#it’s either that one or the crick i think….

[stardial]

oh mage madness we’re really in it now.

[powderpinkandsweeet]

Trucker Ellie x Hitchhiker Reader

Sorta fluffy sort of nsfw and long. You shower together and you give Ellie head. TW S/A attempt

The open road was lonely. For days at a time Ellie would only interact with others through the windshield of her big rig. The CB radio was an option, but the truckers weren’t so kind to the only woman on the station. By no means was the job fun, but it paid well and kept her occupied. Three months in and Ellie had been able to send a good chunk of change back home, but she had a long road ahead before she would follow the money. At first, she had enjoyed the time and space to clear her mind, but after the first thousand or so miles it had gotten old.

Ellie was riding a country road past the exit to a dinky town when she laid eyes on your silhouette half a mile up at the onramp. You stood dangerously close to the road with your thumb raised in the air, the other shading your eyes to scope out oncoming cars. You piqued Ellie's interest for a multitude of reasons: you were probably overheating, and the closer she got the prettier you became, but most of all, you were hitchhiking so you must be either desperate or stupid.

Ellie down-shifted gears and pumped the brakes, managing to come to the safest stop she could without flying through the windshield or losing the trailer behind her. She could see the wide grin on your face as you jogged up to her passenger side. She rolled down the window as you hopped up the steps to lean against the door. Arms crossed beneath your breasts, you rested your forearms against the windowsill to make eye contact with her. She saw the blush of sunburn across your cheekbones and nose as you caught your breath and asked her in the sweetest voice "you got room for one more?"

Ellie sneered, "depends, you gonna tell me what the hell you think you're doing risking your ass flagging down truckers on the side of the road?"

You didn't let your smile falter, but this close Ellie could see the twinge of sadness in your eyes. You sighed, "I just wanna get outta here is all."

Ellie's composure wavered as she thought out what she was being confronted with. For months, Ellie hadn't spoken to women save for waitresses, gas station clerks, and the occasional hotel receptionist when her bed at the back of her truck cab felt too cramped or too cold. But these were brief, cold, transactional. She knew that if she didn't take advantage of you/of the situation, someone else would. Ellie's intentions were no better than any other touch-starved pervert sat at the wheel of a big rig, but she figured she was probably your best option. "Yeah, alright, get in. Where ya headed? I can take you close as I can get, but I won't go off my route. I ain't your taxi driver."

You brightened up and yanked open the passenger door, "fuck, anywhere but here, honestly. Thank you so much, you're saving my life here" you cheered as you swung your bag up into the cab and plopped down into the passenger seat.

Ellie smirked, thinking she might be able to keep you around for a while. She shifted gears and revved the engine, pulling back onto the road. "Anywhere but here it is, sweetheart," she affirmed.

Days in Ellie's truck were spent making awkward small talk and singing along to the radio. The open road wasn't so lonely anymore with you sitting next to her. Riding through a desolate plain, the sun was almost fully set when Ellie laid eyes on a rest stop sign. “I think it’s about time we turn in for the night.”

You hummed from where you were slumped in the passenger seat, eyelids heavy. Ellie held back a coo at how cute you looked all sleepy and comfortable next to her. She took the exit and parked the rig at the edge of the parking lot. One other semi was in the parking lot, but Ellie paid it no mind. She reached out to pat your shoulder, to which you awoke with a snort. "Come on, get up. You're gonna get a crick in your neck sleeping like that."

You rubbed your eyes sleepily and hummed in agreement. You accompanied Ellie to the restroom to sleepily brush your teeth and change into your pajamas. You finished before Ellie and made your way out of the putrid smelling restroom for some fresh air. You had nothing to do but wait since Ellie had the keys, so you wandered to the vending machines to pass time. 'Maybe I'll ask Ellie if we can get poptarts tomorrow morning...' you thought, before you heard footsteps approaching. You turned around ready to ask, "All done, Ell...ie?" but it wasn't Ellie. "Oh, sorry..."

He stood two steps from you, close enough that you were struck by the scent of menthol cigarettes and his stale, sour breath. "Ain't no thing, sweetheart," he cooed, "I dunno who this Ellie is, but I can surely keep you company til she gets back." He leaned in closer with a wide grin and you shrunk back against the vending machine, "I can show you a real good time, promise. Don't got much on me to pay ya for your services but I can show you a real good time."

You tried to look everywhere but in his eyes and crossed your arms over your breasts. "N-n-no thank you, sir" you managed to stutter, "I've really got to get going if you don't mind." You attempted to duck under his arm where you were caged, but you were only jostled as he firmly gripped your wrist. With a yank, you were pulled far too close for comfort.

His grin grew impossibly bigger as he huffed out a laugh, "So polite and so cute... but dumb as a rock if you think I was gonna letcha go that easy." You struggled to loosen his grip, pulling with all your might and leaning back with all your weight. Despite your best efforts, you were easily being towed toward a semi across the parking lot.

Still struggling, you cried out for Ellie, or anyone really, to help. Your cries were cut off as your head was whipped to the side by a slap. The man gripped your hair at the roots to force your eyes to meet his, "none of that, now. I coulda treated you real nice ya'know, but now ya did it. Any whore worth a dime woulda given in by now, but you like to play rough now, don't ya?" You sobbed as he leaned closer, the smell of cigarette ash and sour sweat nearly making you gag. From behind the foul-smelling man, you heard the woman you had been crying out for.

"I'm gonna ask you nice one time and one time only, let her go now." Ellie growled.

The man scoffed, "Oh yeah? I found her first, and I expect a whore wandering a truck stop parking lot to do her job."

"Or what, huh? You ain't gonna like what's coming to ya." Ellie adjusted her footing and held her fists up in a defensive pose.

He wheezed out a laugh and you flinched at the spray of spit over your shoulder, "oh I'm so scared of a scrawny little dyke, I oughta put you in your place the way you're talki-" but he was quickly cut off by a fist to the jaw. The man crumpled with a choking noise, and you nearly fell with him as he held his grip firm on your wrist. Tears in your eyes, you wrench at the man's forearm for him to release you. From Ellie's position above you, she reared her leg back and sent it flying in between the man's legs. He released your wrist to curl into a fetal position and cradle his injury, whimpering and choking all the way.

Finally freed, you scramble backward in fear to put some distance between you and the offender. You scratched furiously at your wrist where you could still feel the sweat from his palm and the bite of his fingernails.

With tears blurring your vision, you can see Ellie leering over the man. If it were directed your way, the look on her face would only make you cry harder. How she had reduced the man twice her size to a crying heap on the ground, you had no idea, but you were grateful nonetheless. Ellie sent one more kick into the man's gut before she bent down to pull his wallet out of his back pocket. She pulled out the cash in it and tossed it at the man where he lay whimpering on the ground. Ellie's gaze softened as it landed on you, and she sent one last look to the man on the ground before marching over and offering you her hand. "C'mon, we gotta get outta here before numb-nuts over here gets up." You gingerly accepted her hand and were surprised by the ease with which she pulled you to your feet.

You felt the burn of Ellie's pull in your shoulder as you stumbled behind her. She hastily unlocks the truck before boosting you into the cab with a grip on your hips. You sink into the passenger seat and she pulls herself up into the cab and pulls the door shut behind her. The second it closes, she clicks the lock. The truck revved to life and Ellie shifted it into gear. "We just gotta find some place else to turn in."

An almost inaudible "I'm sorry" was heard from the passenger side. Ellie sent you a confused glance before returning her focus to the road ahead.

"What have you got to be sorry about, honey?"

You looked down to your lap, "I couldn't protect myself so you had to save me, and you're exhausted but we have to find somewhere else to sleep tonight because I fucked up, Ellie. I just don't want to disappoint y-"

"You ain't disappointing me so don't be sorry. Isn't your fault that fucker couldn't keep it in his pants." Ellie interrupted.

You looked down at your hands in your lap, anxiously picking your nails. "Oh... well where are we gonna go now?"

"There's got to be a rest stop or motel in the next thirty or so miles. Just gotta find it."

And so the night went on, and you once again drifted to sleep in the passenger seat. Ellie occasionally glanced over to take in your peaceful expression. She recalled the tears in your eyes as you sat helpless in the dirt before her. When Ellie pulled up to a motel with a flickering neon "vacancy" sign. The brakes squeaked as she pulled to a stop, but you weren't stirred from your slumber. Whispering, Ellie promised you "no one else is gonna make you cry if I've got something to say about it."

She sat back in her seat to contemplate her next move. You wouldn't mind if she touched your face, would you? She wouldn't blame you for feeling averse to touch, but you looked so soft and you snored so cutely. 'Fuck it,' Ellie thought, before reaching out to cup your jaw and stroke her thumb along its length. The warmth of her palm pulled you from your slumber and you unconsciously snuggled into her touch. Your eyes blinked open and made contact with Ellie's intent stare.

You rubbed the sleepiness from your eyes and murmured "are we there yet?"

"Yep, wakey wakey, princess. I'm gonna get us some room and we can get some sleep. It'll be nice to have a proper bed and shower for once." You perked up at bed and struggled to stand from the passenger seat and climb down the steps of the too-high truck. 'How does Ellie get in and out of this thing, she's like 5'2'' you thought.

Ellie was kind enough to pay for a room with a queen bed and a pull out mattress. Ellie sighed and dropped her backpack onto the couch like a sack of bricks. "I'll take the couch."

Surprised, your wide eyes met hers, "you don't have to do that, Ellie. You paid for the room so you should take the bed."

Ellie ignored you, pulling out the sofa bed and plopping onto it with her arms crossed behind her head. "It's not up for discussion."

Your eyebrows furrowed. You were stubborn, but Ellie even more so. "Or we could share the bed?" Ellie suggested with wiggling eyebrows and a poor attempt at a wink.

You were not amused, "I'll take the bed, you take the couch." Ellie pulled out her phone to scroll online until she fell asleep.

It was approaching 11PM, and your skin was still crawling. You needed to scrub it away. "Ellie... I think I'm gonna take a shower. So I'll be right back, kay?" She nodded with eyes on her phone. You stripped from your clothes and turned the water as high as it could go. Turning to face the mirror, you assessed the damage. You had skinned knees from falling and bruises scattered across your arms and legs. In particular, your wrists had purple hand marks across them from where the man had tightly gripped your wrist. You continued to stare blankly until the mirror had fogged up from the steam and you were nothing but a blur in the mirror. You sighed and returned your attention to the shower running behind you. Stepping in, you hissed in pain at the heat but didn't turn it down. The burning pain was a distraction from the itching you felt where he touched you. You unwrapped a bar of hotel soap and scrubbed from head to toe, desperately trying to overcome the feeling.

As the hot water ran down your body, you thought of Ellie. For a moment, you hopes that she liked you, but how could she when all you did was get her into fights and eat away her earnings. Tears lined your eyelids and fell with the spray from the shower. You wallowed in sadness for a few more moments before you could hear a quiet knock at the door and a call of your name. You thought you could be quiet enough, but your crying was too loud and drew her in. You cleared your throat, "I'm alright, don't worry!"

"Well, I thought I heard crying so I wanted to check in on you."

"shit... it's okay, I just needed a second to let it out. I'll be out in just a few minutes."

"Nope, I'm coming in."

"No, wait!" but she had already pulled open that stupid barn door, it didn't hold in any noise.

"Ellie, I'm naked in here, what the fuck?!"

"I figured, usually that's how people shower."

"Ugh, you know that's not what I meant, now can you get out?"

"Not until you tell me why you were crying."

You peeked your head out of the shower curtain. She was serious, not just prying for the joke or the drama. Your eyebrows furrowed and mouth pinched in a frown, you hid back behind the shower curtain. "Thought it'd be obvious by now..."

"Was it the guy at the rest stop?"

You sighed, "yeah... no shit. You figured it out"

"He isn't gonna bother us anymore, you saw him eat shit when I hit him."

"I don't mean that he's going to chase us down, I mean that I can't stop thinking about it, the fucking smell and the way he grabbed me like I was just a piece of meat. I feel disgusting and I can't get the feeling to go away no matter how hard I scrub. We're miles away but I feel like I can't get away from him"

There was a pause for a moment and the ruffling of fabric, and you almost thought she had left the bathroom. What you didn't expect was for Ellie to step into the shower behind you. You squealed and attempted to pull the shower curtain to the side to cover yourself, but the cheap hotel fabric did little to cover your nakedness from her prying eyes.

