notices you the moment you set foot in the yard. You should expect it. After all, it’s his territory. 

“Attention,” he bellows. “The princess is here.” 

Gojo perks up and finishes his final set of movements even faster. He throws his sword carelessly to the side, leaving a young squire scrambling to catch the priceless weapon as he strides towards you. 

He’s a little sweaty. You want to wrap your arms around him anyways, but you restrain yourself. 

“I’m sorry for interrupting,” you say. 

Gojo grins at you. It’s a sharp thing, his smile, hungry and wolfish. “Not at all. I was just thinking of you, my lady.” 

You tilt your head at him curiously. 

Around you, the men are scrambling to line up into neat little rows. 

“I’m picking a squire,” Gojo says. “Would you like to make the decision for me?” 

It’s a question that shocks you. You whirl to look at him again, see if he’s joking like usual, but he seems perfectly serious. “I don’t know anything about knighthood,” you tell him the truth. 

He moves closer. You’re tempted to step back immediately, but you don’t. You don’t want a sign of discomfort to be misinterpreted and used against him. Besides, you relish the proximity. Seeing Gojo in public feels like dancing on blades. The adrenaline terrifies you, but you can’t stop wanting more of it. 

“You may not, but you know people. I trust your judgement.” 

A cursory scan of the boys in front of you reveals little. They’re all stiff and proper, their backs as straight as they can make them. Some stand with their arms glued to their sides, others fidget with their swords. Every single one of them is eager for the chance to be acknowledged by the princess. They’re equally hopeful for the chance to squire for the greatest knight in the kingdom.

None of them catch your eye on the first or second passes. 

Only on the third, a boy with pink hair smiles at you. It’s such a small gesture. But for a boy who had looked just like everyone else at first, the toothy smile splits his features. It opens him up. He looks kind. 

You gesture him forward. 

Lord Commander Yaga nods approvingly. “Itadori is a good one, Your Royal Highness. He’s one of the best in this batch. Naturally strong, but just as hardworking.” 

“See,” Gojo says. “I knew you would choose well.” 

He touches your hand briefly, slipping a white scrap of paper inside your closed fist before he grabs Itadori by the shoulder and hauls him off for further training. Although disappointed, the other squires still look starstruck to be in his presence, though Yaga disperses them all to train themselves soon enough. 

In elegant cursive, Gojo has written a time and place. 

You shouldn’t go. 

You can’t risk it. 

All eyes are on you and Gojo as it is. People already suspect the two of you of something unsavory. Courtly love is one thing, but you and Gojo are too close for an unmarried man and a woman. As a princess, your sole purpose is to marry well and bring alliances to your house. You can’t risk damaging your reputation. 

But every stolen encounter with Gojo steals your breath away. You sneak through the halls, quiet and empty. 

A hand slaps over your mouth before you can scream as someone tugs you into a dark corridor. 

You kick and lash out, forgetting everything Gojo has taught you in favor of blind violence. 

“Shh,” comes a voice in your ear. “It’s just me.” 

You bite him. 

He hisses and pulls back, shaking out his hand. “What’s wrong with you?” 

“Why would you do that? You scared me!” 

“You’re not careful enough, princess. There was a maid coming up on your left that you hadn’t even noticed.” 

You sigh and lean into him. You can’t help it. 

He laughs. “Are you that happy to see me?” 

“If you don’t shut up, I’ll show you exactly how happy I am.” 

“Come on,” he tugs you out towards the gardens. It’s dangerous, but you follow him anyway. Being with Gojo is so threatening not despite his strength, but because of it. You rely on him too easily, trusting him to see you safely through any peril. It’s easy to relax when he’s with you, his presence the promise of security. 

You expect him to tell you why he called you here, but he’s silent when he tugs you down on the bench next to him. 

“Gojo?” 

“Here,” he says, opening his hands. A single crushed violet sits on his palm. You laugh, picking it up and raising to your eye. It’s all the more fragrant because it has been mangled, the delicate petals bruised. 

Gojo’s mouth lifts in a smile, too. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t realize.” 

“You really know how to win a girl’s heart,” you tease. 

“Hopefully I know how to win over her father’s, too.”

You freeze. 

“I’m sorry. I can’t wait any longer. I’m going to ask your father to be your dedicated knight tomorrow. Do I have your permission?” 

You hesitate, worrying your lip with your teeth, but Gojo understands. Years of watching after you, bandaging your scrapes that you refuse to cry over or avenging your honor after you pretend your pride hasn’t been hurt has taught him a lot. He can see right through you. You never need to hide when you’re with him. 

“It’s alright,” he says. “We can wait.” 

“It’s not that I don’t want you to be my guard,” you say in a small voice. “I just-” 

“I know,” he says. “But I’m the strongest. Who else would your father ask to protect you but me?” 

“Do you think he’ll say yes?” 

Gojo looks at you seriously. “I’ll get down on both knees and beg him if I have to.” 

“Don’t do that,” you gasp. 

“I don’t care,” he says. “You’re what’s most important to me. More than pride, more than honor. Can I ask your father for you?” 

You look at the crushed violet in your hand. 

