#it was like brownish orange before

[cordspaghetti]

does anyone mind if i post a selfie. i have whitish hair now i’m very excited

[helloanime]

Zhongli's Stalker/Lover! Bottom!FTM!Zhongli x Top!Male!Reader Warning: Cunnilingus, drinking, drugs, stalking, unprotected sex, mentions of female genitals Zhongli doesn't even know how it came to this, hell, his brain isn't even functioning properly, all because of you. Currently, you're eating out this spoken-highly-of dragon's cunt, making him a moaning, cumming mess. Before this, a few hours ago, Zhongli was just at the bar, drinking alcohol, little did he know, that someone spiked one of his drinks when he was already just slightly tipsy. Since he's a dragon and a Geo Archon, he couldn't really get fully drunk, but Zhongli had drank very strong liquor, so he got just a bit drunk. And that allowed, someone -you- to spike his drink. After you spiked his drink, he had passed out, and when he woke up, all he saw was darkness. You had tied up his arms to the headboard of the bed and blindfolded him, he doesn't even know who did this, yet. Once you realized he had woken up from his slumber, in your usual, soft, and velvety voice, you say "Oh, you're finally awake, my love! Did you enjoy your sleep?~" Zhongli floundered around, knowing that he had been drugged, that stripped away his Geo elemental powers. "Who are you and what do you want?!" Zhongli said firmly in his calm tone, despite his helplessness. "It's me, dear, [Name]~ Your one and only~" you speak with a soft, but malicious tone. Zhongli stops thrashing around immediately, his beautiful orange and brown eyes widening underneath the blindfold. When you finally take the blindfold off, you can see Zhongli, the fear swimming in his eyes.... Oh how that only fueled your sadistic side and lewd desire. You've known Zhongli for a while, and you're obsessed with him. Yes, you're a stalker for Zhongli, but who wouldn't be if they knew your precious angel? You've always said that to yourself to bury down the guilt, -aka, the sane part of you- and it works. Back to the present, you continue to eat out Zhongli who's completely out of it, his slender fingers intertwined with your (h/c) locks, soft whimpers and moans escaping past his perfect, soft, dreamy lips. This was literally out of a -your- dream, this calm, strong man, falling apart in front of you, presenting himself, his cunt dripping their delicious juices onto your chin. You're like a starved man as you eat him out. And when you reveal your length, Zhongli can feel his eyes widening, and his pink hue on his cheeks turning scarlet. Zhongli and you know that he is scared, but more excited than any other feeling. You slip your length inside Zhongli's pussy, cooing soft praises and comfort in his ear, the dragon arching his back once you were fully inside, his mesmerizing brownish-orange eyes dissapeared to the back of his head, he had already squirted around your cock and you've only just put it in. Zhongli could feel your cock fitting snuggly inside of his dripping pussy, the tip of your cock kissing his cervix, making him cum again. Your cock was girthy and lengthy, pressing all of the right and sensitive spots inside of him. Since you didn't have a condom on, he could feel the skin of your cock pressing in him. At first you were thrusting in and out slowly and sensually so Zhongli could get used to your length. But after a bit, you started speeding up, you started speeding up, his moans getting louder as well. "Hnnng! a-aahh~♥" Zhongli moaned out, white ropes of cum spurting out of his t-dick. "Such a good slut for me, hm?" You hummed out, your tone soft and innocent despite the dirty words. After a while, you cum inside of him, despite his pleas of 'no' yet in his head, he kept on repeating "Cum in me, please~". You gently stroke Zhongli's long, soft, disheveled hair.

You gently take a clean, but damp cloth, cleaning up Zhongli a bit, the dragon shuddering a bit from the dampness of the cloth, before his eyes widen a bit. You had just picked him up, bridal style, you carry Zhongli's sensitive body to the bathroom. The bathroom pristine, fancy and clean, but cozy. A light on the ceiling, the lighting is a soft mellow white, so it doesn't hurt your eyes, but still lights up the room, there was a tub and shower, the shower had glass doors, while the tub was sparkly clean, towels hung up where they are meant to be, the towels pure white, definitely clean. You gently sit Zhongli down on the toilet seat, turning on the faucet of the shower tub, putting your hand in it to make sure it wasn't too cold or too hot for your dear dragon. Once the bath was ready, you set Zhongli down in the tub, making sure he was comfortable, you get in the tub as well, sitting behind Zhongli, despite having unwilling sex with you, Zhongli still enjoyed it. You wash the dragon's hair tenderly, like you did with the rest of his body. You had to clean your cum out of him so.... you had to put a finger back in his pussy, gently scraping it out. Zhongli was now facing you, his face buried in your shoulder, moaning softly at the sensation. The noises close to your ears, traveling down to your dick, you were getting hard again, but it would've probably been too much for Zhongli, so you ignore it. You finish cleaning the exhausted dragon, drying him off and putting your clothes on him after you took him out of the tub and sat him down on the toilet seat. You carry Zhongli's limp body to your bed, you had changed the sheets before cleaning Zhongli, so you just had to lay Zhongli down. You lay down beside him, wrapping your arms around Zhongli's body, the two of you cuddling. The last thing you say and hear before nodding off is "I love you". You both fall asleep in each other's warm, comforting embrace... (A/N: This is my first actual post that isn't a choose your ending like the Jealousy one. I saw that I got a lot -well to me- of likes on that post, i hope you guys used the actual AI Bot where the original little script came from. Thank you for all of those likes!)

[dilfartist]

Realization

Pairing; Yandere Miguel O’hara x reader

Synopsis; the aftermath of your escape attempt.

Word count; 1.1k

Reader description; Female/GN

TW; yandere themes, dark themes, kidnapping, minor talk of wounds.

Notes; {first part.}

"Are you comfortable?" 

His query provokes annoyance. While, yes, the fluff provided by both the couch and large puffy blankets did satisfy you, you'd never express this to Miguel. Miguel is at your side, clad in a tight white shirt and Grey sweatpants. In his hands are a platter holding a drunk and a plate of breakfast. 

"No." You retort; the way it's spoken is colder than you intended. But why would you care? He deserves every bit of hatred spewed from your lips. 

The current time is eight in the morning, and the last thing on Miguel's today's list is fighting. Especially in your condition. Miguel releases an obstinate short-lived sigh, clearly not giving in to your stubbornness. He moves from your side to your front. Irratedly, you bark his name in an empty threat. "Eat." He persist, his voice losing a bit of the softness he talked with before. 

"I promise I didn't drug it. If that's why you're not eating." 

Ah, yes, you forgot being drugged was a possibility when he handles your food. 

Back when you first got abducted, you understandably were resistant to any form of tenderness. You acted callous. Ignoring Miguel when you didn't require to communicate your needs. Miguel wasn't too appreciative. Nevertheless, he was understanding due to your circumstances, and for a while, he begrudgingly left you alone. One day, Miguel wasn't having the best day; to say the least, his day had been extremely stressful. All he wanted was to be comforted by your touch, and of course, you aren't giving him any, so he sought it. 

You sat at the dining table, eating leftovers from the night before. Miguel entered the shared home, going into the kitchen. Wanting your affection, he forgets about your refutation and awkwardly leans down, puckering his lips to signal a kiss. You simply turn away. Pride wounded, Miguel retreats, angrily storming out of the room, and plops down on the couch. A couple of minutes pass, and you walk out of the kitchen, a glass of soda in hand, and sit across from him. Miguel eyes your beverage with a malevolent idea forming. 

Fortunately, on Miguel's part, you leave for the restroom. In his impulsive state, Miguel quickly departs from the living room to the kitchen. This wasn't the first occasion Miguel thought of paralyzing you with a sedative. On top of the fridge were the pills. He flicks the bottle open, popping two tablets in his calloused palm. He returns to the living room, dropping them into the liquid, and using your straw, he mixes the drink until there's only a slight visible powder at the bottom. 

Miguel rues his decision. Instead of earning your trust, he loses the faith that you had in him. The exact opposite of what he strived to attain. 

Famished and tired of Miguel's whining, you begrudgingly accept the platter. You settle the platter onto your lap. On the plate is French toast, the mixture of butter and syrup creates a brownish-orange color. On the side is cold tea with a handful of ice cubes floating at the top. 

Grabbing the butter knife, you slice the toast creating a rift and allowing the syrup to spill onto the glass plate. Bringing the fork to your mouth, you take a small bite. It tasted...fine. No bitter aftertaste of pills, just regular French toast.  

Miguel intensely observed you, even taking a seat beside you. For someone who truthfully claimed to not have laced your meal, he certainly doesn't make it appear that way. "Do you like it?" He asks nonchalantly. Not wanting to give him credit, you merely respond with an "it's alright," 

Finishing up your meal, you return to watching your show. Miguel gets up, sauntering out of the room. You assume he was returning work calls since he was taking off the week to nurse you back to health. You dismiss it, giving all your engagement to the television. 

Sometime later, you hear heavy footfalls from the hallway. You don't turn to see who it is because it's obviously Miguel. Miguel once again enters the living room, your name falling from his lips immediately. You continue to pay him no mind at all. 

Miguel is quickly agitated, "Look at me, (Name)." You whirl around, giving in. In Miguel's hands again is a tray. this time it holds neither drink nor food, instead medical supplies. 

"No." You absentmindedly mutter, sinking farther into the couch cushion. Miguel approaches you, places the tray aside on the table, snatches the remote out of your hand, and powers off the television. "Come on, lie on your stomach." He commands softly, throwing blankets on the other couch to have the couch bare. 

"No," you repeat like a petulant child whose mother asked them to do something they didn't want to do. 

"Now, (Name). The faster we get this over, the faster you won't have to deal with it the remainder of the day." 

He was right. For once. You shakily sigh, doing as he advised. Miguel takes your place on the couch, peeling your shirt upwards. The contact of cold crisp air against your warm skin makes you shiver. Never have been so interested in the armrest's design. Every stitch, color, and material now is intriguing. 

Miguel prepares the ointments and bandages. Then he unwraps the aged bandages in slow motion, hoping not to foist pain on you. Over a couple of days, Miguel has attended to your wounds on your back, and each time the sight never fails to have his heart sink into his stomach. 

Trailing from your upper back to your lower is three gashes on both sides of your back, parallel to claw marks. The gashes are deep and bloody despite the amount of medication he's applied days prior. Miguel figures they must have been caused by him clutching you when you went tumbling on the concrete. 

Now it's Miguel's turn to take in a quivering breath. 

Miguel brings over a small container holding a clear ointment inside. He dips his finger in, scooping out a good amount. Miguel's thick fingers gently glaze your marks, earning him a whine. As he continues, all that escapes his lips are gently spoken "m'sorry"s or "forgive me, bebé."s 

You want to hate him. Never think of the word forgive in a sentence when it involves him. But you can't; all you can do is forgive him because it's the only thing you can do to improve your situation. A situation you'll never escape. 

You have to forgive him, but never will you forget. Even if you wanted to, the marks on your back will always be a reminder. 

[tteokdoroki]

imagine silently vibing in the kitchen with katsuki bakugou.

you help yourself up into the counter, dressed in nothing but his shirt (haphazardly thrown on after spending all day kissing and getting nasty in bed) and a pair of fuzzy socks because he’d told you the apartment was cold since he runs warm and you need to keep your feet warm.

the kettle rumbles loud and proud beside you while katsuki gets the mugs from the top shelf. you’d made them together on your sixth or seventh date — a pottery painting class. bakugou’s is a creamy shade of Orange, like the sun setting outside the kitchen window, warm on your back. and yours is a soft pink, like the blush that dusts his cheeks from being caught staring. staring at you.

you let him make you some kind of herbal tea. watching bakugou grab the tea bags from another cupboard. this time, you’re the one staring, eyes caught on the motion of his back muscles rippling before cascading down to his unfairly slender waist, his grey sweat pants that hang a little too low on his itty bitty hips, and the rough textured skin on his side. the battle scar you love so much.

“what flavour?”

you hear him mumble, your gaze that was once tethered to the eighth wonder of the world (his phenomenally beautiful body) shoots up to bakugou’s face. a lazy smirk lies on the plump edge of his lips and compliments the his chiselled features illuminated by golden hour outside. you see the sun reflect off the brownish flecks to his gorgeous ruby eyes and the soft tint of blonde to his hair (you make a mental note to thank mitsuki for this later), before mirroring his smile.

“peach.”

to people on the outside of your lovey little bubble — there’s nothing significant about your choice of tea. but to you and katsuki, you know that it’s the same flavour as the lip glaze you wore on the night he first kissed you. it’s the scent of your body wash, the one that you leave at his place because you know that bakugou adores peaches on you. peaches, like the fruits you cut up for him whenever you’re able to join him for lunch at the agency, swiping your thumb over his chin as the juices run down it — sucking it off with an affectionate laugh.