"First of all," she starts, "you were taking way too long in the shower and I thought maybe you'd slipped and fell." She reached for the shampoo on the shelf behind you, your noses almost touching. "Second, you need to give yourself a little more credit." Ellie started to lather her hair, "you're so much sweeter than him, than me, and than this place. I'll betcha you've got better things at home waiting for you, but you stepped up into my cab instead."

You sighed as you attempted to shield your nakedness with your hands, "no one's waiting for me, Ellie.... and I think of all the creeps out there picking up hitchhikers you're the least creepy."

She snorted out a laugh, "creepy nonetheless, but you're not wrong. I've been creeping on you since I saw you stood on the side of the road."

Your face grew warmer. You couldn't help but like her attention and her closeness. Her eyes darted back and forth across your body as she spoke, but you had put all your effort into maintaining eye contact. "Matter of fact..." Ellie started as she stepped chest-to-chest with you, "don't think I haven't seen you staring at my fingers while I drive. I've seen you stiffen and press your legs together, and don't think I haven't seen the way you squirm in that seat when I'm real sweet on you."

Your cheeks were hot and your eyes were wide as you struggled to form words. Were you really that obvious?

"Don't get shy on me now," Ellie taunted.

Fed up with her teasing, you grabbed her face in your palms and smushed your lips into hers. Ellie stiffened with surprise, but let her lids fall shut and relaxed into the kiss. Your lips were so soft, but they moved against hers with fervor. Ellie surrendered her control, yearning for you to have your way with her.

You held her waist in your palms and stroked up her sides. Ellie shuddered; she hadn't felt the warmth and softness of a woman's touch in months. You cupped her breasts in your hands to give them a teasing squeeze that made Ellie gasp. "So sensitive..." you hum with a smile, circling her nipples with your thumbs. You leaned into her ear to huskily whisper "I wanna taste you, Ellie." You dotted soft kisses along the curve of her ear, "will you let me? Please? I want it so bad. I'm so hungry for your pussy, Ellie"

She nodded quickly and enthusiastically. Ellie could put up a tough facade, but to hell with it when she wants nothing more than to submit to you. You smiled warmly and knelt down onto the shower floor. Ellie backed up into the tiled wall and you situated yourself between her legs.

You took a moment just to admire her. Ellie shivered as you scratched your nails up her lean, prickly legs to grab her by the hips. You pulled them towards you to meet the patch of dark hair at the apex of her thighs. Your fingers slipped on the slick arousal trailing down her inner thighs as you spread her pussy lips. Her swollen clit peeked out from under its hood, and you leaned in to place a soft, sweet kiss to it that made Ellie flinch.

"Come on already, no teasing..." she grumbled.

You had to hold in a laugh at her whining, but you were just as eager as she was. You stuck out your tongue and licked a long, fat line up her pussy. You pulled back briefly to savor her taste with a gulp and a hum of satisfaction. "Tastes so good," you moaned out and licked your lips.

Ellie struggled to keep her eyes on you as you ate her out, rolling back in her head as you licked her sloppily. Her wetness smeared across your cheeks and ran down your chin. "So messy, baby, "you cooed to her as you pulled back for a breath. "Just for me, yeah?"

Ellie groaned and held her bottom lip between her teeth, gritting out a "yes, ffffuck, jus' for you."

"So cute..." you mumbled to yourself before rewarding Ellie with a harsh suck to her clit. Her back arched and a hand reached out to grab you by the hair. The tug at your scalp made you moan against Ellie's lips, only serving to heighten Ellie's pleasure with the vibration. She panted and held both sides of your head to rock her hips into your mouth. You moaned at her taking control, using you like a toy for her to fuck as she pleased. She pressed you closer and clenched her thighs around your head, squishing your cheeks together. You moaned at the pressure and being further engulfed in her smell.

Ellie groaned between heavy breaths, "so good, fuck... fuck me so good, honey." She was so sensitive, squirming despite your arms wrapped around her thighs. The heat between your thighs was becoming unbearably hot. You had somehow reduced this rough and tough truck driver to a whiny mess.

Ellie's thighs clenched tightly around your head, whimpering out a warning of "I'm, fuck I'm gonna-ah, I'm-"

"Gonna cum?" you taunted and gave her pussy a light slap.

"Yes, fuuuuck." A line of drool slipped from her mouth.

A grin stretched across your face, and you pulled one of her legs to sit atop one of your shoulders. You drew three fingers firmly up the length of Ellie's pussy. Rapidly, you stroked your fingers back and forth over Ellie's soaking pussy. Her head fell back with a near shout of "fuck!" Your arm strained where it was wrapped around Ellie's thigh on your shoulder as it tensed and squirmed with the bucking of her hips.

Expletives poured from Ellie's mouth as she endured the assault on her pussy, before words left her and she could only choke and squeal. Her wetness splashed against your hand and the inside of her thighs. Excitedly, you leaned in to taste her cum and feel her arousal splash across your face.

Ellie's hips and legs slowed their squirming, trembling instead. She let out a long breath and ran a hand through her hair. "Fuck."

You giggled as you clambered up onto your feet, "that's all you got to say?"

"Yeah, I guess so. Fucked the thoughts right out of my brain, sweet cheeks."

"Pfft! Sweet cheeks?"

Ellie gave you the biggest grin, "yes ma'am, I could see your ass wiggle and jiggle while you gave me head. A beautiful view."

You pushed her shoulder "oh fuck off, now let me finish my shower."

Reluctantly, Ellie pulled back the curtain and stepped out. "Yeah okay fine, but you got another thing comin when you get your sweet ass outta there."

[castieltrash1]

hiii since you're taking got requests and i saw sandor is one of your faves: there's this post that's like "submissive like a guard dog is submissive" (i hope this makes sense even if you don't know what i'm talking about) and it always makes me think of him bc he's. you know. the hound. so what i'm saying is anything sandor-related with a dom reader would be very appreciated since i've never really seen anyone write him like this before :] if that's not your thing, that's totally fine though !

oh dw anon u came to the right place <3

sandor clegane x gn!reader; smut, dom/sub dynamics, dog motif, the hound is ur beaten and battered guard dog <3 mentions of violence, strong language, etc.

it doesn’t matter how you meet. maybe he serves your family. maybe he’s kidnapped you. maybe you’re just some lowborn whore whose face he pushes into the mattress to avoid looking at when he’s fucking out his anger. at some point, regardless of the roots of your relationship, the hound begins to heel. it’s not always obvious -- especially if you’re not some little lady/lord he’d be beheaded for lifting a finger to -- but it’s there. he’s already spent most of his life like this, and being with you is no different. you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.

once he (somewhat) lets you in, the dynamic shifts. you’re not just his liege, his captive, the prettiest face at littlefinger’s silk street brothel -- you’re his. and that makes him yours, he thinks. it means taking care of you, giving you as much comfort and safety that he can offer in this hellish life. it’s the least you deserve for picking him, since now he’ll never let you leave. you’ve resigned yourself to a cruel, cold, and crass beast; who cares if he has to behead a man or two to keep you fed or hold an entire inn hostage just so you can sleep on a featherbed for the night? he’ll never say please or thank you, but he’ll always stand in front of you. he’ll always lean against the door in case someone tries to break in.

he’s not gentle. he’ll growl when you tug his hair, a makeshift collar threaded between your fingers, urging him between your legs or bringing him back up to your mouth. he’ll bark about breaking you in, splitting you in half, vulgar words foaming at his mouth the longer it goes on. and when you lock eyes with him, he’ll always crumble under the weight of your gaze, lowering his head in some twisted form of obedience. he’ll eat out of your palm and you’ll know there are mutts in volantis better fed than him.

“sandor?”

you could hear the resulting sigh from a mile away, the sound of his armor clanking as he heeds your call. when your eyes lock on his figure, he rolls his shoulders back, masking the way he bows his head as if it were nothing more than loosening a crick in his neck. it’s hard to tell when he’s blushing, but you swear there’s a hint of flush blooming down his neck. you think if you asked him to kneel right now, he might even do it.

“i’m hungry,” you say instead, making your way toward him with a small, knowing smile. “let’s go eat.”

+ you’d be better off never mentioning it, but the similarities between sandor and your average dog aren’t too far off. he sleeps like one, always either curled into a ball or sprawled halfway out of bed; huffing and kicking with night terrors. he slurps out of bowls and licks his plates clean. he’s good at sniffing out enemies, even better at finding their scent on you, teeth bared as he asks where you’ve been and who with. he loves being pet and, if you catch him in a good mood, he'll sometimes nuzzle against your hand. and when he’s got you on all fours, clawing at the sheets or floor while you scream his name, it’s not hard to see he's always been more animal than man.

game of thrones weekend (reqs open!)

[ylangelegy]

haven't we met? ♾️ minghao x reader.

“wherever you are in the world, i swear i'll find you again.” # day one of (the)8 days of minghao.

☆ includes: mentions of death/calamities. soulmates, body swapping, time travel, delayed ripple effect, references to chinese mythology, light angst. this is inspired by & heavily references makoto shinkai's film kimi no nawa/your name, but it's not required to have seen the film to understand the plot. word count: 9,000+

It’s a Wednesday when Minghao wakes up in a room that isn’t his.

He doesn’t immediately register it. His senses come to him slowly; the sun is warm on his face, supposedly streaking through the windows. 

But then an alarm blares, and it’s an alarm that’s decisively not his. It’s loud and oppressive. The complete opposite of the gentle tinkling of bells that he sets for his mornings. Minghao peels his eyes open before blinking blearily up at a ceiling that’s in a shade of dark green. 

Odd. His ceiling is supposed to be beige. 

Minghao finally manages to sit up, to glance around. The room he’s in is not his. It’s much more disorganized and the furniture’s a bit more old-fashioned. He lets out a slight exhale. 

A dream, he thinks wearily. I’m dreaming. 

Minghao can’t help but think that it’s a particularly realistic dream as he unsteadily gets to feet. As he pulls aside the sheets that had covered him, he notices snatches of a body that isn’t his, either. Lithe legs, painted toenails. 

I’m dreaming I’m someone else, he thinks. It happened, didn’t it? One might sometimes dream from the perspective of a stranger, a friend. 

Minghao’s attention is drawn to a half-full water carafe on the bedside table. Without much thought, he reaches for it— before smashing it onto the floor. Free will, baby. 

Except—

He feels it. The wetness lapping up at his feet. The shards of broken glass flying in all directions. Something closes up in his throat. Did he usually feel things in his dreams? Had he eaten something weird, drank something the night before, to have him dreaming like this? 

The door to the room swings open. 

A silver-haired woman stands in front of him, now, her face pinched with worry. She says a name— a name that isn’t Minghao’s— and asks, panicked, “What happened?” 

Minghao doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. He just stares and stares as this wrinkled woman chides him in a motherly way until he realizes, ah. This must be his mother. Not his mother, but his dream self’s mother. 

He can work with that. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out. His voice is different. Not his, not his. He tries again— softer, this time— like it might change things. Like he might be able to coax his old voice to break through whatever sleepy haze he’s in. “I’m sorry. I knocked it over by accident.” 

“You’re so clumsy,” his ‘mother’ chides, but she’s already getting to her knees to wipe at the puddle of water with her apron. That snaps Minghao into action; he stumbles across the room in search of a towel. 

What a crazy dream, he thinks as he delicately gathers up the shards, as he wipes up the spilled water. I’ve never had a dream like this. 

As his ‘mother’ heads back downstairs, Minghao figures he might as well play the part. 

He follows her down for breakfast. He’s struck by how visceral, how tactile everything feels. The creeks of the old staircase. The smell of seaweed egg drop soup. The crick in Minghao’s neck.

Am I going insane? Minghao briefly wonders as he settles into the dining table, where there’s already a spread of food waiting for him. He notes that it’s a rather small table, made for only two people. It’s a stark contrast to the long tables he usually shares with twelve other boys, to the family tables he reserves with his own family.

“Why are you being so quiet?” his ‘mother’ asks as she sits across from him. “We’ll just get you a new carafe, kiddo.”

Right. That’s definitely why he was being quiet. Minghao picks up the chopsticks in front of him and goes to try some of the braised potatoes. 

He can even taste it. This was probably the most detailed dream he’s ever had.

“Aren’t I always quiet, though?” Minghao manages to ask in the voice-that-is-not-his. It’s a higher pitched voice, one that has a distinct Seoul accent. 