Who else but Gojo? 

You press the flower back into his palm. “I trust you to do what’s right.” 

His eyes soften. He leans closer. 

“Gojo,” comes a voice. “What are you doing in the gardens this late at night?” 

You stiffen. The owner of the voice is drawing closer.

“Do you trust me?” Gojo asks, as cool and collected as ever. 

You nod, not trusting your voice not to give you away. He cups your face in his hands and ever so delicately presses a light kiss to your cheek, tilting his head towards you. 

“Stop,” he tells the man behind you. “Don’t come any closer. You’ll scare her.” 

“A new plaything?” Asks the Lord Commander. “I’m not so scary, am I?” 

Gojo notices you tremble harder. He lifts a hand to the back of your head and presses it gently towards his shoulder, obscuring your face even further. “Come here, darling,” he murmurs. “That’s right, what a good little thing,” he says as you press yourself into him. He pulls you over his lap, your legs straddling his waist as he runs his hand up and down your back. “Keep your head down,” he whispers to you. You tuck your face farther into the crook of his neck. 

Louder, he responds to Yaga. “The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard is a terrifying man, or so I’ve heard.” 

“Just escort her to her room when you’re done,” Yaga says gruffly. “I don’t need to tell you to be a gentleman, do I?” 

“No, sir,” Gojo says cheerfully. 

In hindsight, you’re still not sure if Yaga recognized you or not. On one hand, he’s known you since you were a child. He watched, a silent guard, as your father raised you. On the other hand, he’s never brought it up to you. 

The only other reason you suspect he realized who you really were was Gojo’s induction into the kingsguard the very next day. 

[icarusignite]

i don't want your sympathy (i just want myself back)

Pairing: Luke Castellan x Child of Hypnos! GN! Reader

Summary: Terribly injured after returning from his quest to the Garden of Hesperides, Luke Castellan turns to the only person who can help him sleep. Basically a hurt/comfort shortfic for Luke cuz he needs comforting lol

Word count: 1.7k

The infirmary was a sterile space, the air heavy with the scent of antiseptic and tonics. It was mercifully silent, devoid of the Apollo campers who often sporadically visited to check in on whoever occupied the space. 

Luke Castellan was the only patient there today, his features twisted in discomfort as he slowly regained consciousness. His eyes fluttered open, squinting against the sunlight streaming in and the room swam into focus, though his thoughts remained muddled, fragmented memories clawing at the edges of his consciousness. He struggled to separate reality from illusion, unsure of which memories were true and which were twisted figments of his nightmares.

Immediately, he became acutely aware of a throbbing ache pulsating through his face. It felt as though his skin had been stretched to its limit, pulled taut over the wound that marred his features. With each breath he took, the pain intensified, a sharp reminder of the injury he had sustained. 

The injury he had sustained on the quest he had failed. 

His hand instinctively moved to touch the bandages that covered the wound, fingers gingerly tracing the contours of the thick gauze. Beneath the sterile fabric, he could feel the heat radiating from the angry gash, the skin around it tender and inflamed. The cut itself was a jagged slash, stretching from the bottom of his eye to his jawline, and seemed to throb with a life of its own. 

The pain made him angry. He was always angry these days, and he had only just returned. 

The voices from his dreams still echoed in his head, sinister whispers that promised power and vengeance, their dark allure tempting him to succumb. They spoke to his deepest desires and stoked the flames of his fury in ways that were becoming impossible to ignore. 

And then, amidst the chaos of his thoughts, he saw the figure seated by his bedside, their head resting on folded arms, form rising and falling in a steady rhythm of breath. A life, a beacon of familiarity and solace in the midst of his confusion.

It was you. Of course, it was. You had not left his side since he was carried in, broken and bleeding from the camp's border. Your face, though serene in sleep, bore traces of worry and exhaustion, and Luke's heart clenched at the sight, a rush of emotion flooding his senses—gratitude, guilt, longing.

You should not have to worry about him like this, forgoing your own wellbeing to look after him. 

You had been there the whole time, a steadfast presence in the chaos that followed his return. He remembered, faintly, the fleeting moments of clarity when his eyes had briefly met yours, finding comfort and reassurance in your gaze before he slipped into unconsciousness once again as his injury was stitched up. 

He did not want to disturb you, but he couldn't help himself, his hand reaching out almost as if it had a mind of his own, fingers trembling as he brushed them against your cheek. There was something about you that brought him comfort, something he could not put a name to, but it was instinctual, almost magnetic. 

You were peace. You were his peace. 

You stirred when made contact, eyelids snapping open instantaneously, filled with concern and affection as you bolted upright in your seat. 

"Luke," you breathed, your voice soft and gentle, like a soothing melody amidst the chaos of his mind. "You're awake."

A fragile smile tugged at Luke's lips, and although the gesture hurt, it was worth it to see the brief flash of relief that flooded your features. 

"Luke, are you alright?" you asked hurriedly, scrambling from your perch to inspect him. You were no medic but you spent long enough in the infirmary, easing injuries and sending campers off into a peaceful slumber that you had become accustomed to looking for signs of concern. 