“sweet,” bakugou hums into the quiet ambience of the kitchen. “just like you.”

his hands, though capable of intangible levels of destruction, work delicately and quickly to brew you the perfect cup of peach herbal tea. before you can even ask, he sweetens your cup with a tea spoon of brown sugar and a dash of golden honey — pushing it towards you gently. with a loving whispered reminder. ‘careful, it’s hot.’

katsuki waits for you to take a sip before he does the same with his own. he won’t admit to how cute you look on his counter, in his apartment, in his clothes with his marks on your neck, glittering under the setting sun. his bare feet pad on the vinyl flooring as he crosses the kitchen to meet you and his chest bristles with happiness when your legs part to make room for him.

“good?”

“always,” you chirp, looking up at kastuki through your lashes with your big bambi eyes. “i love you.”

katsuki looks taken aback but quickly recovers, rubbing his cheek on his bare shoulder as if to rid himself of the heat rising underneath its skin.

“love you even more. now drink up b’fore it gets cold.” he says gruffly but he’s lovesick all the same. you think that bakugou is so cute, you might implode.

and there you are, vibing out in the quietness of his kitchen — clinking your misshapen mugs together and drinking tea, letting the world go by as if you’re the only two people in it.

[hoseoksluna]

STORY | knj

pairing: soft dom!namjoon x reader

genre: smut

word count: 7.8k

summary: yours and namjoon’s story is a bit more perverted than traditional.

warnings: serious big dick namjoon, rough touches, hair pulling, use of pet names and titles, dom/sub dynamics, horny namjoon can't help but palm himself:(, desperation, masturbation, spanking, praising, tit slapping, nipple play, teasing, oc and namjoon not being comfortable with certain practices, playful orgasm denial, oral sex (m. and f. receiving), rimming && ass play :3, cum eating yum yum, tit fucking, orgasm countdown fuck

note: smut is so fucking difficult to write but i loved every second of it. i love writing about namjoon, he just makes me feel so safe. this is purely my fantasy with him and i'll probably dream about this for a long, long time. please, take your time reading this as it's pretty long. i hope you enjoy it and that it makes you dream like it made me dream. as always, let me know what you think in the comments, like the post and if you want to—reblog, but i won't pressure you angels <3. love you guys so much, thank you for all the love. kisses!

side note: i miss namjoon and i wish he were here. all i can do is watch his lives and pretend he never left for the military.

Namjoon makes himself comfortable on the wooden chair before you.

The scene is set. Like a mermaid bathing in the sun, you rest your elbows on the cold rim of the ivory bathtub. Small surges of violet-tinted water, perfumed with your scent, blanket your body in a thin layer of glittery sheen. They kiss the tiger stripes along the curve of your bottom as it rolls over, passing by the dip in the small of your waist, breathing in your patchouli fragrance in greeting. The bath bomb, cornered by your knees, sizzles and spins, the width of the tub allowing your form to float like a little fish in the open sea as copiously as you please.

A gift from your loving boyfriend. Both the clawfoot, and the bath bomb.

The scene expands. Your Eric slouches in his seat, balancing his greatest and most stellar possession on top of his lap with one hand while he runs the other through his silver mane. He fits perfectly in the picturesqueness of the background. Soft orange and chocolate tiles zig zag behind his back, transposing him momentarily into a sunlit illustration, where he rests in the shade of a palm tree on a faraway beach. Reads the book to pass the time as he waits for you to emerge from the waters. Sets it down on his lap as soon as his gaze catches yours. Periwinkle clams for a bra, panties thin and translucent from the oncoming waves, you rest your front on the sand. He smiles down at you and you know for a fact you won’t be able to get on your feet. Might have to learn how to walk, too.

You keep this picture in your heart. Mentally, you rip out the page. Fold it and tuck it somewhere within you to keep it safe.

Legs outstretched by the sides of the tub, clad in slacks in the muted color of a persimmon, it’s almost as though you’re propped on his lap. Sporting a simple white button-down, sleeves rolled, you’re close enough to touch the material if you so much as wished so. From his angle, Namjoon sees nothing but the roundness of your eyes through the brownish rims of his glasses, hair unkempt in their dampness as the short paper thin layers frame your flushed face in such a celestial way. If he were to lean over, it’d be a different kind of book.

The one in the clasp of his hand isn’t a tale as old as time.

It’s one of your favorites. An existential story that ridicules the traditional. A transfusion of liveness to a certain forgotten room of your heart. The unlit one while the others brim with sunlight, with the golden sepia projection of the contents of the fairytales you love so much made into stop motion. A coloring book of some sort, hues fitting into the lines by your helping hand—the attention of your eyes. 

Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka. The book that sweeps away all those cobwebs in that chamber. Makes it less lonely.

It’s all you had talked about on your dates when you and Namjoon first started dating, having been reading it at the time. You had confided in him that the writer was the only person who understood you without ever learning your name, without familiarizing himself with the subtleties of your calamitous life.

No one has ever shared something so vulnerable with him, especially not on the first date. Not that he’d gone on many, but the few that fell into his grasp were hell to get through. Insufferable, to say the least. Absolutely superficial.

He went home in the rain thinking of you. Not for boyish reasons. But for reasons of literary character, of melancholy nature that squeezed his long-unexpressed heart in perpetuating intervals too consistent for his liking. Filled it with a nectar bubbling with a newly blooming love for books, with a sudden longing to be found within the words. His body decided for him that it was yours. Yours to teach again how to read between the lines.

The scene breaks out of the margins on the page.

“Is the water warm enough?”

The idea constructed by his own geniality, it’s by his will that you’re basking in your bare femininity before his eyes. Idleness lingered in the living room between the pair of you, the flimsy curtain by your balcony lifting and falling in a little dance as the cold air perfused the place with the drowsiness of winter. Pulling his eyes away from the TV to sink a soft kiss into your hair, Namjoon muttered into your ear: “How about I draw you a bath and read to you for a little bit?”

You said nothing. The click of your phone turning off and your hasty movements to untangle yourself from the warmth of his limbs answered him for you. Leaving your clothes as a trail for him to follow, you gave him a glimpse of your ass, arched and pointed in the draft before you ran away. Before he scolded you with his index finger like a father, raising to his feet to close the balcony door.

In two seconds he joined you in the bathroom. Leaned against the doorframe as you circled a pink roll-on lip oil you’ve been obsessed with lately around the perimeters of your lips. The one that makes them look bigger, juicier. That makes them more fun to kiss and toy with. The one that leaves his length sticky once playtime is over. You seem to cast aside little trinkets of yourself for him to collect everywhere you go.

Tits pushed towards each other while you slightly bent over the vanity sink, tapping the excess into the fullness of your mouth, Namjoon palmed himself. The tiredness from work earlier weakened his self-control to the point of unrestrained indulgence. And the plumpness of your ass just encouraged it.

You fluffed your hair and Namjoon ran the bath. Disappeared into the kitchen for a moment to retrieve the purple bath bomb from the plastic bag on the counter, one that he got from the convenience store for you. Dragon fruit and hibiscus. Thought of the twinkle that would sparkle beneath your lashes upon seeing it. Wasn’t disappointed when you exceeded his expectations.

Having seen it in the mirror, almost microscopic and round in his big palm, you turned on your heel and burst into giddiness as he took off the plastic packaging with his teeth. You pouted in gratefulness when he showed it to you. 

“You planned this, didn’t you?”

You hugged him, locking your hands behind the nape of his neck. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t, and he told you so. A bit hoarsely, though.

Namjoon struggled not to moan. Groaned a little when he felt the curvature of your belly against his hardness and the pointed nubs of your tits beneath his pecs. Managed to conceal it, thankfully, by clearing his throat and by allowing an authentic grin to bloom on his dimpled face at your joy. Thanked the heavens for all the bath bombs in the world.

He placed it in your much smaller palm for you to plop it into the increasing water. Watched your eyes widen at the gilded glitter spreading around. Spurred you to get in. Held your hand as you lifted one limb, then the other. Knelt by you as you engulfed yourself in the violet tinge, your hair swirling around you, silky and ethereal, coming to a stop at the top of your head to fix a splendid crown for such a princess like yourself.

Namjoon turned off the tap while you rested your back against the curved wall of the tub. You swooshed your hands around, gathering the glitter into the fine lines of your palms. Looked up at him in elation, the twinkle doing its thing in the glossiness of your eyes, and smiled. Namjoon smiled back at you. His hand reached out to your chest in a fervent need to touch you. The glitter adorned your chest with its perfect speckles and they resurfaced when you arched your back in response. Clung to his palm in the middle of your tits, held on tighter as he took a detour to your chin by brushing across your sensitive nipple to hear your little mewls because if he made a sound, then you must, too. Because if he was horny, he must get you on the same page as well. Fairness is very important to Namjoon.

He squeezed your breast hard. Pinched your nipple between his thumb and the knuckle of his index finger in broken intervals, similar to little dashed lines of Morse code. You imagined he was telling you something through that secret language as you closed your eyes during an intense wave of pleasure coursing down your body, and perhaps he truly did because he pulled your legs apart harshly when you pressed them together. Punished you by lightly slapping your tit—the same one he abused with those firm touches—the force splashing you in the face with violet pearls. All as if you disobeyed the command he transmitted wordlessly.

The command possibly being: Only I will give you the release you need when I decide it’s time.

You bit your bottom lip to suppress the neediness erupting in you. Namjoon wrapped his hand around your throat and you dragged his rolled sleeve further up his arm, so it wouldn’t have gotten soaked in the water. He smeared your lip oil just because he wanted—just because he could, scattering the rosy tint around your mouth messily. He took advantage of the aftermath of his punishment and collected those tender beads, now translucent upon your carmine skin. Not with the thumb as you expected him to, but using the pillows of his lips, he kissed the round bulb on your cheek. It melted on the puffy surface when he withdrew. He looked you in the eye for a mere beat of time before he lowered to your other cheek to collect another trinket. None of the corners of your mouth were overlooked, not even the button of your nose. He peppered those kisses to erase the harshness of his selfishness, supporting your lifted chin with his long thumb beneath it, still sticky from the consistency of the lip oil, apologizing, smoothing down his sternness until you giggled.

Once he cleaned you, Namjoon returned the digit to your smudged mouth, delicious in his sight due to the essence of sloppiness that gets his length even harder in his pants. He presses the pad against it, already craving your tongue. You kissed it, a thank you for his softness, before you granted him the access. Tongue toying with the tip, you said hello in the mother language of the love stored in your bodies for each other. Wrapped both of your hands around his wrist. Didn’t break eye contact. Smiled, teeth showing happily, when he bit his lip, but soon got distracted by a small movement on his groin area out of your view.

You peeled your back off of the tub to curiously take a peek, but Namjoon pushed you back to your place. All while his thumb remained sucked by your mouth. You frowned at him, dismayed by his recurring roughness that you weren’t used to.

Namjoon tapped your cheek twice with his fingers to let you know it was enough and rose to his feet.

“Joon, what’s going on? Why are you so rough with me?” you asked, voice tender, the question shooting arrows into the wideness of his back.

Stopping in the doorway, he hung his head, fingers coming to intertwine with the short hair above his neck. “I’m sorry, baby. Let me get the book.”

A moment later, he returned with the stellar possession in one hand and a wooden chair in the other. He slumped against it, fingers finding the first chapter unwittingly.

You swam forward as if to the shore, propping your elbows on the rim to be closer to him.

“Is the water warm enough?”

You nod, your teeth picking at the excess skin on your lips. Namjoon notices and, as if registering the reason why you put on the lip oil in the first place, he leans towards you and rubs away the smudginess he caused. As if the walk into your dining room sobered him enough from the dark wine of his lust that he now regretted his actions.

“You really scared me when you were rough,” you said calmly, unafraid to uncover your feelings, knowing you’ll be caught now that you’ve jumped head-first into the hungry sea of honesty.

He apologizes again. Repeats it in the aphonic form of a deep chaste kiss.

“Won’t do it again,” he promises. “Unless you ask me to.”

Your lips form a smile, but it quivers into a straight line just as quickly as it appeared. The yet unknown cause behind his untypical behavior troubles you.

“Did something happen today at work?”

Namjoon sighs. “No, I’m just tired.”

“Just tired or tired of your job?” you try, tilting your head to the side, remembering this isn’t the first time quiet broodiness clutched his figure when the clock struck five.

“Both.” He kneads the heel of his palm against his eye. 

Not expecting his honesty, your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. It propels you to investigate further. Gives you the green light. Namjoon usually keeps to himself when it comes to work-related storms, holding respect that reaches the bottom of his heart for those above him and for his peers as well.

“Did someone make you upset?” you ask, paving your way in this inquiry to the realm of understanding so you can help him. At least in a small way.

He drops his hand, gazes up the ceiling to stare at a fixed point. Perhaps he’s looking for words, perhaps he’s avoiding the question altogether. The regret of your prying swallows you. You’re afraid you’ve overstepped a boundary. 