His ‘mother’ lets out a snort of laughter. “Yah, in what universe are you quiet?” she says with a snicker, reaching over to flick Minghao’s forehead. 

He lets out a small sound of protest. 

“That’s more like it,” his ‘mother’ notes. “Now, eat up. You’ll be late for work.”    

Work. Something like unease begins to pool at the pit of his stomach at the thought of it. Not because he hates his job, no. Minghao loved being a dancer, an idol, an artist. But— he had a feeling that wasn’t the job he should be expecting this time around.

“I— I’m not really feeling well,” he mumbles, pushing around some seaweed at the bottom of his soup. When his ‘mother’ shoots him a scrutinizing glare, he forces out a cough to sell the act. “I’m not sure if I can go in today.” 

His ‘mother’ goes from looking skeptical to concerned. She sets her own utensils down. “Do you need me to take care of you? I can take off, too—” 

“It’s okay,” Minghao says hastily. “I think I just need to stay in bed.” 

The woman across from him doesn’t look convinced, and so he presses on, “How is work, anyway?” 

It’s a polite question, one meant to wheedle out more information. His ‘mother’ takes the bait, though, and goes on to rant about bad co-workers, about impatient patrons. She’s a grocery store bagger, Minghao gleams. And when she complains about other small things— the weather making it difficult to hang laundry, the lack of delivery shifts— Minghao realizes that his ‘mother’ has an array of other side hustles. 

He listens intently. He nods in all the right places. He thinks he’s doing the right thing, but his ‘mother’ falters mid-sentence to fix him a worried look. 

“You really are so quiet today,” she repeats, reaching over to put the back of her hand against Minghao’s forehead. He feels the touch, feels the warmth of concern wash over his skin, and it makes him shiver. “You really must not be feeling well, huh?” 

Minghao thinks he’s only about to feel so much worse.

He heads back to ‘his’ bedroom, and it’s only then that he catches a glimpse of himself in a full-length mirror. It’s… the face of someone he’s never met before. 

Minghao once heard that the people you see in your dreams are never strangers. They’re all faces you’ve seen at least once or twice, and in Minghao’s line of work— well, he’s seen a lot of faces. He raises a hand to pinch at his cheek, to pat at his hair. 

It all feels so real. He doesn’t dwell on that. 

Instead, he starts to explore. Walking around the cramped bedroom feels both like a museum visit and an intrusion. There’s posters peeling off the wall, shelves groaning under the weight of books, clothes that look a little worse for wear. It’s honestly such a mess that Minghao ends up killing a couple of hours just cleaning.

He lets out a snort of laughter as he does. Even in his dreams, he’s picking up over someone. 

He doesn’t know how long he spends gathering hangers and sweeping the floor, but, at one point, the silence is broken by a high-pitched ringtone. He fumbles for the shabby cellphone on the bedside table. 

It had been password-protected, which is why he couldn’t open it. Now, though, there’s an option to answer the incoming call. 

BOSS MAN 👿, it says, and Minghao nearly cracks a smile. Yeah, he can relate to that, at least. 

When he answers the call, though, any and all humor dissipates at the yelling that assaults Minghao’s ear. “WHERE ARE YOU?” ‘Boss Man’ screams on the other end. “I’VE BEEN TRYING TO CALL YOU ALL DAY! YOU’VE GOT SOME NERVE, PUNK—” 

Minghao definitely sees now why the devil emoji was warranted. He has the urge to cut into the other man’s tirade, partly because it’s a dream where there’ll surely be little to no consequences. Something holds him back, though, as he puts some distance between his ear and the phone. 

Once the other man pauses to breathe, Minghao manages to get a word in. “I… wasn’t feeling well,” he says lamely. “Could I maybe work from home or something?” 

“WORK FROM HOME? ARE YOU CRAZY?! WHAT KIND OF BULLSHIT—”

At that point, Minghao just hangs up. When ‘Boss Man’ tries to call again, Minghao turns off the cellphone’s ringer and goes back to cleaning. 

He cleans until there’s not a speck of dust in the bedroom. And when that’s done, he goes to work on the grout in the bathroom, the oil stains in the kitchen. He’s not really sure what he’s doing. Occasionally, he’ll stop in the middle of a chore, wondering if it’s finally time for him to be shaken out of this mundane, long-winded dream. 

Night falls. His ‘mother’ texts about taking on an extra shift. She says something about food in the refrigerator, but Minghao can’t be bothered; he’s so exhausted that he blacks out the moment his head hits his pillow.

He doesn’t even have the energy to contemplate the mechanics of falling asleep in what’s supposed to be a dream. 

On Thursday, Minghao wakes up back in his dorm. 

When he hears the familiar chime of his morning alarm, when he opens his eyes and sees beige, he feels a wave of relief. It really had all been a dream. A very realistic one, sure. But a dream all the same. He was awake now, and he was ready to go about his Wednesday schedule— 

Except, when he checks his phone, it says that it’s already Thursday. 

Minghao blinks. How long was he out? Surely one of the boys would’ve dragged him out of bed if he’d been out of commission for twenty-four hours. 

He unlocks his phone to a dozen unread messages. Eyebrows furrowed, he decides to first go with Seungcheol’s texts. 

🍒: myungho  🍒: are you feeling better?  🐸: Hyung, hi. I think I just overslept a bit but I’m feeling ok. 

Despite the early morning, the three dots indicating that Seungcheol is typing pop up. 

🍒: are you sure???  🍒: you had us worried 🐸: Did I really sleep that long?  🍒: i mean, i don’t know how long you slept 🍒: was that the problem? were you hysterical yesterday because of lack of sleep? ㅋㅋㅋ

Suddenly, Minghao’s room feels a lot colder than earlier. Hysterical. That was the word Seungcheol had used. And yesterday— Tuesday? Nothing out of the ordinary had happened to Minghao. It was all the usual; he had practiced, eaten dinner out with Soonyoung, then went home. 

The dream had been the only unusual thing about the day prior. Minghao is jolted when Seungcheol sends another slew of texts. 

🍒: seriously 🍒: i was worried i might have to bring you to the hospital or something 🍒: but you say you’re ok now? 

Minghao can’t help it anymore. He dials Seungcheol’s number and puts the phone to his ear, his heart pounding in his chest all the while. 

Seungcheol answers on the first ring. In lieu of a greeting, Minghao jumps straight into “Was I really— hysterical, yesterday?” 

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. When Seungcheol speaks, he still sounds a touch gruff, like he’s only half-awake. “I mean, kind of. What, are you worried about it? Do you need help apologizing to Mingyu?” 

Apologizing to Mingyu? “What— is Mingyu mad at me?” 

“Uh.” There’s some sounds of shuffling on the other end, as if Seungcheol is sitting up. It’s a pretty clear giveaway of his growing concern. “You might have to ask him that. But, Hao— you sure you’re better?”

Minghao swallows around the lump in his throat. He doesn’t know where to start without sounding insane.

“I think I’m still feeling a bit off,” Minghao says weakly. “Must be the flu or something.” 

“I can come over.” 

“No, no. I think I just need some rest.” 

Seungcheol lets out a contemplative hum. “Alright,” he says, though he doesn’t sound all too convinced. “I’ll keep the boys off your back for the day. Text me if you need anything, and maybe text Mingyu when you can.” 

“Text Mingyu,” Minghao repeats absentmindedly. “Yeah, got it.” 

The call ends without anything more. Minghao stays seated in his bed for a long moment, just staring at the call log. 

Seungcheol had called him hysterical. Mingyu was upset with him. 

Something was definitely not right. 

Minghao’s suspicion is only confirmed when he goes to check the texts he’d gotten from other members.

🐯: need to call u about choreo but preferably u dont yell at me this time 😒 let me know when’s a good time  🐱: Are u ok? Or did u actually ditch me for our dinner (bec if then, wtf)  🦖: i’ve been in the practice room for an hour now!!!!!! Where are you!!!

If Minghao wasn’t already sitting down, he might’ve collapsed. 

He yelled at Soonyoung. He ditched Jun and Chan. 

He had no memory of any of that. 

But he remembers the shattered carafe, the seaweed soup, the shrill shrieks of ‘Boss Man’ in his ear. 

For a moment, he’s convinced he’s just in another version of the same dream— except, this time, it looks a lot more like a nightmare. As Minghao finally musters up the energy to get to his feet, he notices something at the foot of his bed. 

He unfurls the folded piece of paper. The handwriting isn’t anything he’s seen before. His eyes inadvertently skip to the very bottom, and his heart nearly stops in his damn chest. Minghao drops the paper like it had physically burnt him. 

“What the fuck,” he mumbles to himself as he scrambles to his feet, as he puts distance between himself and the now-discarded paper. “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck.” 

At the very end of the handwritten letter had been a name. 

The name that had been uttered by his dreamself’s mother. The name that ‘Boss Man’ had shrieked. A name he hadn’t heard before yesterday, before his dream— 

Minghao is finding it increasingly hard to believe that it had been a dream in the first place. Hell, he doesn’t even know what ‘yesterday’ is anymore. 

He paces his room. He does breathing exercises. He brews half a pot of tea. 

None of it helps. Hours later— with all his texts still unanswered and his tea depleted— Minghao stumbles back to the letter. 

I don’t know who you are, it starts. But I can tell you who I am. 

I’m from Umyeon-deong in Seocho. I live with my mother; my father hasn’t been in the picture for a long time. I work as an editorial assistant for a local newspaper. (It’s not exactly what I want to be doing, although that’s a story for another day.) 

For a big part of today, I thought I was dreaming. I keep thinking I’m going to wake up back in my bedroom, but the hours have ticked by and I’m still here. Your friends keep contacting you. It’s driving me insane. I accidentally yelled at two of them because they wouldn’t stop calling. The Mingyu one got really upset about it, I think. Sorry. 

I’m writing this because I don’t know what else to do. If this is nothing but a dream, then this shouldn’t matter. But in the 0.000000001% chance that something truly insane has happened to me and you? Well, at least now you know. 

I’m going to try and go to sleep now, although I must admit: You have some pretty nice stuff. I ate some of your tea and snacks (sorry, again). This is crazy. None of this makes sense. 

The letter unceremoniously ends there. Minghao’s eyes flick again to the signoff, to the name at the very bottom. 

Your name. 

His head is reeling. He feels like he’s going to be sick. 

This is no coincidence, no practical joke. It’s— as you’ve said— truly something insane happening. 

Minghao is struck with the realization that it just might happen again, and this time, he actually does get sick. He ends up hurling into a trash can. 

After brushing his teeth, chugging some water, and running through one too many of the chips in his pantry, Minghao gets back to the letter. 

It’s still there, in his hands. The stationary that was locked away in his drawer, bearing handwriting that is not his. 

None of the boys would pull off a prank as elaborate as this. Minghao is fairly certain he would’ve noticed if any of them snuck in, too. So, now, the only logical explanation was the one that was left. 

And Minghao really didn’t like that explanation. 

For what feels like forever, he contemplates what to do. He considers calling up Seungcheol again. He debates the merits of apologizing to Mingyu and Soonyoung; he decides against it when he realizes he wouldn’t even know what he’s apologizing for. He knows what to say to Jun and Chan at least, but that doesn’t make it any easier. How would Minghao even begin to justify himself? Hey, sorry for ditching you; I think I body swapped with a complete stranger. Let’s grab dinner tonight instead? 

There’s a headache blossoming behind Minghao’s eyes at the mere thought of putting the words out into existence. 

In the end, he does what he deems to be the easiest thing to do. He picks up a pen and writes on the other side of your letter. 

Hello, he begins. I’m The8 Myungho Minghao. 

I’m an idol who’s part of a group called SEVENTEEN. They’re the friends who keep contacting me. Mingyu is a fellow member and good friend of mine. I’ll talk to him. 

My family is in a different country. 

As Minghao goes on to write the next parts, he feels a bit foolish. He doesn’t really know what to say, though he feels like he should say something. You had given him something to work with, after all. Slivers of context. He should be able to do the same for you. 

I met your mother. She’s nice. 

I talked to your boss. He wasn’t happy. He yelled at you (me?), and I may or may not have put down the phone. I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure what your work was so I ended up not going at all. 

I hope you liked the tea. Feel free to have all the snacks you want. 

And you’re right. This is crazy. 