"I...I'm fine," his voice was hoarse from lack of use, his throat parched, which had you rushing to pour him a cup of water.  

"Should I call someone from the Apollo cabin to take a look at your injury?"

Your words washed over him, but your concern was both comforting and frustrating in equal measure. He appreciated your kindness, your willingness to help, but at the same time, he couldn't shake the bitterness that rose in his throat at the thought of being pitied.

If even your gaze was heavy with it, he could not imagine what the rest of camp half-blood would think of him. A failure. A demigod who could not complete a quest that had already been completed once before by another. 

"I'm fine," Luke muttered, his voice tinged with irritation. "I don't need anyone fussing over me."

He tried to muster a reassuring smile, but it faltered, crumbling under the weight of his conflicting emotions. He didn't want your sympathy, didn't want to be seen as weak or vulnerable. He was Luke Castellan, a fighter, a survivor—he refused to be reduced to a mere object of pity. 

Silently he cursed the gods for reducing him to this. His stupid father and his stupid quest. 

Still, even as he pushed you away, a part of him longed for your presence, your touch. He couldn't deny the warmth that flooded his heart whenever you were near, the way your smile could chase away the darkness that threatened to consume him.

He had become quite accustomed to being around you over the years, because even though you had been claimed, being the child of a minor god was as good as being the child of nothing, thus cementing your place in the Hermes cabin with him. Another thing to curse the gods for, because if anyone deserved a place to truly belong, it was you, with your kind eyes, and careful hands so eager to help. 

He supposed it didn't matter in the end. You had wormed your way into his heart, unbeknownst to him, and if there was one place you surely belonged, it was there. 

As you paused in your fussing, your eyes caught the subtle signs of exhaustion etched into Luke's features—the faint shadows beneath his eyes, a telltale sign of restless nights and troubled dreams. Despite the fact that he had been asleep for the better part of the past three days, the toll of his ordeal still lingered, casting a shadow over his weary frame.

"Would you like some help...you know...falling asleep?" you asked gently.

The offer caught Luke off guard, his pride momentarily forgotten in the face of his overwhelming fatigue. A wave of relief washed over him at the thought of finding solace in sleep, of escaping the turmoil of his thoughts if only for a little while longer. It was almost embarrassing how quickly he acquiesced. 

"Please," he murmured, the word slipping past his lips with a mixture of gratitude and pain. He shifted slightly on the bed, wincing as he made room for you to join him. 

Your cheeks flushed a slight crimson as you took your place, precariously perched at the edge, careful not to jostle and cause him further pain, your gaze meeting his with a clarity that made his heart skip a beat. Then, when you reached out, your hand finding his own with a reassuring touch, it sent a shiver down his spine.

He found his eyes start to grow heavy. 

Your touch was warm and comforting, a balm to his weary soul as you ran a hand over his closed eyes, fingers tracing soothing patterns against his skin. The tension in his muscles began to ebb away, replaced by a sense of peace and calm that he hadn't felt in days. He wasn't quite sure if it was the effect of your powers, or just your presence that put him at such ease, but it was magic all the same. 

With each stroke of your hand, Luke felt himself drifting further into the embrace of sleep, his mind growing hazy and light. It was a different sort of slumber, one unburdened by the shadows and voices that awaited him in the darkness with dark promise. 

When your hand moved through his hair, a sense of familiarity washed over him like a warm tide. The soft melody you hummed resonated deep within him, stirring memories long buried beneath the weight of his pain.

It was a popular tune, one he might have heard before but he couldn't quite place it. Then it came to him, a sharp ache in his chest, not so different from the physical pain in his flesh. His mother used to sing to him like this, during her brief bouts of lucidity, when she wasn't chasing him around the house spouting prophecies of doom and destruction. 

He remembered her, her face a blur in the recesses of his mind, her voice a distant echo that whispered of warmth and safety. In those rare moments, she had held him close, her hands running through his hair in much the same way yours did now.

Unbidden, tears slipped from behind Luke's closed eyes, a silent testament to the grief and longing that filled his heart. 

"Everything will be alright, Luke," you whispered, wiping his tears before they had a chance to seep into his bandage. "You'll see."

It's a lie. He knew it was a lie. Nothing would ever be alright again, and he would never go back to being the person he used to be, but there was a part of him that wanted to believe her, if only for a fleeting moment. 

After all, he was the son of the god of tricksters—a master of deception and illusion. And as he lay there, cradled in your embrace, he couldn't help but succumb to the illusion of peace and comfort that you offered.

For now, with you by his side, he could trick himself into believing that everything would be alright—that the pain and suffering he had endured would soon be nothing more than a distant memory. And as sleep claimed him once more, he clung to that belief, finding solace in the presence of the one person who had never stopped believing in him.