You reach out your arm, wrapping wet fingers around his wrist on his lap. The gesture says, ‘you don’t have to tell me but I’m here,’ and you squeeze the limb to emphasize that. As if he heard you, he looks down at you. His eyes that are usually narrowed into slits now round in tenderness. The swallowing lets go, the lump that threatened to obstruct your throat disappears.

“It’s Friday, Joonie, and you can forget about your job for a little while. It’ll get better,” you say, caressing his soft skin.

To your another surprise, Namjoon nods. Slips his fingers into the hollowness between yours, squeezing back, saying, ‘I hear you.’ Your heart jumps with gladness that you haven’t made a mistake, that instead your reassurement made a difference.

To lighten up the atmosphere, you begin to joke around.

“Should I beat them up?” You raise your brow in mischief, a goofy smile coating your face in lightheartedness.

A grin cracks on his face. “Don’t get your hands dirty for me, baby.”

You scoff, half-seriously and half-unseriously shaking your head at his eagerness to please but never letting himself be pleased. “But I want to. I’ll do it for you.”

Namjoon shakes his head as well. Leans over to you. Cradles your head in his hands and kisses you. Picks the hair plastered on your face and puts it away. You forget all of your jokes for a moment, breathless. Your neediness nudges you in your sensitive parts, reminding you of its lingering presence. 

“Come on, Joonie,” you coo, prolonging the vowels, the best you could come up with considering his allure, “I’ll fight them,” you start to construct your imaginary plan, the dimples adorning his face making it a bit harder for you to get the words out, “then, they’ll be scared of me and they won’t bother you again. Because if they do, I’ll smash their fucking teeth in. And then… then, you’ll get your peace for good. Easy.”

Namjoon listens with his features bathed in enamoredness, seemingly lost in a deep thought. A twinkle, a twin to yours, glistens in his eyes. Dimples out provoking you, he softly smiles at you. Coyly. He’s unaccustomed to being the one fought for. He’s always been the one who fights. The one who settles, resolves, makes things right. He’s never been the person these things are done for by another person. It makes his heart pulsate in a strange new rhythm. 

He stretches out his hands and runs his fingers through your hair. Begins to plait an intricate braid down your back, keeping you caged in the confines of his arms. Safe. Protected. His warrior princess.

“There’s something else you can do for me,” he mumbles, finished with your braid. Now your hair is away from your face, just like he needs it for what he’s about to do.

“Oh?” You raise an eyebrow in question, your smirk growing on the side of your face. “Like what?”

“I’m so hard for you, baby,” he whispers into your ear, shoulders hunched, lips tracing the edge of your earlobe. A secret just between the two of you. “My body’s confused. I need a release.”

Even though you saw it coming, even though you saw it a hundred times before, you can’t help but gasp at his desperation, bare and open before you. It’s a new experience each time. Thrilling and titillating, the vividness and ferocity of his sexuality. It causes a flock of playful butterflies to buzz you with electricity in your tummy and a shiver to run down your spine. You feel your own neediness making itself known again and you squeeze your thighs together. 

This is the Namjoon you know. Strong in his softness. Mellow. Intense. The Namjoon who showed you plain roughness was a stranger to you, one you could take the time to get to know, because now you understand that the incentive to act like he did was his frustration from work. You can’t really blame the natural inclination of his body—his body that is yours to love in all shapes or forms.

You perceive he needs to let out some steam—he said so himself. Proud of him for voicing it out, a decision to be his helper already makes a way to your heart. You no longer feel slivers of consternation slithering in your veins. Knowing the cause, knowing it’s still your Namjoon helps you submit to the call of his needs. If a dab of roughness is what entails the sand-speckled footpath to the seaside of his well-being, you’ll take it. Welcome it, even. Within the realm of your established boundaries, that is. 

“Can I see?”

The book falls to the floor with a thud. Namjoon stands up. 

Ever so eager. Responding to his body language out of pure instinct, you hum and lift yourself to your knees. The outline of his engorged length, tight in his pants, greets you and you will your brain not to tell your fingers to rub your swollen clit. To busy your hands, you grip the rim until white brushes along your knuckles.

Emerging from the water, it left you smothered in a luster of wet silkiness. Namjoon’s eyes rake over your bare femininity. Heavenly, pure, seraphic. Groans a little loud. Doesn’t know whether to touch you first or his painfully hard and heavy member. You move your body to the side wall of the tub and he follows you, hand opting for his girth to relieve himself a little bit. 

You sit prettily on your folded legs and lean over, pulling his wrist away. You plant a dewy kiss to the middle of his clothed length and look up at him, just at the right time to catch him whimpering. Your clit pulses again and you feel like crying, needing release as much as he does. He doesn’t make it easy for you, making sounds like that.

“What does my baby girl need me to do?” you ask, stroking his member while stifling your giggles at the title that fits him so well. 

“Baby girl?” He frowns down at you. 

It’s usually what he calls you, hence why his confusion. And you call him by an entirely different title, too.

A giggle does escape your mouth after all. You squeeze at his tip, drawing those delicious whimpers out of him again.

“Only needy little baby girls make sounds like that. You are needy, aren’t you?” You lick that sensitive part, palming his balls. 

Namjoon whines. 

The shift of dynamics, the change of titles ever so dizzying to the mind. He doesn’t even have the strength to correct you. 

He grips the back of your head and moves you away from his cock. Then the realization he’s being rough again wafts over him and he softens his hold, fallen stray hairs coming to rest at your temples. Namjoon tucks them behind your ear. Taps you on the cheek once.

“Get to sucking off your baby girl,” he rasps. 

You smile. Find it immensely attractive that he’s embracing the pet name while still being dominant. A masculinity in its true form.

“You can be rough with me if you want to,” you say, wanting to make that clear. “I think I can handle it.”

Namjoon traces the shell of your ear with his thumb, pondering.

“Just don’t hit me, okay?” 

He says your name sternly, as if you offended him. “I would never deliberately hurt you. How can you think that?” 

“No, I meant—” You lick your lips. “Don’t slap my boobs or anything. You can spank me, I like that. But don’t be as rough with me as you were. Can we take it slow? Is that okay?”

He stares at you for a moment.  

“Do you trust me?”

You nod, turning your head to press a kiss into his palm. “Yes, I trust you.”

“I’ll teach you, then. We’ll take it slow,” he says, fingers stroking the side of your cheek, where a small amount of fluff creates a path for him to lay down his silent love on. “It was a mistake on my part for not preparing you for it, and for that I’m sorry. But I’ll teach you. Show you how good it is.” He pauses. “Until you beg me for it.”

Your throat dries up. The pulsing in your cunt unbearable. 

“Fuck, Namjoon. Save the talk or I’ll come on the spot.” 

“The talk is important,” he reprimands you. “Whether you come or not without my permission is your problem.” 

“Shit,” you whimper, gripping his hand on your cheek. You tighten your hold as if to brattily change his mind on having this kind of control over your orgasm because you need to come as soon as possible. And not just once. You’re sure your dewiness is leaking into the water. 

“No bad words or I’ll fuck your filthy mouth.” 

You gasp. So unused to this side of him. But it turns you on, now that you feel safe. Turns you unstable.

“Say you’re sorry.”

You’re tumbling out the words before he’s even finished with his sentence. “I’m so sorry.”

He beams at your immediate submission, purring at the quintessence of your compliance. Wants more. “Who are you apologizing to?” 

You pause. His usual title almost slips off of your tongue. But since this is new and you’re both experiencing a new dynamic that causes you to feel so playful, that guides you ever so gently and carefully into the kingdom of subspace, you opt for the pet name that suits him well. “To my baby girl,” you say, laughing softly. “I’m so sorry, baby girl.” 

He laughs as well, the sound a deep rumble in his chest. You’re giddy that you’re allowed to be wild, your inner child healing and quivering within you. You overflow with the desire to kiss him.

“What for?”

He wants you to say the full sentence. You take a deep breath. 

“Baby girl, I’m so sorry for having a filthy mouth and saying bad words.”

“Hm, do you regret it?” 

You almost curse again. “Yes, I do. I’m sorry for being bad.”

“Good. Get to work, then,” he says. “Make that mouth useful.”

Fuck.

“Kiss me first, please. Make it better,” you beg, fluttering your eyelashes at him. 

Namjoon moans and you bite your lip. Bends and sucks it between his, deepening the kiss as he opens your jaw and slips his tongue inside. Massages the muscle against yours. Makes those sounds again. Palms his cock. Withdraws with a pop. 

You mewl in satisfaction. That kiss alone ruined you. 

“Good girls get kisses.” Hand under your chin, he squishes your cheeks. “You’ve been exceptionally good. I’m gonna destroy you.” 

He kisses you again with the same intensity but briefly, inhaling your skin. No tongue this time. 

Cheeks awash with rosiness, you hastily unbuckle his belt. Not to cut time and get to his promise faster—on the contrary, you’re dying to pleasure him. He doesn’t help you like he normally does; he merely watches you as you pull down the cotton material of his slacks along with his boxers down his muscular thighs. Only when you wrap your lips around his cock from the side does he throw his head back. Thrusts his hips. 

He’s rock hard. The weight of him makes you absolutely fucked out.

Namjoon likes you there so he keeps you still—there in the middle of his girth. You moan, producing as much saliva as you can to gratify him while he uses your mouth, alternating between keeping those pillows firm and soft. When he gets you to his tip, he expects you to swallow him, but you merely move your head from side to side rapidly, flicking your tongue. Namjoon groans lowly, a string of curse words spilling from his throat. His precum drops onto your chin and you suck in a breath, horny beyond your mind.

You swipe your index finger to collect it. Check if he’s watching before you plunge the digit into your mouth. Roll your eyes back as the tanginess overwhelms your senses. Namjoon hisses. Grabs your braid as if it were a ponytail. Kisses you, aching to be one with you. You feel the vibrations of his fervid mania in unity with him like this and it echoes down your body once he pulls away. 

“Take it in your mouth.” 

Namjoon holds it at the base for you and you find the long vein that you favor so much. Pepper kisses along the length of it, feeling it throb in tandem with your clit. Straightening your spine, you bite your lip. Give him an utter look of adoration before you swipe your tongue along the slit. Humming in delight, you slip him into your mouth. Your cheeks hollow and you begin to bob your head, fingers following your movement, bumping into his fist. Tears pool in your eyes when you dare to inch closer to his hand and even though you gag, you try your hardest to keep him nice and tucked in your warm throat. You sputter and cough, swallowing around him, because you deem he deserves it, knowing how much he loves it when your flesh contracts around him like that, and Namjoon groans deeply. It fills you with a dose of satisfaction almost akin to an orgasm, the lack of oxygen in your brain heightening the experience so much that your head spins. 

“Such a good girl,” he whispers. “Breathe, baby.”

He slips out of your mouth. Pats you on your head before he sinks his fingers into your hair, gripping at the roots. Ascertains you pay attention to him. 

“Don’t do that again,” he says, softly. “You need to breathe. Take a deep breath with me.”

You’re still on your knees and he’s merely looking down at you. You fold your hands on your lap. Your mind is so empty that you’re not sure how you feel right now, having been entirely focused on his pleasure. 

Namjoon inhales deeply with his nose and you do the same.

Inhale, exhale. 

Fondly, he caresses you on your cheek.

“I just wanted to make you feel good,” you explain yourself, thinking that you should.

“I know, baby, and you did. It’s okay, I’m not mad at you.” He smiles at you. “You hear me? I’m not mad at you.”

You nod your head yes. Pout. 

“You feeling okay? Take a deep breath for me again.” 

You do as he says, your senses returning to you like a warm spring wind. 

“Better now?”

You nod again.

“Words.”

You wet your lips with your tongue. “Yes, I feel better now.”

“Good. Do you still wanna continue?”

“Yes, Namjoon. I wanna make you come.” 

Almost like you flipped a switch, his eyes darken. 

“Hands behind your back,” he rasps. 

You oblige, crisscrossing your wrists below the dimples on your lower back.

“‘Atta girl. Back to work, come on.” 

It’s much harder to do so without your hands, especially in the position you’re in. You hesitate.

“I don’t know if I can,” you admit. 

He tuts in pity. “Should I use you then?”

You roll your eyes back, the idea intoxicating your body. You feel woozy. 

“Yes, please.” 

“Focus on your breathing, okay?” 

“Yes, Namjoon.”

Humming, Namjoon grabs your hair gently and sinks your mouth down on his cock, moves you up and down slowly. You focus on not just sucking in your cheeks but also on breathing through your nose like he told you, although you can’t help but moan around him. It turns you on how he manhandles you to his liking so delicately. You swirl your tongue around his tip once he wants you there and you let out a series of whines and whimpers. He keeps you there for a little longer, moaning after you, the sounds creating a paradisiacal symphony. You twist your head in half circles as you continue sucking him, slobbering all over him, using your tongue to flick beneath the mushroom. 

“So good, baby. Yes, fuck.” Namjoon squeezes his eyes shut. “You’re gonna make me come.” 