If I’m lucky, you’ll never need this letter. 

Minghao wakes up on Friday to the realization that he is decidedly unlucky.

The loud alarm is back, and the ceiling is dark green again, and Minghao once again leans over to throw up. Luckily, there’s a bedside garbage bin that comes to the rescue. 

There’s no sun this time. It’s fairly gloomy outside, the overcast skies peeking through the windows. 

Minghao immediately notices that there’s a folded piece of paper on the pillow next to him. He unfurls it so fast that he almost tears it in half. 

This is a precaution, you start. Maybe, come tomorrow, I can just chuck this out and chalk it all up to a one-off freak incident. 

The thought of this phenomenon not being a one-off nearly has bile rising up in Minghao’s throat all over again, but he forces himself to read the rest of your words. 

First off, I guess I should thank you. My room has never been this clean in my life! And you should have seen the look on my mother’s face when she saw that ‘I’ cleaned the entire apartment. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I was possessed, for the lack of better term, by someone who is a much better person than me. 

That almost makes Minghao smile. Almost, because the next part sends a pang of guilt through him. 

Secondly, though, you almost cost me my job. I can’t believe you hung up on my boss, Donghyuk. I had to do some serious damage control. I managed to get today off, just in case. 

Minghao is struck by your foresight and, adversely, his absolute lack of it. The most he had to do was appease a sulky Mingyu and message back the rest of the boys. His brain races to figure out if he has any schedules for— Friday, was it? A practice, maybe. Or a recording. 

Either way, he’s screwed. You’re screwed. 

Minghao his face in one hand and quietly prays that you know how to dance. 

He skims over the rest of your letter. 

I don’t know why this is a thing. I don’t know if it is meant to be a thing. I’m going to try and look for some answers, whether or not I wake up as you/myself. 

Wish me luck. 

A small part of Minghao feels a tug at the thought of both of you ending your letters with the concept of luck. That feeling is quickly replaced by something akin to dread, because he’s fairly convinced that this is no longer a dream. 

Minghao has woken up in a body that isn’t his. Minghao has woken up in your body— the body of a person he’s sure he’s never met.

He has to live a day in your life with nothing to go by but the notes you’ve left and a handful of context clues. 

For a moment, Minghao contemplates just going back to sleep. Maybe if the both of you just slept right now, the switch would trigger. Maybe he could just spend the whole day in bed until you have to swap again.

The latter seems like the best idea until knuckles rap against the bedroom door. 

Your mother pops her head through the crack in the door. “I’m going to leave early today. The rain isn’t looking so good,” she says with a slight grimace. 

Minghao glances out the window. It’s all he can do, really, to keep himself from not going insane then and there. 

“Take care,” he says. 

He’s suddenly acutely aware of your voice— the cadence and timbre of it. He knows what you sound like, how you write, and he wonders how the two might combine. What might be the right thing to say in this situation. 

Because your mother has that look again, that openly dubious expression. 

“Are you alright?” she asks cautiously, not quite stepping into the bedroom just yet. 

A flash of panic rises up in Minghao. What would you say? What would you do? 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” His tone’s just a little haughty now. It’s so uncharacteristic of him that Minghao nearly winces, but he persists. “Go on, don’t get caught in the rain.” 

Your mother lets out a huff of a laugh, mumbling something like ‘ungrateful kid’ as she retreats. Despite that, it seems to work; she takes her leave without another protest. Minghao lets out a shaky breath.  

His— your stomach, really— lets out a low grumble. A part of him wonders if you’ve been just on edge as he’s been. Unable to eat properly, losing sleep over this whole thing. 

Regardless, the least he can do is take care of you. He pads over to the kitchen and rummages through the refrigerator for some leftovers. All the while, he’s thinking of what he has in his own kitchen. 

Will you be hungry? You did say you liked his snacks. Would that be enough? 

The questions rattling in his head turn into considerably more stressful ones. 

Is this going to happen forever? Will he have to spend the rest of his life swapping bodies with you on a day-to-day basis?

He thinks of the group, thinks of your mother. Thinks of his demanding job and your terrible boss. 

Minghao nearly panics again. He manages to keep it together enough to make a sandwich and sip some coffee. 

He tries to meditate, even, but it’s like your body knows that it’s not a practice that you frequent. Your hands twitch in the stillness; your heart only slams harder instead of calming. You need to catch a goddamn break, Minghao thinks as he grits his teeth and tries to relax. 

Something good comes out of his attempt, at least. It comes as an epiphany of some sorts— how he suddenly remembers a portion of your letter. 

I’m going to try and look for some answers, you had written. 

He might as well do the same. 

Once he’s changed into outerwear that’s slightly more acceptable for the rainy weather, he spends a good amount of time searching for your wallet. When he goes to check it, he inadvertently lets out a grumbled “damn.”

Your wallet has nothing but a couple of loose bills. 

Minghao can’t blame you, not really, but you’re certainly giving him very little to work with. A part of him even feels kind of bad for you. Not only did you have a demon for a boss; you were also severely underpaid. He makes a mental note to bring that up in his next letter to you. 

He can’t go far with the lack of funds, though that’s not the only thing hindering his quest for answers. It’s pouring outside, the rain coming in heavy droplets. 

Minghao braves it with a raincoat and an umbrella, hoping against hope to find something. Anything. 

As luck would have it, your neighborhood has a local library. 

When he steps in, the librarian doesn’t pay him much heed. Minghao is momentarily amused by the thought. Did you not come here often? 

It’s a quaint place with a scarce collection. A lot of the novels are on the older end— published nearly a decade ago— but they remain in pristine condition. Minghao skips over the best-sellers and the manga serieses, instead opting to sift through the psychology textbooks. 

He’s not surprised when he doesn’t find anything of use there, when he spends nearly four hours reading and reading to no avail. The lack of non-fiction about a body swapping phenomenon is to be expected. This wasn’t something that just happened, after all. 

And yet it’s happening to me, Minghao thinks with frustration as he grabs at his sixth book of the afternoon. The unexpected force knocks some of the surrounding books onto the floor. 

The librarian gives him a vicious side eye. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Minghao mumbles as he immediately gets to his knees. 

His hands close around one of the books he knocked over. It’s a heavy hardbound with a gorgeous deep red cover and metallic gold lettering. There’s a dragon featured on the front and the familiar iconography of it nearly bowls Minghao over. 

While still crouched down on the floor, Minghao flips through the pages. The images that go flashing by are not strangers to him, but there’s one in particular that he’s looking for. 

He finds it on the thirtieth page. Almost out of instinct, his fingers trace over the characters. 

月老. Yue Lao. 

Suddenly, Minghao is a child again, listening to his mother’s stories. He had been young and wide-eyed, sprawled on her lap as she talked soothingly about the god who presented himself as an old man under the moon.  

The god of marriage and love. He’s the reason why your bàba and I met, his mother would say amusedly. Yue Lao made it possible. 

How? His younger self had demanded. How did he make sure? 

His mother had laughed, then. Had stroked Minghao’s hair out of his face as she told him about the myth. The magical cord may stretch or tangle, but it will never break. 

And, oh, how Minghao had prayed back then. He prayed to Yue Lao the hardest— his eyes squeezed shut, his hands clasped to his chest. 

I hope I find love. 

It doesn’t matter when, or where, or how. 

Qǐng, Yue Lao. Please, please, please. 

“Are you going to check that out or what?” 

Minghao is dragged out of his memories at the sound of the librarian’s sharp tone. “I—” 

The words stick in his throat. Eventually, he manages a meek, “I’ll put it back.”

It’s still pouring as he leaves the library and makes the short walk back to your apartment. The rainwater pooling in the gutters has muck and grime sticking to the bottom of his— technically your— rain boots. Another thing to apologize for, Minghao thinks wryly. 

He seeks temporary shelter underneath the corner store near your apartment block. The vendor looks up expectantly. 

“The usual?” the woman croaks, and it takes a moment for Minghao to register that he’s being addressed.  

“Not today,” he responds with a tight smile. 

The vendor lets out a bark of laughter. “When have you ever said ‘no’ to me?” she says with a tut of disapproval. Before Minghao can protest, the stranger is already shuffling over to her cooking station. 

Minghao watches in silence when he realizes what’s being made. Some fruit is speared onto a bamboo skewer, then dipped into a simmering syrup. It emerges coated like a clear gemstone before it’s shoved into a bowl of ice. 

Tanghulu, Minghao thinks dazedly as he accepts the snack. “Thank you,” he says softly.

The vendor smiles. She’s already missing a couple of teeth. 

Minghao takes a tentative bite. Tanghulu was a familiar enough delicacy, but the fruit he'd been given— your ‘usual’— is something he hasn't seen in quite some time. 

The date-plum persimmon is soft and glutinous, wrapped in a thin layer of crisp sweetness. Minghao can't remember the last time he had black jujube this way. 

“You’re still the only one who likes that stuff.” There’s an edge of fondness to the vendor’s tone. A clear indicator that you have some sort of camaraderie with her, something that Minghao isn’t entirely privy to. “Do you know how hard it is to find stock of that darn fruit?” 

It seems like a rhetorical question, like something that you’d probably take in stride. But Minghao can’t bring himself to joke. His free hand is already fishing for your wallet, where he’s prepared to blow the last of your money on this dessert. 

The vendor shakes her head. “Not today,” she chirps, echoing Minghao’s words from earlier. Her gaze is fixed over his shoulder, where the downpour is relentless. 

Minghao is not quite sure what the norm is supposed to be. Do the two of you talk? Do you leave right after you’ve made your purchase? 

He doesn’t want to be rude, so he mumbles his gratitude and decides to stick around for a moment. The vendor thankfully chooses not to make conversation. 

Minghao spends a long time just standing there, making slow work of the sticky date-plum. He watches the rain that never lets up. He watches the lights of your apartment building flicker on as night falls. He watches, and he tries to commit it to memory as he finishes off his tanghulu. 

For what it’s worth, he’s glad to ‘share’ this with you— something sweet to get the both of you by. 

Come Saturday, Minghao wakes up with more questions than answers.

Your letter is within reach, resting atop his bedside table. He goes to read it despite the fact that he’s barely lucid. 

It’s shorter this time. If he strained, he could almost hear the words in your voice. A distant echo. 

I can’t believe you’re actually an idol. Have you met BIGBANG? 

That draws a surprised laugh out of him. It’s been years since he last heard of his industry seniors. The thought of you being a second gen fan is a little endearing to him. 

Anyway, I told everyone who contacted you that you were really sick. Like, throwing up levels of sick. ‘Coups-hyung’ said he would send a manager, but I assured him that you already had one on the way. You might want to corroborate that lie. 

I know I said I would look for answers, but I couldn’t really go far. I was scared of getting lost. And, man, your neighborhood is overwhelming. I’ve lived in Seoul my whole life and I don’t think I’ve ever been in this part of the city. 

I ended up spending most of my day just reading your books. Good taste. 

The compliment puts the smallest grin on his face.   

I promise to do better research when I’m back in my own body. ‘Till then. 

As curt as your letter is, it gives him an idea he probably wouldn’t have had otherwise. Better research. Back in his own body.

He fishes for your first letter, which he had kept tucked in his drawer. It’s still there, which means the past couple of days have not been a bout of psychosis. He doesn’t know if he’s relieved or horrified. 

Minghao focuses instead on scanning your introduction, where you had mentioned your neighborhood. Umyeon-deong. 

While he’s in the back of the cab, Minghao texts back his members. He’s vague, still, but it’s not anything particularly new. Feeling a little better. Getting a check-up, just in case. Stop worrying. I’ll let you know how it goes. 

The heat is oppressive for July, almost beating down on Minghao’s back as he finally makes it to the district. It’s a full 180 from yesterday’s rain. He regrets the baseball cap and the hoodie, but both are necessary evils. 

He’s not entirely sure where to drop off, so he settles for one of the corners at the mouth of the neighborhood. Once he’s there, he just— begins to walk in a general direction.

Later, he realizes he probably could have pulled up Google Maps. He would have benefited from asking around, would have cut his time in half if he deigned to admit that he was lost. But, at the moment, he’s just taking it all in. 

The apartment complexes. The children’s park. The liquor store. 

Briefly, he wonders if he’ll run into you. Would you recognize him? 

Would he even want you to? 