A/N: feel free to send in requests for Luke lol, I'm currently in my brainrot era. Also reblogs/comments are much appreciated as I'd love to know what yall think <3

[inbabylontheywept]

Hi there! I just read through a few of your long form posts -- the one about the boss and the glue traps and the lizards, the one about the friend and the radishes and the cop, and the one about the breakup and the car and the neighbor's car and your dad -- and I'm just really blown away by your writing. And I'm just curious, are they actual experiences or are they fiction? They read like actual experiences, and the writing is so naturalistic and...idk, low key sweet, stream of consciousness without the major sidetracking that often happens in stream of consciousness writing and also more...more poetical in a way, I guess. I don't know. Are you published or wanting to? I mean I couldn't help with that or anything but if you've got a book out I'd love to read it.

Patrick McManus was kind of THE legendary writer to my family. When my dad was a kid, he'd sit on the porch the door that the monthly copy of Outdoor Life was going to arrive, and as soon as he got it, he'd run in with it and take it to his dad, who would gather all his kids around and read the stories out loud.

My dad loved it because his dad would make a whole performance out of the readings: He'd do voices, pantomimes, dramatic sound effects, the works. The stories are amazing, but the out-of-character behavior from his dad was half the selling point. Grandpa Hank was, to his core, a good man. But he was gruff, and socially, pretty stiff, and he didn't often show emotion. I think my dad said he saw him tear up one time growing up, and it was when he got dropped off at the MTC. My mom was married to my dad for three years before Grandpa Hank was comfortable enough to sit down in their house, and he liked her. That's just how he was.

(You just praised me for not getting sidetracked, but I'm letting myself wander down those memories a bit. He died last year. I miss him terribly.)

Anyway: Those stories were how I first started learning how to spin a yarn. I got older and I got more influence than just cowboys and Westerns, but the soul of my style is still just The American Tall Tale.

Which is to say that they're not outright fabrications. When I say that I cut all the worms up in my backyard and had a panic attack and hid in a tree until my mom got me, that happened. But I only remember the vaguest outlines of the words that were said. When there's a line in that story about my mom telling me that she's sure the worms will forgive me because they got six hearts to love and no bones to pick, that's not how she talks. That's how I talk.

Other stories, they're far less fuzzy than that, but I can still point out things I don't know. Wrestling story was from middle school, and a lot of those "crisp details" are just me painting by vibe. I've had some people that did wrestling through highschool point out things like refs not actually counting to three, or how double-legs are not actually super effective for tall wrestlers. I don't actually know how much the woman I wrestled weighed, nor do I remember how much I weighed, except that I was more than two weight classes smaller than her. Car incident, I got broke up with, went to her parents door, waited on the lawn, and was given some olives to go with a wireless phone. But exact wording of a lot of the people involved fails me. As a rule, the weirder an event is, the more likely I am to be distinctly remembering it and not just filling in the background. Except for dialogue, which often turns out weird because when I have to make up things for other characters to say, it carries too much of my own speaking style in it, and that's always been weird.

There are even points where things do come right off the rails. In the stories about J post, J himself became a sort of mythic figure after he moved, and lot of the stories about him, I don't even know I'm remembering them first hand or second hand from a story someone else shared with me.

I know it would be easier to just go, yeah, they're true, or no, they're not, but I did a weird thing and mixed them up and now even I'm a little confused.

Regarding publishing: I'm not published, and the thought of trying to get published scares the shit out of me. I

I don't know. If anyone has advice, I'd be interested.

[munson-blurbs]

hii 🫶🏻 i've had this idea of the reader and eddie being at a halloween party and her drink getting spiked (roofied or wtv) and like eddie comes to the rescue and takes care of her - enemies to slight lovers pls!! have a good day/night :))

Hi! I changed it a bit so that her drink was spiked with extra booze, but I kept it enemies-to-lovers!

Warnings: underage drinking (everyone is over 18 but under 21), reader's drink gets spiked, drunkenness, brief mention of Eddie dealing, Billy Hargrove needs his own warning tbh, enemies-to-lovers, idiots in love

WC: 2.5k

Thank you so much to @corroded-hellfire @lofaewrites and @manda-panda-monium for their help! Y'all made this fic much stronger, and I am indebted to you.

--

A brief, incomplete list of activities you enjoy: grabbing coffee with a few friends, walks down by Lover’s Lake powered by whatever cassette you’ve jammed into your WalkMan, reading a good book and curling up in the sunlight streaming through your bedroom window.

A brief, incomplete list of activities you despise: Steve Harrington’s house parties.

The bass from the stereo has the entire downstairs shaking, and you wince as you pass by it and make your way to Nancy. She’s the reason why you’ve started coming to these stupid things, and although Steve isn’t as big of a tool as you’d previously thought, it doesn’t make other people more tolerable.

“You having a good time?” Nancy asks now, bouncing along with the music. Her eyes are hazy with booze; her half-filled cup of the jungle juice concoction is clearly far from her first of the evening.

You shrug, hitching your bag close to your shoulder as a beast of a man in a letterman jacket pushes his way through the crowd. “Not really.”

“Cool, awesome!” Nancy chirps, senses compromised by the constant flow of alcohol and the blasting music. 

Steve has his arm around her waist, pressing chaste kisses to her neck. He looks up at you for just a second and frowns. “Where’s your drink?”

You jingle the car keys you’ve had clenched in your fist the whole night, ready to make a getaway as early as you can. “Designated driver. Unless you want José Cuervo behind the wheel tonight,” you raise your brows as you motion to your friend.