You pull away, but a string of saliva still connects you to him. 

He blinks at you. “You want a spanking?” 

You run the tip of your tongue along the top of your lip, giving him the eyes. Cock your eyebrow at him. Namjoon draws a sharp breath in. 

He leans over. One hand tugs at your braid firmly to arch your back over the edge of the tub. The other smacks you sharply on your ass cheek, smoothing over the sting. You moan, nipples rubbing over the cold surface, curse words dying on your tongue. Namjoon grips the flesh, spanks you again. Skims his fingers over your exposed heat. Repeats it on the other cheek, twice in a row. You wiggle your hips, needing to feel more, needing him to touch you right there between your legs. You cry out into his ear.

Letting go of your braid, Namjoon kisses you beneath your jaw. Slides his tongue along the sensitive spot, sucking it between his lips. A secret message that he hears you, that he’ll fuck your needy cunt soon.

“Think you’ll be a good girl for now?” 

Furrowing your eyebrows, you nod a few times. Not a single rational thought passes through your brain. 

Namjoon straightens. Pulls down his foreskin for you. “Spit on it.” 

You watch as your liquid love trickles down and lands on his tip. He hums and surprises you by wrapping your hands around his girth, spreading down the lubrication with you. You feel the ridges and the thick vein in a new, vehement way and even though you’re not the one pleasured, you moan. The simple up and down movement grows in rapidness that your body follows, emulating the effort, making it seem like you’re bouncing on a dick. Your ass splashes the water around, creating tender waves full of love, inherited from your still leaking dewiness. 

His hands are so warm enclasped around yours, pressed tight. Not once unclenching.

You start blabbering. 

“You’re so big. I can’t even wrap my hand around you.” You make sure to look him in the eyes as you say it. “So big in my mouth, too. Could barely fit you.” 

Your words set those twilit embers in his eyes on fire. His breathing quickens. He’s close again and you’re stunned, once more, by the vividness of his sexuality. Your hands go limp in his grasp.

“Nuh-uh, keep up the pace,” he husks. “Thought I was your little baby girl?” 

You shake your head, willing your hands to gain strength again, but it has no source to draw from. “Not anymore.”

Namjoon chuckles, darkly. Notices your movements fluctuating, arms shaking. “Tired?”

You nod and he unclasps his hands. You twist your wrists in circles to alleviate them from a cramp. 

Then, you get an idea.

Sitting back on your heels, you arch your back. Tip your chin down and spit on your chest, the essence flowing down the pathway between your breasts. You do it again, though this time you spread it on your skin. 

“Fuck, baby,” Namjoon mumbles. Unbuttons his shirt. You squeeze your nipples with both hands as your eyes flick to his, then down to his exposed chest. “How are you gonna address me, huh? What’s my name?”

He forcefully tugs the fabric off of his arms, tossing it on the floor. His body—with its vulgar beauty, broadness and definition—takes your breath away. You don’t let it show, or perhaps you pretend that you don’t because you allow your hand to travel down your stomach. Namjoon imitates you, running his fingers down the chiseled muscles that make you drool. He stops at the hair adorning his pelvis. You don’t.

You rub circles on your clit instead.

“Daddy,” you cry out in pleasure, announcing his title—his rightful, most fitting title. Face contorting at the brisk, blooming flashes of sensuality rising up your form.

His body tenses. It’s like he’s stopping himself from reaching for you, pulling you out of the bathtub and spanking you until your bottom resembles the water. Or tugging at his length until he paints you white with his cum. 

You make it easy for him. 

Lifting your body, you step over the edge of the bathtub. Kneel at his feet on the fluffy black mat. Far enough for him to see purple liquid pearls make their way down to your cunt. Far enough for him to see how you resume those circles on your bundle of nerves, fingers reaching to your hole for lubrication. You roll your hips into your hand, arm propped behind you.

“What’s this show?” Namjoon rasps, his cock twitching. “I don’t remember giving you permission to touch yourself. You wanna end up with zero orgasms?”

You pause. 

“That’s what I thought,” he says. “I believe you have unfinished work to do.” 

You smile mischievously. “You want it bad, don’t you?” 

Namjoon nods. Holds out his hand. “Come to Daddy.”

Exuberantly, you leap into his arms. Namjoon throws you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing and walks into your shared bedroom. Sets you down on your bed, spreading your legs, and he crouches between them, reaching into his bedside table for the tool that he wants. 

The aroma of strawberries lovingly boops you on the nose. Namjoon squirts a good amount of lubrication on your chest, paying special attention to the pathway in the middle of your breasts. He massages it in, incorporates your sensitive nipples in the preparation, coaxing whimper after whimper out of you by squeezing them and rolling them between his long fingers.

“I’m gonna make a mess,” you say, grinding your hips against nothing.

Namjoon clicks his tongue. “Already?” 

Your dewiness oozes out of you onto the bedding. To prove your point, you lean back on your elbows and lift your knees, revealing your dripping hole and the shine of your soaked folds. Namjoon stares at your cunt but doesn’t touch, doesn’t blink. He bites his lip. Flicks his eyes to yours. 

He kisses the middle of your tummy. Moves over to your heat. Licks a tiny stripe on your clit.

You cry out.

“Namjoon!”

Hands on either side of your waist, crawling up to you, he growls. “Good girls are patient, aren’t they?” 

He doesn’t wait for your response. 

“They take what is given to them and they finish what they started,” he continues. “Don’t they?”

You nod.

“And you are a good girl, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m a good girl.” 

“Then thank your Daddy for what he gave you.” 

Your walls squeeze around nothing when you hear him utter his title. It refreshes your body with energy. 

“Thank you, Daddy.” You smile. 

Namjoon kisses you, rewarding you.

“Sit up.”

Changing the layout, it’s Namjoon who reclines halfway on the bed while you sit perched on your knees between his legs, cock in your face. He spurts the lube on his length and jerks himself off, his skin shining in the abrupt spillage of burnt-orange sunlight from the window. Watches your eyes round in astonishment similarly to the way they did earlier when you had gazed upon the glitter swarming around you. 

He nods at you, giving you the green light, and you sheathe his girth into the tightness of your squished tits. You may start a face pace from the get go, fucking him into oblivion, but all Namjoon sees is the whites of your eyes, the glimmer, the pure enjoyment of what you’re doing while the rest of you is immersed in subdued late afternoon shadows. Sweat glistens on the planes of his face, dribbling down to the strained column of his neck.

It’s intense. So intense that he can’t vocally react. 

Precum appears once more on his mushroom, displaying his arousal, and you slurp it up, the braid coming undone—your hair falling around you like a curtain. 

It’s brutal. It’s wet. 

Namjoon gathers your hair to the side in a makeshift ponytail and leans over to be closer to you. Needs you like this. Feels his relief catching up to him the more effort you put in, the more you stick out your tongue to flick at that sensitive part of him whenever you can. 

“Want your come. So bad. Want it all over me,” you whisper, and that’s it for him. 

“Say please,” he murmurs, and it’s barely a sound, but you hear him. 

“Please, Daddy, come for me.” 

Pulling your hands away, Namjoon takes charge. Fucks your tits in frenzy, your hair, now half dry, tickling your skin. With his thumbs, he stimulates your nipples to coax those little sounds of yours and—

“Play with your pussy,” he commands. “But don’t come. Tease yourself like you teased Daddy.”

The relief on your face inches him closer to his. He hears the wetness as you dip a finger in, your walls sucking it in. He hears your breath get stuck in your throat. The slow crescendo of your moans. Suddenly, he hears himself too. 

Whiny, desperate, so unlike himself.

It’s a fortress of safety, his forehead on top of yours. His nose bumping against yours. Open mouth ghosting over the sounds of your well-deserved pleasure. It’s a safe place for him to come in.  

And he does. 

Ropes upon ropes of come color you ivory white, color you clean. The reversal of a coloring book—changing the lines, changing the scheme, changing your life. 

You milk him dry, your pussy long forgotten. Milk him until he pushes you away, chest heaving, unable to catch his breath. You just watch him, his seed hot on your chest. Glittery. And not just there. On your neck, on your chin, in the wavy strands of your hair. 

You’re in awe of him. You can see the pressure leaving him like a ghost slinking out of the window. 

Namjoon takes off his glasses. With two fingers, he collects as much of his essence as he can and plunges them into your mouth. The other hand rests on the crook of your neck, thumb protectively over your throat. “Swallow.”

Not for long. Namjoon throws you on the bed. Doesn’t waste time.

He laps up your pussy, clit to hole, sucking your labia into his mouth. He does it again, but this time he travels a bit further. Clit, hole, ass. Tongue flat. Your screams are muffled by the rumpled bedsheet you grip.

Going back to your leaking hole, he circles the flesh before he dips the tongue in. Wraps his arms around your ass to control your squirming, feeling the dip of your spine as the sunlight kisses it. Dust particles spiral in the air—Namjoon sees it. The dark grey curtain keeping half of the world shrouded in dimness while the other illuminated, a picture cut in a heart shape due to the deliciousness of your ass. 

Fuck, Namjoon longs to play with it again. 

He spits on it, rubbing the saliva around it before he slides his tongue back into your wet hole. Says hello to it—long time no see—teases it, before he dips his thumb in. You arch your back even more, welcoming the intrusion, and Namjoon kisses your pussy lips as a thank you. He quivers with the craving to fuck you right there in your ass, but knows better than to do it. You’re not ready for it. 

Spreading you more open, while keeping his thumb there in that sweet place, he begins to focus on your poor little clit. Swirls his tongue around it firmly, sucking it until your back trembles—goes up and down like a seesaw. The kisses he leaves there are obscene, loud, full of thankfulness that he gets to play with you. Full of love for you that he burns bright with—that propels him to flick his tongue harder. And full of joy that his stress is gone. Joy that you’ve been the helper unscrewing the steel body of heaviness off of his because, as of now, his bones feel lighter.

“You’re so good for me.” He smacks his lips against your cunt. “Fucking Daddy like that when he needed you.” 

Vigorously, he rubs his face against you, shaking his head from side to side. You stretch your fingers behind you and helplessly grip the back of your thighs. Namjoon catches one of your hands, holds it with his free four fingers, sucking your clit. 

“Thank you, baby,” he whispers, withdrawing to pay attention to your other hole, missing it. Abuses it once he spits on it, eating it, dipping his tongue in with ease since he stretched you. Fucks you there in the only way he can. 

“Wanna come?” he asks and as he waits for your answer, he goes lower to drink your freshness, not letting a drop go to waste. 

You’ve lost your voice screaming. “Yes, Daddy, please. I can’t hold it in anymore. Please, let me come,” you croak. 

Namjoon makes a sound of appreciation, proud of you for holding out for so long without saying anything.

“I think you can,” he says. Stuffs a finger into your dripping hole and lets you adjust for a moment. Adds another. “I think you can hold it while I count to ten.” 

His digits pump into you slowly. Kneeling by your side, he turns your head so you can see him, twisting your body into the position he wants. The curve of your back is so beautiful in his sight that he can’t help but run his free hand over the route that your spine has become. The route he wants to plant kisses on like flowers of various colors, adding to the coloring book, erasing the old. 

And he does. Begins at the nape of your neck. Picks up the speed.

“One.” 

You cry out. First before your tears rush out, pooling in your waterline. You clench your whole body in naive hope it would stall the orgasm, but it quickens it, squeezing his fingers in, so you relax your muscles. 

“Two.” 

A kiss to the first round protrusion of your spine. Shifting your weight to your shoulder, you take his cock into your hand. 

“Three.”

The middle of your shoulder blades. You hear your wetness oozing out of you, the relief prowling closer. You whine and Namjoon understands.

“Hold it or I’ll stop,” he whispers. “I can feel your pussy squeezing around my fingers. Relax.” 

You match your pace with his. Namjoon begins to pant. You feel his hot, heavy breath beneath your shoulder blades. 

“Six.” 

Ass shaking from the force, he jackhammers into you. Pulls out for a moment to spank you, a merciful gesture, before he’s back in. Leaves a wet fingerprint on your skin.

“Eight.”

The last protrusion of your spine. You silence your moans by pressing your hand against your mouth because they bring you closer to your orgasm, however Namjoon yanks your arm away. 

“Make those pretty sounds for me, come on,” he huffs, kissing both of those dimples on your back. “Ten. Come. Come for Daddy. Come all over his hand.”

And you do.

It’s a paradise, the heat closing in on you. The loss of hearing, the muted ringing, resembling the flap of a bird’s wing. The loss of surroundings as you’re momentarily transported somewhere entirely else. A gilded illustration, perhaps a lively projection. Something, somewhere, where all is good. The orgasm rips through you and the repetitive echo of his name leaving your mouth is what brings you back. Away from the storybook into a brand new coloring book.

Namjoon strokes your hair. 

He holds you in his arms, but something sticks you uncomfortably together. You peel yourself off of him and cringe. Strings upon strings of his come, gleaming with speckles of glitter, do not want you to leave. You sit on his thighs, resting your palms on his chest. 