Minghao is so busy mulling it over that he almost misses it. The streetside food stand advertising fresh tanghulu. It feels like yesterday— well, it was yesterday. His mouth is already watering at the thought of the candied date-plums as he wanders over to the stand. 

A rasping voice addresses him. He looks up from scanning the selection, realizing with a jolt that it’s the same vendor.

But it’s also— not. 

Something is off. 

Something he can’t quite place.

It almost steals the breath out of Minghao. He probably looks dumbstruck, looks stupid with his mouth hanging slightly agape, but the vendor asks again, “What do you want?”

Minghao forces an answer out of his chest. “Do you have— black jujube?”

A myriad of micro expressions flash across the seller’s face. It starts with recognition, but ends with something closer to tightness. She gives a labored grunt in response before going to make the snack. 

When she hands it over to Minghao, there’s a slight quiver in her fingers. She nearly drops it, even, but Minghao catches it just in time. 

“Sorry,” she grouses. “It’s an order that a regular of mine used to have.” 

There’s a low ringing in Minghao’s ears as he says “ah,” as he hands over his payment. The vendor busies herself with cleaning her workstation, and Minghao tries to enjoy the date-plums, but it’s not as good as he remembers it. 

Was it perhaps a difference in taste buds? 

No, he thinks. It’s the lump in his throat. It’s the seller’s words nagging at the back of his mind. 

An order that a regular of mine used to have. Used to. 

He saw her yesterday. You were supposed to have seen her yesterday. 

As he munches on the fruit, he asks almost too casually, “Is it your first time selling in this area?” 

The vendor shoots him a suspicious glare. Minghao knows he’s being a little odd with the line of his small talk so he fields his question, tries to make it come out more naturally. “I remember you used to have a spot somewhere else,” he offers. “In front of an apartment building.”

This time, it’s the seller’s turn to mumble “ah.” 

“That’s why you had that order,” she says with a humorless laugh. “You knew them, huh?” 

“Them?” 

The vendor says your name. The ringing in Minghao’s ear gets louder; his fingers, tightening around the skewer of his tanghulu. It’s the first time he’s hearing your name in his own body and it sends a shiver down his spine. 

The question is even harder to answer. Does he know you? Was he allowed to say that?—

No. No, wait. The vendor had said knew. 

The ringing reaches an almost feverish pitch. It’s a miracle that Minghao hears anything else, that he picks up the murmured words that the seller says next.  

“It’s a real shame,” she says with a voice so soft, so solemn, so small. “It’s been nine years, hasn’t it?” 

Nine years.

Nine years. 

Nine years. 

Since what? Since you? 

A lot of things haven’t made sense to Minghao in the past couple of days, but this— this is the one that baffles him the most. He saw you— he was you— yesterday. 

When Minghao finally finds his voice, it’s to ask for a favor. 

The vendor complies, albeit skeptically. She hangs a ‘be right back’ sign over her stall. It’s a short walk, not more than seven minutes. 

If Minghao’s ears had been ringing earlier, now, it’s just dead silence. A dreadful sort of quiet as he stares at the ruins of the apartment building he was staring at just the day before. 

The seller is watching his face carefully. “You didn’t know?” she prompts gently. 

Minghao realizes he has to come up with something. “We were friends. Me and—” He chokes around your name. When he finally says it out loud for the first time, he feels guilty. It feels so wrong to be saying it in this context. To have it be part of a lie. “But then—” 

He trails off. The vendor supplies, “You lost touch?” 

Sure. Minghao gives a jerky nod in response. That’s one way to put it. 

He’s not even looking for an explanation, but the seller gives him one. “The typhoon was so bad that it triggered landslides,” she says gruffly. She nods towards the direction of the mountain towering over the neighborhood. “I think the death toll was around eighteen people.” 

Minghao resists the urge to scream. If he were a lesser man, he might have fainted. Instead, he quietly says, “Nine years ago.” 

“Nine years ago,” the vendor confirms. She pauses before adding, her voice just a little sadder, “A tragedy.” 

“Tragedy,” Minghao repeats. That doesn’t even begin to cover it, he thinks. 

Neither of them say anything for a long time. He can feel the pity rolling off the seller in waves; still, he can’t bring himself to turn away. He stares, and he stares, and he stares at the rubble, at the derelict building. At the mere echo of what had been so loud and alive to him just yesterday.

After what feels like forever, he asks another question. “Is— is the library still around?” 

The vendor leads the way. At the door of the library, she attempts to give Minghao a reassuring smile. It’s all just gums, now. No teeth. There’s an endless refrain of nine years, nine years, nine years screeching through Minghao’s head as the seller bids him goodbye with “I’m sorry you lost your friend.” 

“I’m sorry, too,” he responds with a solemnity that doesn’t need to be feigned. 

The librarian isn’t the same one. 

This one has a calmer demeanor, a more restrained smile. Somehow, that only makes Minghao feel much worse. He knows what he’s looking for this time; he goes straight to the neighborhood records and scrolls all the way back to nine years ago. 2015. 

It’s a lot of information to digest all at once. There’s the newspaper clippings about the heavy rainfall. The flash floods, the landslides. Class action lawsuits. Landmine threats. Government incompetence. 

Minghao feels like he’s drowning in news, but it’s still not what he’s looking for. 

He finds it in a directory. There’s two people with the same last name and Minghao nearly loses it then and there, at the thought of your mother, too— 

He focuses on you for now. His quivering finger traces the cell that contains your name, your date of birth. 1997. The same year as him. A couple of months younger, though. 

Nine years ago, Minghao had been 18. Just about to debut. 

Nine years ago, you had been an editorial assistant. Not exactly what I want to be doing, you had written in your first letter to him. There was no way for you to know that you would never have the chance to be anything more.  

Minghao’s eyes fall on the date of death. 

Except— 

It’s not nine years ago yesterday, not nine years ago today. It’s tomorrow. 

In that very moment, he understands what he’s meant to do. 

When Minghao wakes up in your body on Sunday, he knows he has only one chance. 

He had read up all about it the ‘day’ prior but the details were vague. None of the news reports mentioned when exactly the landslide would happen. The most he gleamed was that it would be due to an unstable slope from the nearby Mount Umyeon. 

A wall of mud three storeys high hit the building, one article had said. It’s the only information that Minghao has to go by as he drags himself out of bed, ignoring the blare of your obnoxious alarm. 

He goes straight for your mother’s room. She’s already awake, standing by the window. 

Outside, the storm rages on. Your mother turns to face Minghao. “It’s not looking good out there,” she says disapprovingly. “The news said it’s the heaviest rainfall in nearly a century.” 

Back in his body, Minghao had contemplated how he would go about this. He thought he might try to coax your mother, might be logical and rational in urging her to evacuate. 

In that very moment, though, he instead finds himself blurting out, “We’re going to die.” 

A beat. Your mother looks unfazed. 

“You’re always so dramatic.” 

The panic simmers in the pit of Minghao’s stomach. “We’re going to die,” he repeats, his tone on the shriller end now. 

It wasn’t like him to give in to hysteria; he was you, though, and your mother seemed nonchalant enough about it. He’s not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse. “It’s just a little bit of rain,” your mother says dismissively as she squeezes past Minghao and heads towards the kitchen. 

Minghao is on her heels, his hands wringing together. “We can’t stay here,” he pleads. “We have to leave.” 

Your mother shoots Minghao— you— an exasperated look. “Where are we going to go in this weather?” 

“No. No, no. We have to go somewhere safe.” 

“We’re safe here—” 

“We’re not—”

It’s almost like a crack of thunder, the way your mother says your name. The sound shuts Minghao up immediately. It’s a familiar warning, an intonation that all mothers seem to wield over their children.

“What’s going on with you, really?” your mother questions, her hands at her hips. She’s eyeing Minghao with mild annoyance but he sees it for what it is. Concern. “You’ve been so odd these past few days. Is there something you’re not telling me?” 

And how is Minghao supposed to answer that? 

I’m not actually your child. I’ve swapped bodies with a man who lives nine years in the future. Our survival hinges on whether or not you’ll hear me out. 

When Minghao stays silent for a little too long, your mother shakes her head. “Get it together,” she says sternly. 

Maybe it’s that. Maybe that’s what finally gets Minghao to say—

“Please.” 

Your mother pauses in the middle of rifling through the refrigerator. For a long, terrible moment, the only sound is the rain. 

Minghao’s hands are shaking at his side. “Please,” he repeats. He knows he sounds more like himself than you. He knows he’s being out of character, being obvious. 

But he needs your mother to understand. She’s looking at him now like he’s a stranger. 

Like you’re a stranger. And you are— at least in that moment. 

The words tumble out of Minghao before he can contain them. “I want to live.”

He doesn’t know where it’s all coming from, this rush of emotion. Your voice wavers; he pushes on. “I want to live,” he gasps out. “I want to move us to an apartment that’s not next to a damn mountain. I want to not work in this damn job. I want to live until I’m your age, until I’m even older than that, dammit—” 

Your mother crosses the room, the refrigerator long forgotten. When she raises a hand to Minghao’s face, he doesn’t even realize that some tears had escaped. 

These are all things he wants for you, he realizes.

He wants you to have a good job. He wants you and your mother to be out of harm’s way. He wants you to live a long, full life. 

“Please,” Minghao says a third time, his voice cracking around the word.

There’s a softness to your mother’s gaze; this time, her worry is undeniable. She holds Minghao’s face— no, he thinks. She’s holding your face. Her child’s face. Her child, who’s crying, who’s begging. 

That’s likely the reason why she acquiesces. “Alright,” she exhales, using her thumb to wipe away some of Minghao’s tears. “We’ll leave. We’ll go.”

That’s only half the battle, though. 

Minghao mutters something below his breath. Your mother raises her eyebrows in a silent question, and so he clears his throat before speaking louder. 

“We have to evacuate the entire building,” he mumbles. 

It takes time to convince your mother, which stresses Minghao out beyond belief. Time isn’t a luxury that he has. Not when he has no idea when the landslide will hit. Not when the rain is only worsening, making it less likely to persuade people to leave the comfort of their homes.

By some grace, he manages to get your mother on board. Sure, he had to spew odd specifics and statistics about the dangers of landslides, but it works. The two go door to door. 

They’re met with initial resistance. Minghao doesn’t care. 

He badgers the elderly. He negotiates with the children. He almost gets to his knees when a family with a baby refuses to budge. 

The entire apartment complex is bewildered. 

But when somebody is batting so hard for safety, when somebody is so desperate in what seems to be just a little more than paranoia— you listen. 

The landslide hits just as Minghao is helping the last resident out of the building. 

He’s never felt anything quite like it. He’s experienced earthquakes and their aftershocks. He’s been in stadiums that have shook with the sheer amount of people, the pulse of their music. 

This one starts with a rumble. Low and deep, like it’s coming from the very ground. He hears the trees crack, the boulders knock together. And then— 

Your mother is grabbing him by the arm. She’s screaming, screaming, screaming, the sound drowned out by the storm, by the shrieks of all the other evacuated residents, by the mud that suddenly crashes down on the complex in one fell swoop. It’s everything, everywhere, all at once. 

Minghao is soaked from head to toe. Some of the mud flies and sticks to his hair, his clothes. He can almost taste it, too. The earth. The rain. He feels the chill to his very bones.

Despite that, he laughs. Your mother is dragging him, you, away from the calamity, the tragedy, and all that Minghao can do is laugh. 

Because he made sure that no one was left in the building. 

Because he’s alive. 

You’re alive. 

Later, when everyone is gathered in an evacuation center— shivering underneath blankets, talking about how it was all such a close call— Minghao falls asleep at your mother’s side. He feels like a kid again, with his hair being stroked, with soft words being uttered to him. 

He drifts off and dreams. 

Minghao is sure that this is a dream because his surroundings take on the hazy quality of one. 

It’s just a little too bright to be real, the setting bathed in a light that feels almost like a bulb had exploded. Minghao has to put one hand over his eyes— 

It’s his hand, he realizes. He’s dreaming as himself.

His sight adjusts. He’s at a dining table. It’s a two-person dining table. Much smaller than he’s used to.

“It’s you.”

He drops his hand and braces it against the edge of the table, because your voice— he should be used to it, shouldn’t he? He had used it for a bit, formed words like sorry and thank you with a lilting tone. 

When he responds, his own words are imperceptibly soft. 

“It’s me,” he confirms. 