Steve shakes his head. “Nance is gonna stay here with me tonight,” he tells you, taking Nancy’s cup from her hand and placing it in yours. “She’s had enough, anyway. So, uh, go crazy.”

Go crazy. It’s tempting to dull the roar of the dozen or so conversations worming their way into your consciousness. And no doubt it’ll be easier to slap a fake smile on your face and even join one of them. But you still have to get home somehow, and the thought of asking either of your overbearing parents for a ride home from a party has your stomach in knots, especially considering you’d told them you were going to the library and sleeping at the Wheeler’s. 

Instead of going crazy, you toss the couple a frustrated eye roll, but they’re both too enmeshed in their puppy love for each other to catch it. Home. You just need to get home, snug in your own bed, away from–

“Hey, Goody Two-Shoes!” Billy Hargrove flings his muscular arm around your shoulder, pulling you into him despite your clear lack of interest. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s bad etiquette to bring down the party vibe?”

 “Get offa me,” you grumble, but his strength easily overpowers yours. 

“What you need,” he continues, stifling a beer-scented belch, “is to fuckin’ loosen up.” He punctuates his statement by placing one beefy hand on each of your shoulders, shaking you back and forth. He stumbles a bit in his drunken state, and you seize the opportunity to step away from him.

The entire encounter makes the drink in your hand even more tempting, and you throw it back without another thought. Your throat burns with the sting of alcohol, and you wince reflexively. Jeez, if this is what Nancy’s been drinking all night, no wonder she’s wasted, you think, grateful that you only had half of the cup.

Eddie Munson arrives when the party is in full swing, lunch box of illicit substances gripped tight in his hands. He hates spending time with these jockstraps outside of school, but parties are a great way to make some extra cash, and rich douchebags like King Steve practically throw the money at him, too drunk and lazy to actually count it out.

He sees you out of the corner of his eye, swaying to the music alongside Billy Hargrove. You’re leaning into him, with his hand around your waist pulling you into him. You laugh loudly, though it doesn’t appear that Billy’s said anything.

What a weird pair, Eddie muses, comparing your usual type-A, pain-in-the-ass, teacher’s pet personality with Billy’s thoughtlessness and indifference. He watches as Billy nonchalantly refills your drink and grabs your backside.

When Billy notices Eddie, he props you against the counter and murmurs something before staggering over to buy something. “What do you have tonight, Munson?”

“The usual,” Eddie replies casually, placing the tin box on the kitchen table and flipping it open. “So, uh, looks like Goody-Two Shoes is having a good time.”

Billy chuckles, twirling a toothpick across his lips. It’s a menacing laugh, and Eddie doesn’t care for the sound of it. “Yeah, she needed a little help, but I took care of it.”

He really doesn’t like that. “What do you mean?”

“Slipped a little extra in her drink when she wasn’t looking,” Billy whispers, flashing Eddie a now-empty mini bottle of tequila. “Shit was pretty strong to begin with, but she’s definitely feeling it now.”

“You spiked her drink?” Eddie’s mouth goes dry, and he snaps the lunch box shut. When Billy just laughs again, Eddie shoves him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Billy holds his hands up in defense. “Hey, man, you can’t blame a guy for doing what he has to do to get laid. Especially when it’s someone as uptight as her.”

Rage pounds in Eddie’s ears, and he barely hears anything after that. He marches towards you, fists clenched. You weren’t his favorite person, and he wasn’t yours–not after what happened in health last year–but he’d be damned if he let you get taken advantage of.

“Hey,” he says softly, tapping your shoulder to grab your attention. “Let me get you home.”

You sloppily shake your head, jungle juice sloshing over the side of the cup. “‘M fine.”

“No, you’re not.” He’s insistent, tone much harsher than his usual carelessness. “You’re absolutely plastered, and I’m taking you home.” He extends his hand, and you reluctantly take it, letting him lead you to his van. Your feet are bricks beneath you, and you giggle involuntarily as you trip over them.

“Munson, what the fuck?” Billy calls out, charging over. His own stride isn’t much more graceful than yours; the Keg Stand Champion having reclaimed his title earlier in the evening. “Get your own girl.” He reaches for your bicep to tug you away, but Eddie’s faster, which only makes the jock’s eyes stonier. “Fucking freak!” he calls out, quickly downing another plastic cup of beer.

Your eyelids begin to close, and slurred words leave your lips. “Whas’ goin’ on? Why’s Billy shhh-so mad?”

Eddie ignores your question, not wanting to slow down and risk Billy catching up to you. Once he’s safely got you in the passenger seat, he starts the ignition and glances at where you’re leaning against the window. “Where to?”

“Home.”

“Right, and, uh…where might that be?”

You shrug, body heavier with sleep by the second. “Dunno.”

“Like an address, or a general direction…anything?” Eddie drums his ringed fingers against the steering wheel. He sighs and throws the van in reverse when you shake your head. “All right, looks like you’re staying at mine.”