He kisses you. “Are you okay?”

You nod with droopy eyelids. 

He carries you into the shower and makes a way for all colors of the rainbow to perfuse your body. To create a new storyline for the day, for the week, for the month. Reds and pinks show their faces first in the steam, and even though Namjoon is glad to see them, he looks forward to meeting the rest. To learning their objectives so he can fulfill them. 

Grabbing the yellow book on the way back to the bedroom, Namjoon makes himself comfortable beside you. Is careful not to touch your face out of habit because you have a face mask on; careful not to bump into you either because you have a plate of mozzarella and sliced tomatoes on your lap. He kisses your hair, though. Doesn’t have the strength to fight internally—grabs your jawline and ever so slowly and heedfully, he kisses you, fingers finding the first chapter unwittingly. 

“When Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from troubled dreams, he found himself changed into a monstrous cockroach in his bed.” 

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

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[impale-me-radio-daddy]

The Lookalike (Epilogue, Acknowledgments and Requests)

☒ Summary: The first thing you remembered after your death was an argument. “No, this isn’t one of my fucking sluts.” The man behind you exhaled, frustrated. “This is a present for you. Something to help you work through your Alastor fixation.” You awakened in Hell as the near-spitting image of a certain infamous radio host. Unfortunately for you, you immediately fell into the clutches of his nemesis, before stumbling into the arms of the Radio Demon himself. A whole lot of fucking later, you became the catalyst for something resembling a reconciliation, and now you're back in the TV Demon's private quarters with both Vox and Alastor, hung over and sore. 

☒ Warnings: hermaphrodite!reader, deer!reader, they/them pronouns used, explicit sexual content, Vox X reader, Alastor X reader, Vox X Alastor, reader is in Hell for a reason, Valentino, canon typical scenarios.

☒ Series Links: Now completed! Part I Part2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 6 BONUS SCENE Part 7 Part 8 Part 9

The thing about Hell was that your internal body clock woke you after only a couple hours of sleep, just enough of the alcohol out of your system that your head throbbed and the rich bittersweet taste of last night’s whiskey had been transmuted with the alchemy of the morning after, the interior of your mouth now tasting of rancid orange peel and dirt. You lay splayed across the couch, Alastor’s tailcoat covering your nakedness, its red unmarred by the blood it had soaked up, your head in Alastor’s lap, your hooves in Vox’s lap.

Consciousness brought with it the awareness of the various injuries you had acquired, the fullness of your bladder, and the generalized muscular ache that was probably from all the wall-climbing you’d done. You were also filthy, your whole body faintly sticky like a budding rhododendron. You moved to get up, but found Alastor’s arm around you.

“-very dear to me,” mumbled Alastor, the radio filter almost entirely missing from his hoarse, sleepy voice, and his claws wrapped around your shoulder, hard.

“Darling. I have to piss,” you croaked, stroking Alastor’s fingers, and he gave a noise of irritation, his red eyes opening a fraction, but his grip loosened and you pulled yourself free.

Brushing away Alastor’s shadow’s hand as it snagged at your hoof, you staggered naked across Vox’s small living space, to where you remembered the bathroom to be, and took a piss that felt like it lasted at least a minute and a half, your head throbbing all the while. The things that Vox had brought for you during your short stay were still there; the little blue toothbrush, the showercap with room for your ears, the robe.

You brushed your teeth, drank several cups of water from the tap, and ate a Tylenol before grabbing the bottle of deer shampoo from the cabinet and stepping into the shower.

Vox’s shower was large, enough to comfortably fit three or more people, the flooring some kind of expensive looking stone tiling that was probably fiendishly difficult to get blood out of, and the showerheads set at chest height. You hesitated at the shower controls- which button turned the water on, again?

“You, uh- you want some help with that?” Vox stood at the entryway to the shower, wearing only pants and looking pretty much exactly like you felt.

“Sure,” you sighed, not really surprised when Vox stripped off the rest of the way and stepped into the space with you.

A gesture from him was all it took for the water to start running, no uncomfortably hot or cold initial flow but something close to body temperature. You stepped into the stream, sighing as it hit you, the water swirling a brownish color around your feet as it began to wash away the blood that had caked onto your skin.

“Temperature?” Vox asked, stepping closer.

“Warmer,” you said, an involuntary noise in your throat as Vox made it so. It stung the lacerations on your back, the small wounds on your hips and thighs, the scrapes that Alastor’s teeth had made on your neck.

“You like that?” Vox asked.

“Warmer,” you repeated, and the temperature rose to something crueler, enough that steam rose as it hit your skin, a truly scouring sort of heat. You felt your soreness recede, a little of the tension in your shoulders relaxing. “There,” you said, content to stand under the water for a few moments before uncapping the shampoo you had brought in with you.

“Let me?” Vox asked, and there was a little of the Vox who had sat in the armchair in your bedroom in his voice, pleading. You handed him the bottle, and he unhooked a second showerhead from the wall and turned it on, wetting your hair with a trickle of warm water before he lathered shampoo between his palms. It was strange; anyone else save Alastor and you might’ve had second thoughts, but Vox had had you last night, quivering and vulnerable in his hands, so you had no qualms turning your back to him.

Vox’s hands in your hair were a gift. You stood under the stream of near-scalding water as he drew close, his fingers running from the back of your neck and up, fingers parting your hair, massaging the lather into your skull. You groaned low as he worked the base of each ear, his body pressing closer to your back. He was hard, his cock brushing up against your tail and the small of your back, but there was no threat to it, no intent beyond simple closeness.

“That good, eh?” he asked, as you gave another appreciative grunt, and you braced yourself against the wall to avoid melting completely under the touch.

“You’re making me forget about my headache,” you said, which was rewarded by Vox pressing his fingers more firmly against your skull, more head massage than shampoo application. “Don’t you have things to do?”

“It is five fuckin’ thirty am,” said Vox, his voice thick and hoarse, and he leaned into you, his chest pressing warm against your narrow back, his erection squashing temptingly against the meat of your ass. “I’m all yours, baby deer.”

It would be so easy to let him fuck you like this- even as hungover as he clearly was, he was strong enough to lift you against the wall of the shower and fuck you against it until you were whimpering and quivering, your orgasm smoothing the edges of this rough and difficult morning. It would feel good.

But no. No fucking. Only Vox’s soapy hands in your hair, rubbing your back-tilted ears until you wanted to purr, his thumbs experimental around the base of your antlers. He told you to close your eyes before he raised the spare showerhead to rinse you off, the water dark, even the soap bubbles brownish as the blood was sluiced away. Vox repeated the process twice more before the water ran clear, finger combing your hair to check for errant viscera.

“I don’t need you to wash my back for me, you know,” you said, as Vox put the shampoo aside and reached for the bodywash.

“Course you don’t,” he said, eyes narrowed, and for a second his grin reminded you of Alastor’s. “But you fuckin’ like it, don’t you? You like my hands-” he said, rubbing soap into your flank, then tracing a line down, over your thigh. “My mouth.”

You opened one eye. “I hope you’re not proposing to lick me clean.”

The glazed expression on Vox’s face, along with the way his antennae flopped, told you that yes, yes he would very much like that, his gaze drifting to between your thighs, the faint trickle of Alastor’s cum mixed with his as it leaked out of you and mixed with the water from the shower.

Vox swallowed. “Please,” he groaned. “Fuck, please, baby deer. Just a little. Don’t make me fuckin’ beg.”

“I’m not making you do anything, Vox,” you said, a sidelong look at him. The steam from the shower was fogging his screen, droplets of the splashback running down the front of his wide face like sweat, and his eyes were wide. “You’re begging of your own accord.”

You put your palm on Vox’s grey-skinned shoulder and pushed him down. He sank to his knees, obedient, the water on your back slowing to a trickle, still under his control. His eyes weren’t hearts but they might as well have been with the expression he made as he reached out to touch your thighs, pulling his face close to your legs, his long blue tongue extending.

Vox’s tongue against wet skin was a new sensation; a crackling pressure that conducted over a wider area than his tongue touched as he lapped blissfully at the rivulets of diluted cum that ran out of you. You shivered, and breathed in as you watched him eat, running a hand over the top of his screen, your claws gentle on the fragile antennae that sprouted from it.

Vox whimpered as you held the tip of his antennae between thumb and fingertip, and it occurred to you, belatedly, that maybe these were analogous to antlers for him. You stopped touching them, returning to stroking his frame. His hand found yours, your fingers twining, and you knew that if you asked him he would fuck you with his tongue, lap every last drop of Alastor’s seed from your aching cunt and drink it down like a man starved.

“Please-” he whined, looking up at you between strokes of his tongue.

“You know,” you said, smiling to yourself. “Alastor has very sharp hearing, and he was mostly awake when I got up. He can definitely hear us right now.” You paused to take a breath as you felt Vox freeze, his tongue still on your thigh. “He definitely heard you begging me to let you lick his cum from my legs.”

Vox’s eyes fluttered closed, a low groan in his throat. “Fuck.”

“Tell me,” you said, pushing him a little as his tongue swept up your leg, perilously close to your sex. “Tell me what you’re begging for now.”

Vox’s voice came as a stream of consciousness as you squeezed the top of his screen, hard enough that colors distorted around the pads of your fingers, his breath in gasps as he tasted you between each word, a prayer to you, a prayer to Alastor. “Fuck, yes, please, I fucking want it, oh god, fucking god, let me, let me, please please, let me taste him. I wanna taste him in your pussy, oh god.” He swallowed, whimpering, cock finding friction against your leg, and he trembled. “God-” Vox’s eyes sprang open as he came, his body jerking as he shot his load over your hooves. “Fuck-” he breathed, softly, his screen tilting against your thigh.

You were gentle with him as you pulled him to his feet, letting him lean against you as he came down from his high. You rubbed his back, his shoulders, and the edges of his screen, eliciting soft groans from him, and he nudged his face into your shoulder before you grabbed the soap and started to lather it into his chest.

As if realizing where he was, Vox started the water running at full pressure again. When you had finished him he washed your back for you without complaint, merely a pleading look in his eyes as he scrubbed you down, the runoff going from dark brown to pink as the ablution opened a few of your newer injuries, his hands gentle enough on you to make you sigh and forget your hangover for another few seconds.

When you emerged from the bathroom, toweled dry and dressed in the monogrammed robe Vox had kept for you, you felt almost alive.

“You were in there a while,” Alastor commented from the couch as you emerged, one eye opening, his voice rough and crackling like old vinyl.

“You didn’t want to join us?” you asked, squeezing a little more moisture from your hair.

Alastor shrugged, his lips a tiny smirk. “You seemed to have everything under control,” he said, a statement not lost on Vox, who did not meet his eyes.

Vox’s arm was protective round your waist, or perhaps simply clingy, as the three of you proceeded out of his quarters and into the living area he shared with the other members of his coterie. You sat at the breakfast bar as Vox operated what was perhaps the most complicated coffee machine you had ever seen. Alastor took a seat at the breakfast bar too, his tailcoat on, overdressed compared to you in a robe and Vox in his lounge pants and t-shirt. Alastor’s shadow looked more hung over than he was, sulking in a pool by his feet and clutching its head. Vox seemed to have some level of sympathy for his condition, because he turned to Alastor first.

“So, Al, you want anything? This baby makes a mean fuckin’ macchiato, I’ll tell you that much. We’ve got three types of coffee, too, a Columbian-”

“Coffee,” said Alastor, a grinding edge of almost mechanical stress to his voice. “Make me a coffee.”

Vox sighed. “Americano it is,” he said, setting the machine running with a cheerful beep as he manipulated his way through the menus.

Alastor was sniffing his americano and the expensive looking machine was grinding something in its innards when the door on the lower level opened and a small group of people came in, clearly still mid revelry, brightly colored plastic drink containers in hand. You recognized one of them as the man who had dumped you on Vox’s bedroom floor on your first night in Hell, dressed to the nines in patent leather thigh high boots and a naked effect body-stocking with red sequins that barely covered the essentials. Valentino.

“Ah.” Vox froze with one hand on the coffee machine. “Fuck.”

“Vox?” Valentino’s tone was disbelieving, and he sashayed up the stairs to the breakfast bar to stare at the three of you, lowering his pink glasses dramatically. “What the fuck is this?”

“Val.” Vox hopped the breakfast bar with surprising alacrity, placing himself bodily between you and Valentino, his hands up in a placating gesture. It was unnecessary, all things considered, but sexy. “I can explain.”

Alastor, meanwhile, lowered his ears and hid his face behind his fuck Alastor mug, clearly uncomfortable at being witnessed in Vox’s residence at such an early hour.

“So this is where you’ve been?” Valentino gesticulated. “You don’t take my calls, you say you don’t wanna party with me, all so you can stay home and jerk off onto your pile of Alastor lookalikes?” He turned to Alastor, the real Alastor, his eyes squinting behind his pink glasses. “Where did you even get this one? He looks like shit!”