You’re seated across from him. He had caught glimpses of your features in reflections, in photographs, but it’s something entirely new. To be taking you in from an outsider’s perspective. He sees how you would control your body, how you were inclined to react. It makes him dizzy, just how much he had gotten wrong about your mannerisms. 

The first proper words you speak are, “You have some good friends, you know?” 

A corner of Minghao’s lip twitches upward. The thought of the boys constantly checking in on him seems about right. 

“And you have a good mother.” Minghao pauses. He did say he would mention the next part. “Terrible job, though. You should quit.” 

“Easy for you to say, Mr. Idol,” you shoot right back. 

He winces; you laugh. The sound has the edges of his vision growing fuzzy. A sepia of the past, the present, and whatever this moment is, all blurring into one. Minghao doesn’t want to wake up. 

“What happens now?” you ask, your own fingers tap, tap, tapping on the table between you two. 

“I’m not sure.” 

“Why—?” 

“— Did this happen in the first place?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I’ve wondered the same thing.” 

The edges are closing in a little more now. Minghao can feel it— the familiar warmth of his bed at home, the tug of his own time. He’s already asked so much from his mother’s old gods but he lets his eyes flutter close so he can make a final plea. 

Just one more minute. Give me one more minute, please. 

“I think…” he starts slowly. His voice already sounds so distant. “It’s my fault.” 

“Your fault.” Skepticism undercuts your tone, enough to prompt Minghao to open his eyes again. 

He looks down at his hands, the ones that had folded atop the table. “I prayed for you,” he admits quietly. “Every day, back when I was a kid.” 

Confusion drips from your every word. “For me specifically?” 

He laughs. “Okay, maybe not you specifically,” he amends. “But—” 

It’s getting unbearably bright now, so much that he can only really make out the silhouette of your form. He itches to reach, to touch, just to see if you’re real. He doesn’t want to push it, though. 

Minghao settles with holding up his hand. If you squinted, if you really, really tried, you might see it, too. 

The faint glimmer of a red cord— looped around his thumb, tied to your pinky. 

Every day, back when I was a kid. 

“I prayed for this,” he repeats.

And so, in some way, he supposes you’re right. 

He had prayed for you. 

The chime of bells. 

The beige ceiling. 

Minghao is fairly sure he had dreamt, but it’s the kind of dream you forget the moment you wake up.

He blinks once, then twice. Odd. It felt like a good dream, too. 

There’s a warm, fuzzy feeling blossoming in his chest, though it fades just as quickly as it blooms. 

Minghao never wakes up as you again. 

The universe takes, and takes, and takes. It takes away Minghao’s memory. He’s not entirely sure what happened to him those couple of days. Seungcheol says he went to the hospital. Mingyu laments that they fought. 

Minghao borrows one of Soonyoung’s favorite words. Funk. He had been in a funk, probably. An off couple of days.

He’s back to regular programming so seamlessly that the others are forced to believe him. 

Still—

Minghao goes about the next couple of weeks feeling like something is missing. 

It annoys him to no end. It’s not any of his valuables, he’s sure. He double, triple checked everything. He turns his entire apartment upside down and puts it back together again. He goes for meals with all of his members, hoping to find the answers there. 

Nothing.

He falls into dreamless sleep every night, and wakes up every morning with that empty feeling in his chest.

It’s an unassuming Wednesday evening— one that he spends driving around with Vernon and Wonwoo— when it hits him. 

“Hey,” he says, throwing them a glance through the rearview mirror. “I could go for some dessert.”  

Vernon perks up at that. “Should we head to Myeongdeong?” 

“Sounds good.” 

Vernon throws out directions. Wonwoo queues the music. 

Minghao keeps his eyes on the road ahead.

The night market is an assault on the senses but it’s also a good cover for the three idols. They set out with their matching hoodies and half-face masks, in search of something to fulfill their cravings. 

Vernon goes to get some dragon’s beard candy. 

Wonwoo wanders off to purchase some hotteok. 

Minghao… He isn’t sure, really, which is a bit ironic. He had been the one to make the call, after all. He weaves through the crowds, his hands in his jacket pockets, as he scrutinizes the stalls. 

Kkwabaegi. Bungeoppang. Tanghulu. Dalgona. Bing—

He backs up a bit. 

“Hi,” he greets the seller. “This is a bit weird, but do you have black jujube?” 

The tanghulu vendor lets out a grunt of approval. “I think I’ve got one more stick,” she notes as he ducks to check her stock. 

What a weird craving, Minghao thinks to himself. But it’s the first thing that came to mind. 

A voice at his side addresses the seller by name.

“Got my date-plum persimmon, ajumma?” 

It’s not a voice that Minghao has heard before, and yet—

Frantically, he tries to sort through the hundreds of fansigns and fan meetings he’s had in the past decade. Could it be that? Could that be the reason why the lilt was so damn familiar? 

As he turns to look at the source, he knows in his heart of hearts that it’s not the case.

You’re already turning away, though, grumbling about the lack of the tanghulu that you want. Minghao hadn’t even heard the vendor respond.

There’s a ringing in his ears. 

“Excuse me,” he manages.

You falter in your steps. When you look up at him, he sees the same flash of confusion. One that’s borne out of recognition. 

The ringing has gotten louder. Despite that, he pushes out three words. 

He thinks he’s yelling them; in reality, they’re barely audible over the din of the night market. 

“Haven’t we met?” he breathes. 

For one dreadful, dragging moment, he’s convinced he’ll die if you say no, even though his mind is being terribly uncooperative. He can’t place when, or where, or how he met you. He can’t say if you’re familiar because he knows you or someone like you. 

All he knows is that he can’t, won’t let you walk away.

Your response makes everything in Minghao’s head go quiet. 

“I thought so, too,” you say, and something in his chest thrums. 

It feels a lot like an answered prayer. 

[candiid-caniine]

slutpuppy tip of the day ✨

look ppl I've never been good at humping. idk if it's my anatomy or my lack of hip mobility or what, but humping the way I see in porn gifs has never worked for me, and it's always made me rly sad bc humping is just soooo puppy 😭

until now!!

if ur like me, and humping is difficult for you, and you want a way to make yourself look even more pathetic while edging, read on ✨

you will need:

(probably) a cunt - may work with a penis but I don't have one so idk!

pillows for support

a wand vibrator (others will prob work as long as they're sturdy/securable)

some way to keep it upright

here's what you're gonna do:

find a comfy position in some combination of chest down, ass up. get creative w pillows :)

secure your vibe upright below your spread legs ;) I did this by literally moving my arm under me and holding it in position, but I got a crick in my shoulder for it, so won't be doing that again ✌️ lol

you want it to be somewhere you can easily rub your clit/cock against it by moving ur hips up and down.

once it's there...get humping :3 think rly hard about how pathetically needy you must look, with your legs spread humping like a lil puppy dog 💕

notes:

this is a great (read: terrible!! mean!!!) exercise in self control. u have to either physically drop the vibe when ur at the edge, or move your hips away if it's secured some other way.

the problem ofc is that being in humpy drooly puppy mode makes this rlly hard >:c can't think.. can't rebmemer 😭

so I ruined before I was planning to. and let me fucking tell u. something about being in that position, both being so spread open and also being hella humiliated, made my ruin so. fucking. meannnn. I whined into my pillow and humped the air like a dumb slut 💕

given that this had me such a drooly puppy mess, I'll probably be made to edge like this for the foreseeable future 😭

possible variations:

if ur a dom and u make ur sub do this while ur passively ignoring them n throwing out little mean comments once in awhile as they put their ass into it just to get ur attention?? ur so mean 😭 ur so hot I'm begging u to DM me lol

securing the vibe independently and putting the sub in bondage that only juuuust allows them to hump properly is. hh.. (obviously do this safely af, esp if doing it solo)

u could experiment with the position of the vibe, then put constraints on your bodily positioning, to essentially make it doubly hard to get enough stimulation to hit the edge 🥺 juust add to the frustration and the desperation 💕

would be great in combo with other toys...puppy tail plug? labia spreader? dildo gag??

or even...some kind of spiky thing, also secured in the area, that would mean every time u rut against the vibrator, somethin painful is digging into ur ass or labia or w/e 💕💕

combine it w hypno. combine it w a humiliating mantra. combine it w figging. this could work with so many types of scenes :3

[operationslipperypuppet]

In honor of Hot Murph Week, a holiday I made up and doesn’t exist, here’s my list of top-tier Hot Murph Momes.* There is no ranking here and I’m going off memory, so this may be adjusted or edited and you can add your own.

Anytime Glen spoke, during the Hot Glen era (RIP** Hot Glen), but especially when taunting Callie while in his cell.

When Jaina got legendary actions to give allies attacks, when she was sweating but effortless during the Ultrus fight, “Hardwon! Catch!”

“Are you a prisoner or a jailer?” (Jaina is so hot and I am not sorry for thinking this)

Riz threatening Biz in the aftermath of Arcade Ambush.

Riz deciding to Misty Step to the top of Kalvaxus and sink the Sword of Shadows into his head.

Theo casting knock to remove himself from the cell during Calroy’s coup.

Theo using Swirlwarden to survive Deep Bleu Sea.

Alanis counterspelling Akarot’s PWK to save Bev at Moonshine’s request.

The Would Be King spitting “Another failed experiment” at Corbeau during the side flap assassination. That whole thing has an energy because it’s completely improvised mechanics. And the misdirect of them thinking he was dead as he was dragged back into the tent…? Okay.

The whole of Battle of the Brands, but especially the athletics check where he took his time and then went “that’s only a 28” after taking off his sunglasses.

Barry scooping Gunnie and then jumping over the side and taking all the falling damage after escaping the casino. Also? If I’m being honest? The whole casino scene.

The moment in the Sophomore Year finale where Riz shoots someone and tries to fling them off the stairs and then Misty Steps back onto the stairs, emulating Moonshine Cybin. I don’t remember if it works or who it is, but hot.

Mac’s insane first hasted turn in Carl.

I don’t remember stuff from either TUC or NA well enough at the moment so those are unfortunately omitted.

*in a recent (from 2023) short rest (or episode, I don’t remember) Caldwell Tanner shortened the word “moments” to “momes”. Because of who I am as a person, I have also chosen to do this.

**the p is for piss. Glen fully sucks and no one who misinterprets what it means to be a crick has my respect. He was hot, though.

[dallasgallant]

Country/southern slang and vernacular-

This is what I’m going with for the title as honestly I’m not sure what else you would call it, but it is also linked to class a little bit? It’s complicated. Anyways, surprised I haven’t done one like this sooner as I’ve done:

JD slang. 60s slang. Rodeo terms

However, it can’t include everything! As usual take this as a jumping off point, it’s funny as Oklahoma is technically southern, culturally and such. Some are sourced from general knowledge, others from southern or “Oklahoma slang” which heavily overlaps but is more accented.

A lot of this ended up actually being more writing accented speech with some slang thrown in, a lot of it is about contractions! Also word usage! They’ll be a more “general grammar” and accent section at the bottom.

—

All get out- sentence enhancer (ex. Funny as all get out)

Air up - Pump air into something (Tires, mattress)

Ain’t - am not; are not; is not. has not; have not.

An’ all - and all

Belted- beaten

‘Bout - about

Billfold- Wallet (Oklahoman, used in place of wallet)

‘Cos - cause/because

Coke- soda (any kind) (ex. You wanna get a Coke? What kind?)

Crick- creek

Do up - prepare : clean/repair (Ex. Y’all do up the dishes)

Do wut - say again

D’yall - Do y’all or did y’all

don’tcha - Don’t you

Drop trou- pull down one’s pants , especially as a stunt in public

dyeet - did you eat?

Figure- Calculate, consider, decide

Fixin’ - on the verge of something : getting ready to

fronta - in front of

Fo’ sure- for sure

Fussin’- overexagerated concern, fidgeting

Gettin’ round - getting ready to go somewhere or do something (ex. Gettin’ round to it)

Gonna- going to

Gussied up - dressed nicer than everyday (ex. Church clothes)

hafta- have to

Hankering- desire, yearning, craving

Heap - a large quantity (ex. Heap of trouble)

Holler- loud cry or shout

Honky tonk - bar where people dance (typically to county, line dance )

Howdy- Greeting or used to express surprise

howta - how to

Hush- quiet, shut up

Ice box - fridge (Oklahoman or rural)

I’mma - I’m gonna or I am

Imma geddin sig n tard" - I’m getting sick and tired

ja'eet yet?- did you eat yet?