He keeps his eyes on the road, stealing a peek at you every minute or so. You’re sleeping, soft snores punctuating the otherwise silent ride. He winces as he goes over a bump and puts his arm out to prevent you from falling against the dashboard. 

Twenty minutes later—it would have been fifteen, but he drove slowly to prevent jostling you too much—he’s pulling up to his trailer. “Welcome to Casa Munson.” He opens his door with a dramatic grunt and shuffles around to your side. “C’mon, let’s get you inside.” If any of the neighbors see him, they’ll assume the worst, but it’s either that or have you sleep in the van. 

The last thing you remember is mumbling about needing a bed and Eddie leading you to his with an offhand comment about not knowing where the stains are from. When you wake the next morning, a jackhammer has replaced your brain and your throat is filled with bile. 

“Ugh, fuck,” you groan, pulling your sheet up over your eyes to shield them from the sun. Except this isn’t the baby pink set your mom bought you from Wal-Mart. These sheets are white and smell like cigarettes, weed, and drugstore cologne. The realization that this isn’t your room has you jolting up in bed despite your body’s protests. “What the hell?”

“Good morning to you, too,” a voice grumbles from below. You look down to see Eddie Munson laying on the floor, a towel rolled below his head in a makeshift pillow. A throw blanket covers from his shoulders to just above his ankles, leaving his sweat sock-clad feet exposed. “There’s some water and pretzels next to you, and I can grab Advil if you need.”

You nod, squeezing your eyelids together at the pain the slight head movement causes. “Yes, please.” He returns with the medicine, and you eagerly swallow it with a gulp of water. A quick assessment assures you that your clothes are still on, but you still have to ask, “did we…”

“Nope. No way. Not even a little.” He takes a seat next to you, offering the pretzel canister. Though your stomach is churning, you need something to absorb the medicine, so you take a handful and carefully munch on them. “But you had quite the offer last night.”

“Wha—?”

“Hargrove spiked your drink to get you in bed,” he explains. His mop of curls is disheveled from tossing and turning, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “And, uh, not to sleep.”

“Yeah, I gathered that,” you mutter. A fresh wave of nausea washes over you, and it’s not from the hangover. Your memories are muddled, but you can vaguely piece the night together: Nancy and Steve, the unfinished drink, Billy’s arm around you… “We left before he could do anything, right?”

Eddie nods, stealing the plastic water bottle from your grasp and taking a swig. He swishes it around his mouth before answering. “Got you outta there before he could even cop a feel.”

You grimace at his brazen response. “Well, um, thanks. You didn’t have to do that.” You start to stand up, fumbling for your keys in your bag when you remember. “Fuck, my car’s still at Steve’s.”

“I can take you,” Eddie offers, grabbing the jeans he’d haphazardly flung over his desk chair. 

“Nah, s’okay. I can walk.”

“Seriously?” He throws his hands in the air, utterly exasperated with you. “You’d rather walk three miles back to Harrington’s—hungover as shit…looking like that,” he gestures vaguely at your smeared makeup and bloodshot eyes, “than take a ride from me?”

You remain quiet, so he proceeds with his rant. 

“Y’know, when you ditched me last year, I figured you weren’t, like, into me or whatever. But, Christ, what did I do to make you hate my guts?”

Your brow furrows in confusion. “I ditched you?” The thunderous headache makes it difficult to wrack your brain for the memory, but you definitely would recall ditching Eddie Munson. “I never did that.”

“Last April,” he begins, tone clipped and direct, “the night we were supposed to finish our health project—”

“You ditched me.”

He shakes his head. “Uh, no. I invited you to see my band play and then we would finish the project after—which you agreed to—and then you never showed.”

“No, you told me, and I quote, ‘Corroded Coffin has a gig at The Hideout at 8, and we can put the poster together after we play.”

“Exactly!”

“Exactly what?” It hurts to roll your eyes, but you do it anyway just to emphasize the absurdity of the situation. “That wasn’t an invitation; that was just you telling me what time the show starts.”

“What time it starts,” he says slowly, as though explaining it to a child. “If I just wanted to meet up for the project, I would’ve told you what time it ends.” His eyes narrow. “Do you really think I spent all that time doing research with you just to flake when we got to do the creative part?”

The missing pieces shift into the puzzle. You’d been thrown off when Eddie had failed to show that night; you’d genuinely thought the two of you had forged some kind of friendship during your evenings at the Hawkins Library. But when midnight had rolled around, you’d given up altogether, gathered your notes, and made the poster alone. 

“I…I didn’t know…” you muse, mouth drier than it was before you’d drank water. “I thought you forgot, or didn’t care…” You press a tooth into your bottom lip and gnaw at the chapped skin. “Trust me, I never would’ve ditched the guy I—”

You’d tried to cut yourself off before Eddie catches what you’d inadvertently implied, but it’s too late. “The guy you…” he gently goads. When you don’t answer, he sits on the bed next to you and knocks his knee against yours. “Would it help if I told you that you’re the girl I…” He tilts his head and peers at you through his deep brown eyes.

“Me?!” There’s no way he’s serious; you brace yourself for the ‘gotcha’ or some other punchline he’ll inevitably toss your way.