“Gotta agree with you there,” you deadpanned. “Not a word of English either.”

“Bonjou,” said Alastor, gamely, his voice gruff with the full impact of his night of drinking, his radio filter completely absent.

“You see?” Valentino waved. “You want more Alastors, chulo, you come to me. None of this amateur hour carajo.” He shook his head. “Me and these professionals are going to my room.”

“Val, wait-” Vox called, but Valentino was already on his way out. He stopped, perhaps realizing the futility of it, and rubbed the front of his face with his hand. “Fuck.”

“Is that-” you watched Valentino walk out, shooing the squad of sex workers through the door ahead of him so that he could slam it. “-is that gonna be okay?”

“Fuck knows.” Vox’s shoulders sank, and he walked back to the coffee machine. “It’s hard to tell what he wants sometimes. I mean, first he gives me you, then he’s pissy I’m spending time with you. Does he want me to chase after him? I don’t fucking know anymore.” The machine finished making your drink, and Vox picked it up, vanishing in electricity and arcing to appear behind you. “I know what you want, though,” he purred, his face close enough to your back that the hairs on your neck stood on end, and pushed your coffee in front of you.

You turned your head to grin at him, eyes half-lidded. “A full and unredacted list of the members of my fanclub still extant in Hell?”

“Fuck.” Vox’s expression soured, and he leaned back. “You're all business, aren't you? You know, I preferred it when you were pretending to be stupid.”

“And I preferred it when you had your tongue up my ass,” you said, enjoying the instant of startlement and arousal that flashed across his screen, Alastor smirking into his cup of coffee behind him. “I guess we’re just not our best selves this morning.”

“I liked that too, but I can't just hand you those names, baby deer,” said Vox, leaning on the breakfast bar beside you. “That's not how business works around here. It's about trust.”

“He’s lying,” Alastor interjected, mildly. “He could give you whatever it is you’re talking about, he just doesn’t want to.”

“Oh, butt out, Al,” groused Vox. “I’m not lying. There’s a cost.”

“One which you could well afford to waive,” said Alastor, smiling. “Given our situation.”

“Yeah, and what situation is that?” Vox shot.

He was unprepared as Alastor stood, closing the distance between them and seizing Vox by the front of his shirt, bringing their faces close, not quite touching, but close enough to kiss, or bite. Vox made a noise in his throat, and Alastor grinned, violence in his teeth.

“If you want this to continue,” said Alastor, his voice low menace. “You’re going to have to give our delightful young friend here everything they want. I don’t care what it is, I don’t care what it costs you. Everything.”

“Fuck,” Vox croaked, his eyes wide.

“Well?” said Alastor. “Do we have a deal?”

“This isn’t fair, Al.”

Alastor’s grin was steady. “These things rarely are. Yes or no, old pal?”

“Shit, I’m such a fucking idiot.” Vox closed his eyes. “Yes.”

Alastor set Vox down gently, a sly wink to you as he did so, then stalked his way over to you, taking a small sip from your coffee cup before winding an arm around your waist and burying his face in your hair.

Vox looked at the both of you with something approaching dismay. “He likes you way too much, baby deer,” he said, shaking his head. “Way, way too much.”

Alastor just laughed, his nose pressing against your neck.

The following list is all of the people without whom this work would not exist in its present form; who cheered for me, who reassured me, who pointed out where my phrasing was awkward, and all in all encouraged me to go the whole hog and not just the tip. Thank you for putting up with me and my incessant self-aggrandizing wank and telling me, each in your own way, that the dog exploded.

Bapple Fraugwinska Macabre Barbie Miggy Katethulu Rein Miz blue Molly Anne

The others in the discord server for whom I do not have an ao3 or tumblr account

Special thanks to Shunypie/Shunyhuny who drew fanart (holy shit I am still absolutely fucking floored by this, it's so beautiful)

My final acknowledgment goes to everyone else who read this and thought it was hot, love you guys. Your comments feed me, your likes sustain me.

Though my planned procession of porn is past its climax, I am still open to penning vignettes about the lookalike and set in the lookalike’s timeline. If you have an idea or request, please post a comment here, or if you fancy remaining anonymous, you can use my inbox at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/impale-me-radio-daddy

Regretfully, I do not take commissions (I can’t think of an amount of money that would be worth the expression of confusion and fear from my accountant) so all requests will be undertaken at my own discretion.

Until next time, dear readers.

[synthetickitsune]

The8 (Seventeen) | Morning anxiety fluff | 0.9k

You knew you were fucked as soon as you woke up. Something didn't feel right - a sense of wrongness permeating everything. The darkness was thicker than it should be. The light from the outside seemed too red. It triggered something inside you that caused your mind to spiral. You knew you wouldn't fall asleep again. 

And that would be fine. You could handle getting through the day sleep deprived, having years of experience at this point. But lying back down, you couldn't find a comfortable position and even as the sky became bright outside, you kept tossing and turning. Also fine. If your boyfriend wasn't as light of a sleeper as he is.

“Can’t sleep?” Minghao asks, barely awake, voice heavy and thick. It has this comforting heft to it - just as his arm that prods at your waist and sneaks under your body, wrapping around you and pulling you closer. 

“Yeah,” you sigh, “Too many thoughts. Sorry I woke you up.”

He hums, thoughtfully, and falls silent. You feel his breath on your skin, so even and calm you think he’s already asleep. Meanwhile, inside your head it’s the exact opposite. You pick out details from previous days, all the ifs that could go wrong, the tone someone used in a conversation. Outside, the sky shifts closer to different hues of blue with each passing minute when suddenly - darkness. 

The world goes black.

His hand is warm, and some deep brownish orange comes in lines between his fingers as he covers your eyes. You hear him move and feel the bed dip right behind you until your body is tilting and only stops when your back meets his chest.

“What-”

“Just listen to the birds sing,” he murmurs. There are birds outside, loud and noisy, but you can’t say that listening to them is what you wanna be doing. 

"Hao…" you whine. Your dismay for the exercise is clear in your voice.

"You let me blind you," he reprimands gently, "So trust me."

You do trust him. Even if you can’t see, you’d do anything he tells you - except apparently right now, except with something as simple as just being present in the moment. As if he could sense your reluctance, he disarms you by pressing his lips against the back of your neck.

“Shhhh,” he breathes and it sends shivers down your spine, “Do it for me, darling.”

You don’t dare roll your eyes even if he couldn’t see it anyway. Instead you close them and try to do as he says. Now that you’re focused, you can hear a variety of bird voices.

It's almost like a conversation in a different language, a multitude of them, and usually you'd love it, would be excited by it, but right now you're defiantly infuriated by it. You can't even say why.

"Hear the birds sing," Hao whispers again, pulling you closer. That works much better - his voice and touch, "Hear the wind in the trees. Remember the one we saw yesterday?"

You nod, and despite yourself you smile. "Yeah. It was in full bloom. I haven't noticed before."

You feel his smile on your skin. Much better than listening to stupid birds.

"Then listen and imagine. The wind blowing past, carrying the petals all around. Can you hear the birds?"

Yes, you want to tell him, but I'd love to listen to you instead. Yet you don't, because you know he's tired and he needs to sleep as much as you do. So you listen again, and nod.

"What do they look like?" he asks, but you’re distracted by him nuzzling into your shoulder.

“I don’t know,” you say quicker than you can realize you’re snapping at him, and you’re immediately trying to make amends, “Sorry.”

“Just imagine,” fortunately, your boyfriend is a very patient man. 

Ashamed by your earlier outburst, you do imagine the birds behind the sounds. And doing so, you realize you know some of those birds. Like the tiny brown and gray one who just has to be the culprit behind the happy chirping. The majestic black birds who must be the ones cawing. And then-

“The sharp sound - that’s the one that used to sit on our kitchen window,” you say, receiving a hum and another kiss, “The one that stopped coming.”

You keep emotions out of your voice even though you’re admittedly still bitter about being abandoned without any good reason by a bird you thought liked your window. What did you do wrong? You left it alone, you were mindful of it, you even avoided your own kitchen when it sat there to let it rest. Sometimes you even left it seeds to snack on…

Before you realize, tension is melting away from your body as you remember the bird. The paranoid thoughts quieten down faced with wonder. Your mind drifts all over the place. You feel like you’re floating among the blue and the birds. 

You get startled when Hao’s chest vibrates with a chuckle. Still smiling, he kisses your shoulder. 

“Better?” he asks, softly, already falling asleep now that his mission’s accomplished. You snuggle further under the covers.

“Thank you,” you say, even though you really mean i love you. You have a feeling he knows anyway.

[fairy-heart-magic]

More Dragon Slayer Headcannons

Uhh holy shit the last one blew up like crazy, so here I guess have more dragon slayers being creepy.

Because they have more air in their lungs they can hold their breath for a stupidly ridiculous amount of time, they’re also excellent swimmers.

They have really dense bone structure but hollow air filled bones so they’re all extremely sturdy, they also have much denser muscles which leaves them unnaturally strong.

The more they use their dragon slayer magic, the more dragon like they become both in physical appearance and personality as over time it starts to slowly show up in their personalities, they become territorial and protective of what they deem to be ‘there’s’, they growl at people as a warning to back the fuck off, they bear their teeth as a sign of aggression, as for the physical their eyes will take on an unnatural glow, Natsu’s becoming orange like embers glowing in the darkness, Laxus’s become electric yellow, Gajeel’s become like brownish rust red and so on, their teeth become longer even the way they walk and carry themselves becomes more inhuman, they way they fight becomes like that of a beast only not wild, extremely intelligent and cunning to a frightening degree.

They naturally seek out their own element, almost like a honing instinct, Laxus tends to travel towards storms, while Natsu often travels as much as he can to hot places where fires are likely to start, Gajeel always visits a city’s junkyard, Rogue always finds his way to dark, pitch black caves while Sting always climbs to the highest sunniest peaks he can to bathe in the light, Wendy frequently visits high up or isolated mountains to be closer to the sky.

Dragon Force effects more than just their magic, it also effects their personality and they can become almost completely different people entirely retaining only their base most present thoughts from before hand with their instincts often telling them to do one thing only; defeat whatever enemy is in front of them.

They’re also in part nocturnal which is both inherited from their magic and because it was how they where raised, while it varied from dragon to dragon, most preferred to hunt and move at night-time due to the fact less humans where active at night and they could see perfectly well in the dark which made avoiding humans easier. Both Laxus and Erik are also semi-nocturnal because of this and most dragons slayers find it difficult to sleep at night as their brains are hard wired to be active during the period most humans are sleeping. The only acceptation to this is Sting who while he can use his magic in the dark, it doesn’t work nearly as well as it does in the day time.

They heal at an incredible fast rate, almost double the spend of a normal human. Though they can’t regrow limbs or anything like that, this incredible healing ability makes it easier to survive severe injuries and wounds. Laxus however using electricity can stimulate the cells in a particular area to heal even faster than other dragon slayers however overusing this technique leaves him severely exhausted and if he used it too much he’ll overload his entire nervous system and just collapse.

That’s about all I can think of for now, I hope you guys like them and feel free to use or reblog if you want.

[catsoupki]

CHP. FIVE | YOU'LL FALL IN LOVE ON YOUR OWN PACE (WITH MY LITTLE THINGS)

SUMMARY: Katsuki has settled into a routine-like dance with you ever since your debut as a hero. He takes care of you like harmonious clockwork, but as he peels layer after layer, he’s caught up with his own tantalising feelings when he finds your blood staining his hands. You teach him, slowly, of what it means to fall in love.

TAGS: pro hero au, fem reader, banter, hurt/comfort

CHAPTER LENGTH: 1,288 | SERIES MASTERLIST

When you wake up, the sight before you is beyond gorgeous. 

Last night, plagued by the heavy sleepiness in the afterglow of sex, you two had tumbled onto the bed before he had the chance to shut the curtains. Now, rays of golden sunlight stroke themselves across Katsuki’s face meekly, as if they’ve afraid of being grazed by the sharp corners of his visage. The ash blond of his hair becomes sandy in colour, edges rounded as he stirs in his sleep. You breathe, and you get lungs full of him— woody caramel sweetness. 

You fight the urge to hold his face with all your might, so much so that your concentration wakes him from his slumber. He looks domestic in the way he slowly blinks to get the drowsiness out of his eyes, eyelids barely staying open as his pupils begin to focus, and you see the moment everything registers in his head, the memories flowing from last night and the view in front of him right now clicking— and he lets his eyes widen and his lips part, before yawning and rolling into the bed again, with you in his inescapable hold. 

Getting up proves to be difficult after that, only with the umpteenth ringing of your alarms that you finally decide it’s time to leave the safe haven and begin your day. 

You can tell he’s in a chirpy mood, despite not being a morning person. The way he shuffles from hallway to bathroom and back, the way he slips on his clothes, they’re all done with less aggression. 