Kin- family (not always by blood. Could be someone you’re close to)

Laying out - staying the night (doing something illicit) or

Let alone - leave alone or to indicate somethings less likely

Like to - Almost (rare)

Lick [Noun] - any amount (Ex. Didn’t get a lick of sleep last night)

Lick [Verb] - beat (ex. Steve Licked that soc good)

Musta- must have

Muddin’ (Oklahoman) - off-roading, going down muddy trails

‘N - then/than or and

Naw- no

Neither- not one or other (sometimes used in place of either)

Nuss - To nurse

Okie- native resent of Oklahoma (formerly derogatory during dust bowl)

Ornery- combative, mean

Ought- indicate something correct or probable

Oughta- ought to

Ope- oops

Outta- out or

Preddy sure - pretty sure

Prolly- probably

Pop- soda

Purdy- pretty

Pitch a fit- throw a fit, be really upset

Reckon- think: suppose

Rise- upset someone (ex. He sure got a rise out of her)

Rile- upset someone (ex. Don’t rile up the dog)

Ruther - rather

Shouldn’t’ve- shouldnt have (double negative)

Shoot- polite way to say shit : go ahead and speak

Sho’ nuff - sure enough

‘Sides - besides

s’not - it’s not/is not

s’okay - it’s okay

Sorta- sort of

Sprinklin’ - light rain

stocking feet - wearing just socks

Sumbitch - son of a bitch

Tailing- follow without being noticed

The city - Oklahoma City (even if you live in Tulsa. ‘The city’ is Oklahoma City)

Tore up - upset

Twister- Tornado (used to be more regional)

Upitty- conceited, fancy, snobby

Welp - well or expression (ex. Welp, I better head out)

Whup/whoop- hit

Whipped- beaten

won’tcha = won’t you

Y’all - you all

Yall’re- y’all are

Y’ain’t - you ain’t

Yer - your

-

Grammar-

The more I added to the list the more I realized writing for the gang is just as much learning to write accent than it is slang, it’s the way they talk and that includes grammar etc. Im going to try and explain some points that I’ve noticed in an understandable way, but it’s also important to note that these rules don’t apply every time necessarily.

Using the wrong word

less words in certain sentences (ex. Don’t mean nothin’)

With above, fewer words to describe things.

Drop the G occasionally (ex. Nothin’ )

Adding ‘d instead of saying ‘would (ex. Soda��d)

Real> really (descriptive)

Anybody > anyone

Weren’t typically goes with a double negative ( ex. weren’t nothing we could do)

Use of ‘you’ (used instead of a name or ‘your’)

Use of ‘was’ instead of ‘were’ ( ex. I knew you was)

Both Aren’t and isn’t become ain’t (sometimes even more)

A LOT OF CONTRACTIONS

Combing words - either a new contraction or new spelling to emphasize accent, especially around questions (ex. ja'eet yet?)

Use of expressions/idioms (ex. That dog won’t hunt)

[turtlecleric]

Future Leo aka Leon time babeyyyy; NSFW with juuust a splash of angst.... juuuuuust a smidge... don't worry about it. :)

I think this is technically a part two but you don't necessarily have to read part one to know what's going on. Part one!

CWs (spoilers, as always): misunderstanding, dub con? Ummmm bad ending??

-

Leon had thought it would be… better, somehow, once his younger self finally made a move. He'd thought that it would be enough, that he would be satisfied, knowing you were happy.

He was wrong.

His room is far too close to Leo's. He can hear every pretty little noise you make in the middle of the night when everyone else is asleep, and it drives him crazy.

He can't help comparing what he hears to what he remembers. He knows Leo is young. Inexperienced. But- but Leon could do so much better. He's always been insatiable, but listening to you moan down the hall, and remembering the way he used to make your legs shake, and imagining the way your eyes might roll back as you come on his cock - if you'd just let him show you how much better he could be - it has him dropping into his hand almost every night.

He knows it's just a fantasy, imagining himself with you again. You're with Leo, not him - and that's the way it should be. He didn't come back to the past to get a second chance with you or to take happiness away from his younger self. He came to help stop the invasion, and that's exactly what he did. This is his happy ending. He shouldn't wish for more.

And yet-

Leon breathes in slowly. Deeply. The air is thick with the scent of alcohol and strawberry flavoring. A few untouched jello shots still sit on the little table in front of the couch, but there are far more empty shots littering the living room. He shouldn't be staring, but with everyone passed out, he can't find a good enough reason to stop himself.

You're leaning on the arm of the couch, with your head tilted at an odd angle. That's going to give you a hell of a crick if you stay like that. Sleeping half-sitting up can't be comfortable. And you're still dressed in those clothes… they don't look comfortable, either. Much too tight. Not breathable. He has lots of big shirts he could loan you. Soft ones that would probably fit you like nightgowns.

His chest feels tight, but there's no time to think about what that means. You're not comfortable, and he can fix it. There's only one right answer here.

You melt into him when he picks you up, and a little sigh flows out of you. He knows you're practically catatonic, but the way you nuzzle your head against his plastron, like this is where you belong - it makes that tight feeling in his chest twist into something piercing and heavy.

He ignores it. Carries you to Leo's room and carefully lays you on the bed. After a quick trip to his own subway car, Leon returns with a plain blue t-shirt and hovers for a moment, rubbing the fabric between his fingers and watching you sleep as he considers his options.

He knows you'd like wearing it. It’s that texture that you love - all of his shirts are - but he doesn't want to disturb your rest, either. He sighs, sitting on the edge of the bed, and whispers your name. You don't respond, and your eyes stay closed. He says your name a little louder, but it isn't until he brushes his knuckles across your cheek that a raspy hum eases out of you.

“You wanna change into something more comfortable?” he murmurs, his knuckles sweeping feather-light over the skin just beneath your lashes.

You take a deep breath, whining in the back of your throat on the exhale as your face scrunches up in a pout. It's so cute, and it's so you, and the piercing feeling stabs a little deeper. He has to swallow down the affection that bubbles up in his chest.

“Come on, you'll feel better once you've changed.” He takes your hand and holds the shirt against it. “See?”

Your fingers close around the shirt, your face relaxing at the texture. You mumble something incoherent in response, and Leon chuckles and pats your arm.

“I know. Now get dressed.”

A grumpy sound slips out of your throat, but you do start to move your hands, so Leon nods to himself and stands. He'll check on you later, he thinks, to make sure you actually changed and didn't fall asleep as soon as he left.

“Wait,” you croak, and he pauses, turning back to see your shorts pulled low on your hips. His eyes go a little wide, seeing the lacy blue underwear that peeks out from the top.

“Can't-” a frustrated huff “-will you help?”

Will he help? That's- that is- not appropriate for him to-

“Please?”

Fuck. Fuck.

Leon swallows, hesitating near the doorway and staring between the peek of blue and your pleading face. He should leave.

But your eyes are open. You see that it's him. If you're okay with it… honestly, you asked him to help you. Right?

…Right.

He turns. Walks back to the bed. Hovers, standing over you and watching as you try and fail to pull your shorts down. He feels his heart hammering against his plastron, banging against it like it's trying to escape. He wonders if it's trying to get closer to you or farther away.

He really, really can't tell.

His hands move the next time you whine in frustration. Shaky fingers unbutton the shorts and grip the sides before pulling them down, and fuck fuck fuck. Your scent intensifies and hits him like a punch to the jaw. He wants to-

You're trusting him here. It's not your fault that he's… feeling like this. You need help, that's all. And he's here to help you.

That's all.

You move suddenly, pulling the bottom of your shirt up, and the moment he sees your matching blue bra he forgets how to breathe. You try to shimmy out of your shirt, but you're too uncoordinated and it gets stuck on your head. For a long moment, he's frozen. Watching your body squirm weakly and your chest rise and fall and your skin glow under the soft blue LED lights of the room.

You say something else that he doesn't understand. He's still not breathing when he reaches down to help you pull the shirt all the way off. It's stupidly easy to do, which reminds him that you are so very drunk right now.

Okay. Okay. Focus.

Leon reaches for his shirt, maneuvering it in his hands so that it'll be easier to pull over your head, but then you start to arch your back and reach behind you and- you're taking your bra off.

He drops the shirt, his hands flying forward to press down on your arms so you don't have the room to keep going. “What are you doing?!”

“Can't sleep with…” You blink, squinting at him like he's the one doing something strange. “Uncomfy.”

He stares down at you, incredulous, his mouth hanging open. You arch again, trying to undo the clasps, and he yanks his hands back and turns away. Jesus Christ. You're way too comfortable with him right n-

“Hey.”

Stupidly, so, so stupidly, he turns to look at you. Your chest is bare, and you're reaching for him.

You're reaching for him.

How could you not get your shirt off by yourself but somehow manage to get your bra off?

Focus. Focus. Breathe. Actually, don't breathe, that makes it worse. Get the shirt. Where the fuck is the shirt? He dropped it. Okay, just pick up the shirt and-

“C'mere,” you murmur, your hands brushing against him as he bends down. It's like an electric shock when you touch him, and he can't help but move where you want him to, like his soul is on a leash that only you can tug on. Your hands cup his face, pulling him closer, and god, you smell so good, and you're so beautiful, and your lips are so soft. You taste just like he remembers, here. He lets you pull him even closer, the room blurring around him as he climbs on top of you.

This is- he shouldn't-

You make a soft sound against his lips. His hands grip your sides, sliding up and down. Another soft sound, and it’s like a balm to the ache in his chest. It sounds like everything he's wanted for years, everything he's wanted since you-

You bite his bottom lip, gently pulling it with your teeth. Your eyes are closed, but he can still see the mischief that used to dance in them. You kiss him again, and again, and he lets you. Over and over and over, he lets you, and he kisses you back, and he ignores the alarm bells in his head.

“Take care of me?” you whisper, and how could he say no? How could he do anything but what you've asked him to do? He would do anything for you. Anything at all, if you asked.

“Of course, pretty thing.” The nickname slips out without his permission, but you smile when he says it, so that must mean it's okay. He kisses you again, slow and languid, and churrs when you sigh happily.

You asked, he reminds himself, shoving the alarm bells away. You asked.

He uses his metal arm to hold himself up and pulls back, watching you. Your eyes are barely open, but they flutter all the way closed when he uses his flesh arm to cup your breast, rubbing his thumb across your nipple.

There it is. That pretty little sound he's been hearing late at night. A breathy, high-pitched thing that he only wants to hear more of. Leon leans down, taking your other nipple between his lips and sucking gently. After a few moments, your legs come up, settling on either side of him, and he shifts down to press his nose to your panties.

“Smell so fucking good,” he groans, licking the fabric that covers you. It's unreal how good you smell, and when he pulls your panties to the side and licks another stripe, the broken “please” that comes out of you removes all conscious thought from his brain.

You taste so good. Make such pretty sounds. Grind against his face just like he remembers. His tongue slides inside of you easily, and it's far too soon before you start babbling like you always do when you're close.

He drops the moment you come, but he needs you to come again. Needs it. He pulls back just long enough to remove your panties, then loses all sense of time, loses himself in your scent and your taste until you come a second time. Only then does he finally pull his own pants down and line himself up.

You take his cock all at once, despite his size, and an involuntary growl vibrates in his chest when he's fully seated inside you. You feel so fucking good, just like always, always so good for him. Taking him like you were made for it. Wet and tight and warm, making those breathy little whines, and fuck, fuck, he missed you. He missed you so much.

He presses his thumb against your clit, rubbing in quick little circles while he fucks you into the mattress. He can't make himself slow down, but you're taking it so well, so well, just like always. There's nothing but you and him and this, nothing but the way you feel around him and the fireworks exploding in his mind. You're so fucking perfect, in every way, and you're everywhere and everything, and he can't-

Somehow he manages to hold out until you come again, but the moment you do he's spilling inside you, trying to press even deeper. Gripping your hips like you'll disappear if he lets go. Kissing you again and again, like he can only breathe if his mouth is against yours.

Slowly, his brain puts itself back in his skull. Breathing hard, pressing his forehead to yours, he waits until his cock fully retracts on its own before he pulls away from you. Your skin is flushed, a dreamy expression on your face. He leans down and kisses your nose, and the content hum you make is almost enough to keep the rapidly approaching wall of guilt from crushing him.