To your surprise, there is none. “What can I say?” he shrugs. “I’m a total sucker for a goody-two shoes.” He stands up again, crossing his arms over his chest and pacing back and forth in the tiny room. “So, since I’m the guy that you…and you’re the girl that I…can I interest you in some of the finest hangover food this town has to offer?”

“Can I brush my teeth first?” You grimace at the tang of last night’s tequila that sticks to your molars. “Unless you also happen to be into girls with wicked morning breath.”

He chuckles, a true and hearty laugh, and it’s one of the most beautiful sounds you’ve ever heard. “Spare toothbrush is in the top drawer,” he says, pointing towards the bathroom. 

Once minty freshness has replaced stale booze, you wash the remnants of your makeup off of your face. You look a bit better; tired and hungover, but better.

Eddie’s dressed in ripped jeans and a faded concert tee, keys clenched in his palm. “Ready?” he asks, leaning against the bedroom doorway.

“Mhm.” You feel his hand ghost the small of your back as he leads you towards the front door, sending shivers of excitement down your spine.

“Hey, by the way?” 

When you turn around, his lips are on yours. It’s soft and sweet, just a bit more than a peck, but you can tell it took every ounce of courage for him to do it. You both take a small step back, swapping shy grins.  

“Eddie?”

“Yeah?”

You take his empty hand and lace your fingers with his. “Does Corroded Coffin still play at the Hideout?”

“Every Tuesday at 8.”

“I’ll be there.”

--

[dykeomania]

PLS write smut for Hazel from bottoms..I need her so bad I fear..maybe like subtop!hazel..is her having a strap too far..I need her..

this is not. a full fledged fic. but this is the first time in a sec that ive let myself be inspired by an ask. this is weirdly switcher and just pure gay-sexier than it is subby!hazel. lmk if you want things to get subbier, bc i can probably do that. but for rn i have.. this image.. and i want you to walk with me on this but also hold my hand because i'm #supershy,

(minors [including 17 year olds 🙏🏽] dni fr, under the cut: not that proofread. strap lol (r!r), foul language, breeding... language... (my bad) (hazel has a strap tho), subtop!hazel except i could've made this shit so much worse so i guess switch!hazel but like, switch!reader, idk everyone's just a whore. there's an "i love you" (or.. multiple, i guess). there's a mirror. there's a vibrator. purely stream of consciousness, i don't even think the position they're fucking in makes physical sense fr. i was bored and i was thinking, so i wrote a lot. this whole thing is not realistic btw. i have very little confidence that hazel's blowing anyone's back out, but. it's my first day out in a min so i'm rusty. all respect to the community. next time when i pull up, i'll offer something a little more tame and saccharine as opposed to [exaggerated p*rnstar moans!!!]. reblogs and whatnot appreciated.)

so, i have this .. picture.

of you putting a bullet vibe in the pocket of hazel's strap before she fucks you from behind for the first time.

she eventually finds the confidence to blow your back out, and tbh, you think it's gonna end with you seeing stars because you can already hear the fucking lottery machines going off in your head. she's fucking you so well, and hazel's problem is that you're letting her know.

at first she thinks she's going crazy. but those fucking mewls into the pillow over how deep she is, how she's making you feel so good, how you've missed her so much, are sending shocks through her clit that the vibe keeps amplifying, everytime her pelvis hits your ass.

if she thrusts hard enough, which god knows she does, it almost makes her buckle over.

you're left clenching the sheets, and gasping against the linen while she fucks you, taking you in a way that's so uncharacteristically perverse that you don't even have the brain capacity to ask yourself why you didn't ask her to take you like this, sooner. her thrusts are quick and shallow, her words breathy and a little sharp. with every jolt of your body forwards as she experimentally blows your back out, it's like you feel yourself becoming more and more removed from this fucking planet. you can't help but cry -- sob, even -- as she makes you into a mess of limbs, leaving you tugging at your tits in one split second, and gripping at the sheets the next.

something happens, though.

where her hips rut into yours in deep, hard thrusts, spaced out by what feels like eternities, you can hear her. she's moaning now, breath quickening and chest rippling everytime her crotch hits yours at a particular angle. she's mewling, and unless you're hallucinating from how fucked up you are, you can hear her --

"fuck... f--uuh--ck, fuck, fuckfuck..."

-- silently beginning to whimper.

the girl goes from bullying your cunt to burying her strap deep enough in it to make the apex of its curve nudge against your g-spot, in a way that leaves your mouth hanging wide open with nothing spilling out of it maybe other than drool, but...

it's the slick warmth of hazel's back pressed nearly flush against yours and the heat of her breath against your shoulder that makes your eyes flutter open, facing your reflection in the floor-length mirror stationed across from hazel's bed.

hazel's in it so deep, you can't even see the strap anymore. and by no exaggeration, it's like an earthquake pulses through her body everytime she nudges her hips into your ass, making your vision blurry. she's rutting into you. greedily grinding her strap into your cunt in the effort of chasing her own high.