You also cannot deny that your mood has been lifted from the slight change in routine. Your morning run was shorter— two minutes faster than your usual time; when you had your shower at the agency, the cold water hit your back more pleasantly; usually insufferable sidekicks became more compliant, easier to deal with. 

An hour before your first patrol, your manager stalks into your office with a cheshire grin, demanding you to tell her every little detail of last night’s rendezvous with the Nation’s favourite hero. You put up little fight, though you knew you’d tell her someday anyway, you comply and begin the retelling of your favourite story, how careful he had held you in his palms, how loving he had been shampooing your hair, and all the other moments in between that are still burned into your mind as clear as day. 

Your work goes by in a breeze. You find that little inconveniences in your life can be smoothed over by imagining how Katsuki looks when he wakes up, but recalling might be a better word. 

It’s six o’clock, you’re packing up and getting ready to leave the office, your glass desk is wiped clean, shreds of paper thrown away. The door knob is cool when you hold it, you have your earphones in your pocket, for when you finish greeting the passionate interns working overtime out in the hall with tight-lipped smiles. 

The evening sun is particularly orange when it hits the tall potted plants, giving the sacramento leaves a brownish shine; the off-white walls look old, like they’ve already been filled with memories of past owners. When you walk through the corridors and lobbies, you’re thankful that you haven't lost your quirk, your heartbeat, nor your Katsuki. Maybe a few months back, the disappearances of these everyday occurrences wouldn’t cross your mind, they’re regular constants in your life that have made their markings on you— made you a mosaic of them. It strikes you that just as Magnesium is a metal, death is always walking next to you, no matter where you go, he’ll be stepping with you when you cross the road, when you go on the balcony, and when you cook dinner. An inescapable truth that cannot be denied by anyone, not even the most powerful parts of society. 

So when you leave the door of your agency and see a familiar-looking Lexus parked on the side of the road, with that unruly bunch of blond hair that you’ve found yourself too enraptured by, your smile is uncontrollably vehement. 

When Katsuki drives you home, it’s done without a word. You know this path by turn, every street name and every corner is familiar, you know that he’ll strum his fingers against the steering wheel aimlessly while he waits for the red lights to turn green, and when he pulls into his penthouse building’s parking lot, you know that the monthly cost is roughly ¥70000 and that his assistant pays it on the first day of each month. 

You know him, so you’re not surprised when he opens the door for you, his house unfurled and vulnerable in the dimming golden rays, laid bare in front of you, letting you take in all its glory when it’s still daytime, and similarly, you do the same to him, Katsuki. 

You think he had just finished showering before he came to pick you up, the way his hair sticks up is funny-looking, wild in every sense of the word, when he walks past you to grab your bags and shoes to set them down, the woody scent trails after him. You wonder whether you look awkward and out of place, unmoving in the entry with your hands at your sides, covered in fabrics that are dark in an apartment that is warm and next to a person who is bright. 

He doesn’t let you think far, he soon takes your hand in his, and gently leads you to his living room, where your feet drag and thump on the carpet in dull thuds. He leaves you, awkward and out of place, in the middle of the room, in front of the TV and next to the signed All Might poster he framed, he walks over to the— oh, the record player you gave him for his first ‘Hero of the Year’ award. It’s placed neatly on a dark wooden stand, and under it are stacks of vinyls, from local bands to overseas artists that you introduced to him, he clicks it on and gravity takes you with both hands as you put one foot in front of another, stumbling along the rhythm of music. 

Bakugou has always been a hummer, but when he sings to you for the first time tonight, it’s thick and heavy, laced with something he can’t say aloud, it sounds a lot like a confession that soothes over you like a second skin.

In a few, dinner will be served, you two will eat shoulder to shoulder with a quiet chatter, and in between are the whispers and soft spoken words, as if there’s someone eavesdropping behind you, he’ll lean closer towards you as the night settles in, drowsiness and exhaustion will begin to creep onto the way he speaks and into the way he looks at you with half-lidded eyes. 

In an hour, you’ll be hands deep into his sink, scrubbing hard at the dishes while he stands next to you with a torn rag in hand and with a dish rack to his right, he’ll take the two plates and the four chopsticks you hand him, then he’ll place them tidily into the rack, like you’ve been doing this for years— like harmonious clockwork. 

You’ll shower, then his fingers will tease and dance around yours under the sheets, you’ll feel for his callouses, the rock solid proof of his hard work, and you won’t be able to brush lotion onto them, but only snuggle your head closer and tighter and more intimately to his shoulder. 

He’ll learn to say I love you on his own terms, he’s got all the time in the world. 

[rishiguro]

47; “I’M SCARED”

“this doesn’t look so bad,” iwaizumi commented as he looked around the small room, “i’m almost tempted to say it looks comfortable”

“sure does,” you replied, rolling your eyes as you sat down on the bed again, gesturing him to sit down with you. “comfortable if you’re into these walls paired with these ugly orange-brownish curtains”

well, you certainly weren’t wrong. it wouldn’t have been his first choice either to combine these two colors together. he sat down next to you.

“it’s better than the blinding white ones though,” he remarked, shrugging slightly as he thought about the sterile rooms he spent way too much time in, “although i don’t know why anybody would choose this piss-yellow colour for the entire room”

you hummed und agreement, allowing your head to fall onto iwaizumi’s shoulder.

“i can’t even open the windows fully,” you mumbled.

you frowned as he chuckled, making your head bounce slightly on his shoulder. “i don’t think they would want you to escape” he softly pat your head before turning his and pressing a kiss on your scalp.

“why not? i would come back,“ you said.

your boyfriend could only huff, not being to stop his lips curling upwards slightly. “sure you would”

“totally. or i don’t know, maybe i’d just jump out” immediately as you finished the sentence, iwaizumi flicked your forehead. “hey!”

“idiot,” he mumbled.

“no need to get violent,” you muttered as you rubbed your forehead, “i couldn’t leave you anyways, you’d be lost without me” lifting your head you grinned at him.

rolling his eyes at you, he smiled in return and hummed in agreement. afterwards he put his arm around your waist and lowered his head, softly pecking your shoulder before laying his head down.

he didn’t want to imagine losing you.

and yet, as fleeting as the thought may have been, he felt his chest ache.

“you can’t just leave me behind,“ he agreed with a low voice, reaching out to grab your hand. immediately he started playing with your fingers.

“i’m not planning to,” you declared, “i love you”

“i love you too,” iwaizumi hummed.

he swallowed quickly before speaking again, still looking down at your hands. “not just me, you know. there’s a bunch of people that do”

you furrowed your eyebrows. “is everything alright?”

he sighed before sitting up, turning to face you directly. “to be honest, that’s what i wanted to ask you,” he confessed, now taking both of your hands in his, “are you sure you’re alright?”

you could only blink at him confused for a few moments, not really understanding the sudden change in atmosphere. did you give him any reason to worry even more than he already did?

obviously you weren’t doing good by any means.

you were practically being ripped out of the comfort of your home, the one thing that has been consistent no matter at what point in your life you were and not just transferred to a hospital but to the palliative ward no less.

medically speaking, you had to be tended to to maintain your quality of life because currently it was impossible for you to do it yourself. and if that wasn’t enough, it could very well last till the end of your life.

who knows when that would be here too. if it was a few years away or right around the corner.

you had always known that sooner or later your life would end. you also knew that your life would end earlier than most people’s. you told yourself that this was alright and frankly, after a while you started to believe it.

or so you thought.

and yet here you were now.

you clenched your jaw. “no,” you confessed, looking away, “i’m scared, hajime. everything is happening too fast and i feel like i don’t have the time to process anything before more shit is happening”

without saying anything, iwaizumi pulled you closer to him, wrapping his strong arms around you.

his embraced felt warm, comforting.

like it was everything you needed and even more.

well, almost.

“we’re here for you, love,” he whispered to you softly, “as long as you’ll have us, we’ll be there. i’m right here with you. and so will ojiro, kita, the twins and suna”

at the mention of your friends’ names your heart grew heavy and you couldn’t stop yourself from shaking your head.

“they don’t even know, hajime,” you confessed in a hushed tone, “i haven’t spoken to them in days. i just couldn’t” tears started to slowly swell up in your eyes, leading you to shutting them close.

you wanted to tell them. you really did. when you got the news, then when they came over to your place, completely unaware that you wouldn’t be there just a day later and then when you first stepped into this room. and every day after.

yet you didn’t.

“i know, love. it’s okay”

“it’s not,” you replied immediately, “it’s not, they’re my friends, fuck, aran is my best friend, i’ve known him my entire life, he’s always been there for me, and yet i couldn’t fucking tell him!”

after just a few moments of silence you felt like you could collapse in his arms, whispering into his shirt. “i don’t even know if i want to tell him. or them”

iwaizumi didn’t reply, instead simply adjusted his hold on you, pulling you into his lap and pressing you to his chest.

for a while, the two of you simply stayed like this. you let yourself be comforted by his embrace, feeling his heart pound i’m his chest against yours, and how his shoulder moved slowly, compared to the rapid rise and fall of yours.

“hajime, do you think i should?” you looked up at him and immediately met his warm eyes. when he didn’t answer, you called his name out again.

“i know they’re worried,” he finally said, his lips twitching. you averted his gaze in shame, clenching your jaw.

you never wanted them to worry. childishly, you had hoped that they wouldn’t worry and just carry on with their lives. maybe not go as far as forget about you, but at least distancing themselves enough from you so the pain of the inevitable wouldn’t hurt as much.

naturally, you knew better. but staying in that illusion felt so much more comfortable than confronting the truth.

“i’m not going to tell you what to do,” iwaizumi spoke again, still looking at you with the very same loving and understanding eyes, “but i know that they want to talk to you, whenever you’re ready to talk to them”

evanescent

/ɛvəˈnɛs(ə)nt,iːvəˈnɛs(ə)nt/ — “soon passing out of sight, memory, or existence; quickly fading or disappearing.”

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taglist: @not-another-ackerman @midnight-drives-with-sunarin @bloombb @jewlmin @tia827 @namyari @fuckyouwhotookmyname @yuminako @megumuro @saiewithakatana @sukunasrealgf @julia-1901 @basically-an-anime-stan-acct

[celsfandomrave]

Ted Lasso Costume Deep Dive

I asked if anyone would be interested if I did a deep dive analysis into the Costume Design of Ted Lasso and people seemed to be very interested!

I work as what is called a Stitcher for opera and theatrical costumes which means I am one of the people who sews the costumes you see people wearing on stage. I am not a costume designer and I have never worked in TV. That said, many of the people I work with have worked in TV and I work with costume designers everyday, so I like to think I have a relatively realistic idea of what choices are intentional and what are not. This is my costume design degree put to use.

Part 1: Ted Lasso

Ted has simultaneously the most and least interesting costume design in the show so let’s talk about it and why I am freaking out about Ted’s orange shirt in Sunflowers.

With only very few exceptions here is a list of colors Ted wears:

White

Beige

Grey

Blue (Navy, Light Medium)

IF Ted wears a suit if will be black with a white shirt and a red tie for special occassions or a black tie for funerals

IF Ted is seen in his sleepwear it will be a pair of grey joggers with either a blue shirt, a black “Joe Arthur” T-shirt, or a Kansas City T-Shirt

IF Ted is seen at training or around the club just before or after he will be wearing some combination of (depending on weather):

White or grey polo shirt

Navy Blue Richmond Track Pants

Nav Blue Richmond Track Jacket

Orange Tinted Aviators

White Richmond Visor

On very rare occassions Ted will wear a RED POLO SHIRT. This is outside of Ted’s normal uniform.

The first time we see this shirt in Season 1 Episode 6, Ted is taking off his wedding ring. This immediately establishes that red polo means something is off in Ted’s world, even if it’s something minor. He might wear this shirt more than we actually see in the show but I would think of this as the shirt he wears if he hasn’t had time to do laundry.

This rule continues

Season 2 Episode 2

Ted is dealing with the fact that Dr. Feldstone is staying and the dinamics at the club are changing.

Season 2 Episode 3

Worn as Led Tasso. As though I needed  help proving this meant something was off.

Season 2 Episode 6

When he wears the shirt early in the episode it seems like there is very little going on with him, everything is fine. So why do we get red shirt Ted? and then he gets a panic attack in the middle of a game. That red shirt was the only indication that something was wrong.

Season 3 Episode 5

The Team are in a losing streak following the game with West Ham. He is also wearing it when he finds out about the bullying situation with Henry.

Other exceptions to the rule that I’m not reading too much into, due to them not being quite as noticeable:

Season 2 Episode 5

Ted wears this brownish yellow sweatshirt under his Navy Richmond jacket. I will let this slide because it is mostly covered by the jacket and it is very cold and snowy during this episode.

Season 3 Episode 1

Ted wears a green sweater dropping off his son at the airport. The green doesn’t stand out as much as the red or orange shirt do. I do think this is sort of an indication that we are getting a Ted in season 3 who branches out a little bit more.