it wasn't a secret that hazel was sensitive. more often than not, the poor girl writhed against your mouth whenever she let you put it on her ("let you" is a loose sentence -- she begs for it, sometimes). you don't even know why you're surprised that your girlfriend is getting this close over having a bullet vibe pressed against her clit, hardly protected by fabric. "b--babe--"

what sounds like a plea, amongst the feeling of hazel's thighs trembling against the back of yours, inspires something sinister inside you.

you wind your hips against her, pressing back against the strap and the toy. the sight of your ass rolling against hazel's pelvis, combined with how good it feels is gonna actually, like, make hazel fucking--

"don't cum."

she loses her breath, entirely, and her rhythm, apparently. she slows, as if that was her body's instinct to obey your orders, despite the string of breaths that tumbles out of her mouth. "n-- wha-- fuck, no, nonono--"

you wind your hips deeper into hers, extracting a moan from your own throat -- fuck, maybe your gut, since that's how deep you could feel her. you press your ass into her until you feel the buzz of the vibe against folds, the frequency of it changing and humming as you press it further into her clit. "y--es," you grit. "don't fucking cum yet, hazel."

the dull, rolling vibrations through the fabric of the strap draw hazel's eyes into the back of her head, and then closed. she's grunting now -- or all of the above -- and she tries her best to unchap her lips, fruitlessly dragging over them. the little breaths she takes through them only brings them back to being puffy, pink, and a gateway of noise that gives evidence to struggle.

"gonna let me count you down?" you puff out your sentence in one breath, and hazel can fucking hear the grin in your still-fucked-out tone and it makes her whine louder.

"yeah? gonna fuckin' let me count you down so you can cum in me, haze?"

cum.. in you. three words that you'd never even fucking uttered to her before this, and that she never fucking thought she would ever hear and.. it looks like she can't complain, because her eyes roll into the back of her head and hazel swears that she -- at least, briefly -- meets jesus christ, "oh my god--," hazel slurs, hips rolling impossibly deeper into yours, it's a miracle she hasn't swabbed your cervix yet -- "ohmygod, oh my god--"

"three..."

ohfuck. ohfuck,ohfuck,ohfuck,ohfuck. it's the soft chorus that she whispers to herself as she starts to fuck herself into you, again, opting for thrusts as a means of trying to regain control with no consideration for your demise. the vision of her blurs in the mirror, and you feel your fists grasping at her sheets again.

"fuck--" you croak. "t--two.."

she pulls you further into her, and at this point, hazel's okay with being written off as a lost cause, 'cause fuck, it's not like she has a choice. the strap brief is soaked and it's entirely your fault, and god, she throws her head back. a mess of words, a mess of sensations, hazel just blurts, "oh my g--od--i love you--"

you burst out laughing at the random proclamation, admist everything.

she forces her head down to watch you, jaw hung open. and at this point, she's just speaking. rambling and slurring and gasping, tears-in-eyes-in-awe-and-all, as she watches you throw your ass back against her.

"iloveyou so much, you're so f--ucking hot, whatthefuck?--"

there's something weirdly sweet about it. something that makes your cunt clench around the strap in a way that hollows you out shortly thereafter, and lets hazel hit that fucking spot just right. before you know it, you're wherever hazel is, cunt fully creaming around the silicon.

"i love you--" you dumbly spit out a giggle, a gasp causing a steam of spit to cascade off your bottom lip and onto hazel's navy sheets. "babe," you warn. "ohfuck, ohmyfuckinggod, you're gonna make me cu---"

"fuckingsayone," hazel, unbelievably pleads while she unbelievably spears her strap into your cunt. "oh my fucking god, say one, please, please, pleaseplease--"

she starts begging. unprompted. "it's s-so good, it's so, so good, feels so fucking good, wanna c--um in you--" and she probably repeats it. probably repeats that she wants to cum in you until she's blue in the face and,

"o-one--"

until you let her.

the noise that's ripped from hazel's throat is .. embarrassing. virginal, almost. fully reverberates off the walls, and she trembles. her clit convulses against the vibe, twitching with every short stream of her release and she folds. poor girl was holding your hips for something -- for reassurance, to get a grip, dear life, perhaps? as her hips languidly fuck and press into the surface of your ass., rocking your near limp-frame after you've pretty much creamed all over her strap.

hazel hangs over you for god knows how long, dark hair shaggy and some strands stuck to her forehead in wavy wisps. cheeks flushed, and lower lip bitten to hell. the bullet vibe fucking dies, thank god almighty, because god knows she was not in any shape to reach down and turn it off.

she stays like that for a while, until she you feel her again. this time, only gentler, and much more like herself. soft hands caressing the skin of your back, her breath warm and shaky as she peppers a splay of kisses across your skin.

as you come from the surface of your own high, you feel yourself hum. still full of her, and dizzy with it. despite it, you manage -- slurring, slightly.

"haze?"

there's a hum, somewhere.

"did that really feel that good?"

hazel distantly nods, brown locks brushing against your back.

"uh.." hazel frowns, letting out a weak laugh. "y-yeah, honestly."

the mental note gets filed away somewhere deep in the haze of your brain and you grin, when you press your ass one against her just for shits and giggles and hear her gasp, from the sensitivity of it alone.

"that's my girl."