Season 3 Episode 3

Ted wears a maroon sweater with a pocket to Sam’s restaurant. Notably, we have seen this sweater in Navy previously. Ted is branching out in colors but only when it is a style he knows he likes. This is also the same style as the orange shirt.

And now SEASON 3 EPISODE 6 he shows up in ORANGE out of nowhere.

and hopefully you understand why I am freaking out enough to do a breakdown of the whole show.

A few things I’d like to note.

The fact that Ted has a reasonably constrained wardrobe doesn’t really surprise me. The way these sorts of shows tend to work is that they will shop for a character’s closet. Even Keeley repeats, if not whole outfits, pieces of them at times. Ted is not the most fashion forward guy, it makes sense that he has a relatively short number of outfits. That said, Coach beard has much more variated style than Ted.

In the episode, what does the Orange shirt tie Ted to?

To me, the most obvious answer to this is actually Colin. Yes, you could argue that he is being tied to to Sunflower painting, maybe to the tea, maybe to the warm colors or the houseboat but if you are going to argue any of those, Colin is being tied to the same thing. I could definitely see both Ted and Colin being tied to the sunflowers. We are definitely meant to compare Ted to Van Gogh in the museum seen. Both are Inspiring creative people who are trying to get past their “inner demons”. Perhaps we are supposed to see that Colin is also one of these people or perhaps it is meant to connect Ted’s journey with Colin’s sexuality storyline. I genuinely don’t know the answer, but Ted’s costume tells me that something is going on.

Stay tuned for future parts where I will reveal which 2 characters are wearing the same distinctive T-shirt and have a similar freak out about Rebecca breaking all of her clothing rules.

Part 2

[aroeddiediaz]

Fuck it Friday

Tagged by @lemonzestywrites

Chris is near a ring of brownish-orange mushrooms when sudden bright lights and a high pitched shouting noise startles him. He yelps and stumbles backwards, just barely avoiding stepping on the mushrooms. He winds up standing inside the ring of mushrooms, his crutches skittering on the muddy ground.

Chris blames the sudden commotion and confusion for instinctively swinging his crutch when something dark jumps past him. He misses, or maybe it swerves to avoid him, and the fuzzy dark blur resolves into a mangy, underfed looking black cat, perched on a stump as dignified as a creature as dirty and matted as that could be. It gives him what he can only imagine is a disdainful look

The light glare stops blinding him, and now Chris can see a small figure on a bike, whooping as he does a donut before skidding to a stop, kicking up mud and mulch. He’s got a weird bike helmet on, black and spiky with a mask that looks like it might have come from a welder’s shop. He’s wearing a long black coat that’s got strips of colorful duct tape slapped on like patches, splattered with mud.

The mask flips up, and Chris quickly changes his assumptions. She’s a girl, actually, with a freckly, acne-ridden face and frizzy bangs peeking out from beneath her helmet.

“You’re new,” the girl declares.

@cal-daisies-and-briars @aspecbuddie @pirrusstuff @jesuisici33 @steadfastsaturnsrings @your-catfish-friend @inkmortal-trash389 @evanbegins @wildlife4life @eddiebabygirldiaz @diazsdimples @epicbuddieficrecs @kitteneddiediaz @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @coatedpanda16 @nicotinewrites @estheticpotaeto @babytrapperdiaz @snowviolettwhite @wikiangela @jesuiscenseedormir @made-ofmemories @asexual-fandom-queen

[writeshite]

can u write a homelander x male reader, I'd prefer fluff but I dont really care. (Noone writes x male readers😭)

John wakes up to a second heartbeat. His soulmate’s guide is six years overdue, and the cuddliest, friendliest dog he’s ever met, a dark brownish-red golden retriever - John calls him Scout. Dr. Vogelbaum is surprised - firstly, that the universe gave John a soulmate, and secondly, that a dog managed to trot its way into a secure location with little effort - it takes three dead scientists before they realize Scout is here to stay. Vought hates Scout until he can make a profit. Some mediocre photographer snaps a photo of John carrying Scout after he’d run through the mud; it’s on the internet in under an hour and the highest trending photo in the United States by dinnertime.

‘Everything you need to know about Homelander’s soulmate.’

‘13 facts about golden retriever guides, and what that can tell you about Homelander’s soulmate.’

‘How to get guides to choose you.’

The internet dissolves into a mess overnight, and the subject of John’s soulmate is trending globally; the week before Valentine’s Day is his soulmate tour, thousands of people come along, and Scout becomes the face of the ideal guide. John feels so many things - proud when the world praises his guide, confused as Scout’s friendly demeanor makes it harder to find his soulmate, and downright murderous when a fan tries to drag Scout to her and get him to like her - Sitwell tries something similar to the latter, reaching out once to pet the dog, before getting her arm bitten. John laughs, his tone cold as Scout darts behind his legs. When the Seven is formed, the others are a mixed bag; John doesn’t care enough to pay them attention, and they do the opposite, openly gawking at Scout, eyes widening further when Scout outwardly prefers his company; they want to ask, but clam up when he glares at them, hesitant to touch the guide. 

“Can’t you take me to my soulmate, already?” he asks Scout one morning; the dog tilts his head, tongue hanging out, and John swears he nods his head in response. Scout grabs his glove, and darts off with it, dodging John as he attempts to grab him; John is just about ready to throw caution to the wind when Scout stops; John doesn’t, flying directly into a tree. He’s not knocked out, but it takes a moment for the ringing to stop; when his eyes open again, you’re standing over him.

“Oh my god, Homelander, sir, are you alright?” 

John never quite understood how people could just know their soulmate by sight, even with their guides, he just never understood how people were 100% certain, but now looking at you, it’s like his whole mind just screams ‘yes.’ You hold out your hand for him to take, helping him stand, even with the gloves; your touch just feels right; Scout is the happiest John has ever seen him, tail wagging fast, “Oh, hello again,” you say to him, scratching Scout just behind the ears, you turn to John with a fond teasing smile, and he knows he’s already gone. “So, I guess this means the cat’s all you?” The cat is an orange ragdoll that, according to you, has scratched, bitten, hissed, and attacked anyone who came too close to you for her liking; John’s proud to hear that you named her Mochi, and he’s less proud of that, “Mean cats need cute names,” you simply state.

“What, you’re gonna give me a cute name too, then,” he snickers.

“I don’t see why not,” you eye him for a second, pursing your lips as you think of a name, “Snookums.” His face scrunches in horror, and you laugh, “Ok, ok, that was bad. Honeybun? Pudding? Pumpkin?” You rotate through so many names, each one as sappy as the last one, John’s expressions fueling your laughter further - there’s the distinct sound of a camera shutter, but John ignores it - placing a hand over your mouth as you dissolve into giddy hysterics. “Alright, point taken,” you say, and John is acutely aware of how close he’s pulled you to him. “How about your name then? I can’t just call you Homelander forever.”

“John,” he says.

“John. Johnathan,” You try the words on your tongue, “Jonnie, Johnny Boy.” You shake your head, “Yeah, I’ll stick with John.” You smile, giving John your name, “Nice to meet you, John.”

[babe-in-christ]

Understanding your dreams is important ☁️ 💤

☁️ Dreams are not meaningless. Yes, you are supposed to remember your dreams. No, you can’t interpret them by yourself. God can use our dreams to send us messages. He is also the one who interprets them(Gen 40:8). Demons can also use your dreams usually to make you come into agreement with something bad(Job 4:12-15).

☁️ I had an interesting experience a couple nights ago. I was walking around with a black tank top and decided to use the bathroom. As I am washing my hands, I notice my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I’m shocked. My black tank top looked bleached. I was confused because usually when black fabric is bleached the spots are orange/brownish. I had pure white spots on my tank. In the reflection, I saw the spots. When I looked down at my tank there were no spots.

☁️ I woke and prayed for interpretation. This is always the first step to understanding a dream. Immediately I had a big picture understanding of the dream. God was telling me that I don’t perceive the change going on within me. For context, I am prone to being self critical. Lately, I felt that I’m not changing because I don’t see any extreme outward difference. The dream He gave me was communicating that He SEES the change. He SEES the SEEDS we are growing together in me. He also reminded me that as humans we are very aware of the effects time has on us. However, He is not bound by time. He understands that most humans take time to transform. From my perception, I didn’t see change. In the spirit, is where the change is first perceived. Eventually that spiritual change will express through your flesh(the physical).

☁️ I knew that this was the correct interpretation because on my work break I read His word! I always recommend reading His word for any type of clarity. I started 2 Kings chapter 6. The first portion of chapter explains themes of perception. It really clicked for me when Elisha explained to his servant that although they appear physically outnumbered they were in fact not spiritually outnumbered. Elisha prayed for God to open the servants eyes and boom. The servant saw chariots of fire all around Elisha. Before he was spiritually blind and once his eyes were open he understood spiritually how protected they were.

☁️ This is why Christians refer to the Bible as His LIVING word. It has something for everybody at any given time. He speaks to us through it just like with His spirit.

So yes, dreams are important! Ask for interpretations everyday. 🩵 🕊️

[jtl-fics]

Hi, Surely please 💜

6/19/24 WIP Wednesday (OPEN) | Surely

“Doesn’t taste the same.” Neil answers back because even with that flavor combination not being his favorite it still doesn’t taste like what his mom had made him.

“Maybe the mix is different?” Nicky considers, hand on his cheek as he sips at his own Shirley Temple in contemplation.

“She used a different Ginger Ale.” Neil answers back thinking to the brownish orange bottle with the green label.

“Oh, maybe it was Vernors?” 

The name seems sort of familiar so Nicky searches up a picture of it on his laptop before showing it to Neil.

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[mikaikaika]

Hello I've seen you around the QSMP spaces a lot, but I'm curious!! Do you have any cool headcanons you wanna share?

Hey anon! Thanks for the question and sorry if it took me a while I was recollecting my thoughts. I don't have any set hcs but a few thought sparced around here and there so here they are. They are mostly about the eggs but some people found their way in

Tallulah has all of Wilbur's letters memorised and she repeats them when she finds herself in danger. However sometimes Chayanne hears her muttering in her sleep and if he pays attention he can hear the repeat of Wilbur's words.

Richarlyson does not like to take baths due to his parenthood side that comes from Catboy Cellbit

Flippa and Tilin were very clumsy and often got injured so they had a bet going on with each other about who can convincingly tell their parent the most batshit crazy getting injured story without worrying them too much. Their record was never broken despite their exaggerated shenanigans

Missa was the better chef of the house who used to make diverse meals. Seeing him Chayanne took up cooking because he wanted to help after he saw how exhausted Phil was while taking care of two kids. It now helps him make proper use of all the potatoes and now he has one more skill he can use to provide for his loved ones incase they are stuck in danger

Not mine but someone had a hc that Antoine is an alien due to his moon and the tomska sketch he was a part of. I just wanna add to it that that is the reason his mc skin is layered with an outer layer. So it is him trying to imitate huamans and trying to fit in. That's the reason he has like three faces cause he wanted to fit in by doing his best attempts possible

Since Phil said they shop at hot topic cause they're a emo family, I think Tallulah hates it, so as a little sign of rebellion she keeps choosing tshirts with the most ridiculous captions to take home like one that says "crazy plant lady" with weed on it but Tallulah insists it represents her venues or anything over the top pink that she can find there like I'm talking mable pines level fluffy

Dapper is really good at doing rubix cubes and loves them but Ramon absolutely hates due to how engrossed Dapper got when he was learning it

As Chayanne grows up he end up outgrowing his duck floatie. So he ,with the help of Ramon and dapper, devises a belt with a duck belt buckle on it that can turn into a floatie anytime it is required. It comes in handy more often than you think.

Baghera is deathly afraid of snakes cause she's a duck

Cellbit's family are his anchor anytime his past comes haunting him back. He often gets nightmares that wake him up but all it takes is him seeing the picture of Richarlyson with he Favela Five or turning to his side and seeing the face of his sleeping husband and with one squeeze of his hand - Cellbit comes grounded back to reality and peacefulness.

When he's outside and people are accusing him of being a traitor or when things get too rough, you would often find Cellbit toying with his ring. It serves him as a reminder that his past is behind him and now he's in a better place and no matter what he would always have someone looking out and waiting for him - something he has never had before

The dragon colours that the eggs would be turned into coincides with the signs they use. Flippa's would be green similar to what gegg uses, Bobby's was brownish since he used normal signs, Tilin's would be slight orange as hers was red but she passed hers down to Pomme and Trump is light blue since his was blue but he passed it down to Richarlyson as Richas is more socially "loud" than he is

If Tilin and Juanaflippa were still here, their name together with Tallulah would have been TFT trio

Pac paints his nail but it's always chipped due to him working with Mike but you would never see it completely gone and no one knows how/when Pac reapplies and redamages it

Also I love this hc that all the partners of the people on the server are some kind of godly entity with specific powers that tie into the story