He… shouldn't have done this. You shouldn't have done this. What about L-

“Oh my god,” you whisper, your words slurring and raspy. “That was… incredible.”

You sound almost surprised, but more importantly you sound exhausted. He sighs, forcing his thoughts away and pressing another kiss to your forehead, then looks around the room. It's less than a minute before he finds Leo's stash and starts to clean you up. You've gone boneless on the bed, and you let him clean you without protest, let him slip his shirt over your head and pull your panties back on. Once that's done and he gets you under the covers, you look like you're on the very edge of sleep.

He kisses your forehead once more. Then again, just because he finally can. They'll need to talk about things in the morning, when everyone is fully awake and sober, but for now you just need-

“Thanks,” you say, so soft and quiet that he almost misses it. “Love you, Leo.”

Leon freezes. His blood turns to ice, waves of growing horror rushing through his veins as he processes what you just said.

Leo. Leo.

You thought he was-

He staggers away from the bed, watching you fall into an easy sleep with wide eyes.

No. No, no, no, no, no. He thought you- he thought-

No.

-

Tag list: @yorshie @khayalli @thejudiciousneurotic @justalotoffanfiction @luckycharms1701 @mxalmighty @shakeyourtrees @silverwatergalaxy @thelaundrybitch

[multi-fxndom446]

Lullaby

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Reader

Warning: literally just so much fluff, you’re welcome. He is already unmasked here.

Summary: Simon loves when you sing to him.

Word count: 1.1K

This was requested by @offbrandmeowmix I hope I did you request justice🫶🏻

To say Simon was tired was an understatement. He was exhausted, sore and overall just felt like collapsing where he stood.

All he had on his mind as he unlocked the door to his apartment was his bed. All he wanted to do was fall onto it and go to sleep and he was certain there was nothing in the world that could deter him from doing exactly that.

He was so confident in that up until the moment he closed the door behind him. He rested against it for another moment trying to gain courage to move forward but then stopped all together when he heard it.

Your sweet voice drifting through the usually quiet apartment. His mind that was once made up on his bed was now set on seeing you.

From the sounds of it you were practicing a song on the piano he had. A piano he had bought solely so you would sing more in his apartment, so you could fill the silence that used to consume him.

Not that he would ever admit it.

He walked up behind you as quietly as possible to not startle you, lest you stop playing. He underestimated every time how lost you got while singing and you didn’t hear a thing.

He watched you as you played through the song, eyes closed as you swayed in your seat softly. His eyes glanced over the little piano that wasn’t at all what you deserved.

One day, he’d buy you a grand piano. He’d put it in the living room of the house the both of you would live in. He could imagine it now, your voice floating through the house while your future kids watched in astonishment.

He watched you in utter adoration, any pain or soreness he had been feeling was long gone the longer he gazed at you.

Now it was his turn to get so lost in your singing that he didn’t notice when you turned to him. He only realized when he heard you gasp and bring a hand to your heart.

“Simon!” You let out a deep breathe. “When did you get home I wasn’t expecting you-?”

The moment your eyes connected with his he dropped his bag and kneeled to the ground. His arms wrapped around your waist as his head fell to your lap and his body immediately relaxed into you.

Your hands quickly came up to run through his hair and he let out a sigh of content. “Rough day?” You asked him softly but he only hummed in response.

His eyes closed while he listened to you hum softly. Something you did often. He learned very quickly that there was hardly ever a moment that you were quiet, you were always singing or humming in some way.

At first he thought it was a bit much. He’d come home and depending on your mood you could either be singing softly to yourself or sometimes he’d be greeted by you singing to him while you ran to him to wrap your arms around him.

He used to think he’d grow sick of it and at first looked forward to the days you’d go home but it immediately changed when he’d come home to cold dark silence.

He thrived on the days when he’d come home and you’d surprise him by being there, the lights on as you continued on with whatever you had been doing. It always lifted a weight off him when he heard you.

“Why don’t we go lay down?” You asked him softly, nails still scratching his head just right. He grunted in disapproval. “Come on, I know this isn’t comfortable for you.”

“I’m comfortable wherever you are.” He muttered against you and you laughed. The sound alone enough to lull him to sleep. He would spend the rest of his days making you laugh, just to hear the sweet sound everyday.

When you noticed the way his breathe started to grow shallower as he fell asleep you nudged him. As much as you hated waking him up, you knew he wouldn’t appreciate the crick in his neck when he woke up next.

“Alright, c’mon big guy.” You tried with all your strength to pull him to his feet but he was very good at dragging you down with him. “Simon.” You laughed and he let out a reluctant sigh before standing to his feet and letting you drag him to the bedroom.

“Long mission.” He grumbled to you while you pulled off his shirt and let him crawl into bed. You joined him quickly and pulled the blanket closer while he maneuvered so he was laying between your legs, his head on your stomach while his arms wrapped themselves back around your waist. “Sing to me?”

You smiled, fingers carding through his hair again. He never asked for you to sing to him so you knew he must be tired.

The comforting silence was drowned out by your soft voice singing a lullaby. Instantly he felt the tendrils of sleep wrapping around him like a warm hug.

As silly as it was, the lullaby you were singing to him was ‘you are my sunshine.’ Something he may have felt embarrassed about had it not soothed him to sleep so easily.

He was sure if any of his friends saw the display, he’d never hear the end of it but he couldn’t find it in him to care. Not when your hands were still playing with his hair softly and your voice filled his chest with a warmth he had never felt until he met you.

When you finished he took in a deep breathe and asked a question that had been on his mind the moment he realized he hated coming home to an empty apartment.

“Move in with me?” Your fingers stopped and he tightened his hold just a little in anticipation. He wondered if he should take it back say he was kidding, tell you to forget about it. He almost did but then your fingers started up again.

“Okay.” You whispered, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his head.

Simon never thought he’d like to be greeted by someone singing to him but he could not picture the rest of his life any other way.

More specifically, he could not picture his life without you singing to him.

~~

Short and sweet I hope yall enjoyed:)

[golden-eye-ramblings]

Renatus Revol Headcanon Dump Part 1

Woo wooo!! Time for Renatus headcanons! He’s not just a simple delinquent and I intend to convince y’all on why :3c. This will have manga spoilers! Gif credit to @fallinblossoms

————

Renatus Revol

Height: 5’10/180cm

Age: 26

Birthdate: November 1st

Sign: Scorpio

Gender: Cisgender

Pronouns: He/Him

Sexuality: Bisexual

• While Renatus fits into the category of a delinquent brute with how lackadaisical and extreme he can be in terms of delivering punishment. He’s actually quite amicable like Ryoh and Kaldo. He’s just incredibly tired 24/7 due to his role and hasn’t gotten proper sleep in years(except for holidays, which he yearns for every day).

• Has developed the ability to sleep standing upright.

• His favorite food is fast food because it’s the only thing that’s usually available super late at night to eat. My man can NOT cook.

• Conversely his favorite drink is cheap beer because, once again, of how easily accessible it is during late hours.

• He enjoys reading ghost stories because it helps keep him up at night.

• Compared to the others who at least have decent homes or lavish spaces, Renatus lives in a cheap apartment. He still has things in boxes because he’s never had time to go home and truly unpack anything. The first thing one sees when entering his place is a single mattress on the floor, stacks of magazines and books, dirty containers of fast food and empty bottles. Truly a Male Living Space™️.

• Is actually quite the academic, although his memory isn’t what it used to be.

• And speaking of his memory issues. While I am inclined to believe that sleep may be a factor in it, I am also inclined to believe his immortality also plays a role in it.

• While he can regenerate at incredible speeds, it’s not entirely perfect. A crick in the neck? Simple, he just breaks his neck so the bones can set properly again. Back problems? Just break his back, no biggie. After his fight with Doom, his regeneration couldn’t keep up and he lost consciousness. And the healing process was not completely perfect when he came to(huge time shenanigans and mega manga spoilers aside). To summarize, he ended up with brain damage.

• People often think he’s forgetful because he’s just tired or lazy and doesn’t care enough to remember properly. While that’s *partially* true, it’s also because he has yet to really fully grasp how bad it really is. And he’s certainly not being careful with himself either. He’s always had memory issues but his lack of self preservation only exacerbated the problem.

• While he recalls that he gave up his mortality in order to save a girl he loved, he can’t recall if he did in fact save her. Nor even remember her name, or what she looked liked. He doesn’t think on it much in recent times, save for this weird funny feeling he gets in his chest whenever he traces his only scar.

• Renatus’ coworkers have yet to notice how bad his memory has gotten, Agito however has been assisting him in little ways. Such as leaving behind notes and helping him grab lunch and remind him of important events or work related things. He hasn’t noticed the changes fully.

• In terms of closeness with the other Divine Visionaries. He is closest with Agito, amicable with Tsurara, Ryoh and Rayne. Neutral with Orter. And on negative terms with Kaldo and Sophina. He enjoys teasing Sophina the most due to her strict school president like attitude.

• Does not remember Nerey. At all. Repeatedly even after Nerey has introduced himself several times. It’s unclear on whether or not he’s doing this as a bit or because Nerey’s genuinely not interesting enough to be remembered by Renatus.

[lullaebies]

Hey hope you're doing well<3

Could you please write Jaehaerys' funeral ( i know i'm horrible 🥲) where his body will be burned like Targaryen rituals? Everyone is waiting for Helaena to say dracarys but she stands still so Aegon steps up and says it

I first have to tell you that this is insane brain twinning because because I have written this exact scenario in a reddit comment before, I gasped when I saw your ask!! wish I had a screenshot omg. Also writing this made me super emotional - I hope this heavy dosage of angst will hit well! —

The boy is laid in an unlit pyre, pale body surrounded by blue flowers that are more alive than him.

Forget-me-nots, are what those gentle blue blossoms are called. Helaena is as pale as the corpse she has been overwatching, the crowd surrounding the area just an illusion to a soul already departed, but in her state she still managed to yell her son deserved to have his favorite flowers around him.

Aegon didn’t know those were his son’s favorite flowers. They are unremarkable in color, dainty in shape; perhaps if he had known before, he would’ve been able to appreciate them some, but seeing them now, this way, makes him want to order every single one in the Seven Kingdoms to be plucked out of the ground.  

He dares not voice that order aloud. The ratcatchers dying didn’t clear out the shame, and tearing at flowers will not do so either. The weight of the boy would have been so light to carry in his arms, but now it is heavier than he could ever lift. The guilt made certain of it. And yet his own wife feels it a tenfold, he knows.

Helaena is by his side, but only Dreamfyre croaks and cries beside him; only Sunfyre answers to her. Mother is holding onto Maelor, conveniently far enough apart from them, enough so her daughter wouldn’t break into tears. Jaehaera found herself in the hands of a grandsire, face deep in his shirt, unable to look towards the pyre. He almost wishes he had any option to do the same, to try and forget — but no, there is no place for it, not anymore.

They have a septon read some blessings, before the boy is to be cremated. It’s a farce of a thing, to have anyone believe that the Seven who are One would bless his son in any way when the Crone already led his murderers to him, when the Mother did nothing when his head was sliced off. He almost wishes the septon was the one to be burned instead. But a sacrifice of a raggedy old man won’t bring a lively boy back.

When the man of the Faith finishes, Targaryen blood is due to say the final word, only they able to make the dragons lay one’s soul to rest. Helaena has switched out of that darned, bloody dress to say it; she bathed and combed her hair and wore her crown for this alone. He keeps himself quiet as he waits for her to say it. Aemond and Daeron are glaring daggers at anyone who dare show even the slightest impatience. Dreamfyre approaches, craning her neck above them. He thinks Helaena has steeled herself finally, and he sees her mouth move open, but it opens to no sound, and when it does give one, it is only a sob. Her shoulders turn as if to cave into themselves and he has to hold her arm to keep her still. She’ll drown them all with her tears before she burns the last remnant of their son.

She has been made to make that call once, already. To say what a mother should never say, and now she must say goodbye to a boy who should’ve been the one to see her off, many many years from now. She opens her mouth, but she cannot speak; Aegon doesn’t know if she’ll ever trust her own words again.

She looks to him when he touches her, the puffy bloodshot eyes being daggers of their own. Daggers, swords, scorpion bolts and all — and all they do is ask for mercy. I can’t, they say.

His eyes are pooling with tears as well, and Aegon swallows his emotions one by one. I can’t, either, he wants to say, it is my fault, his mind supplies. But then the silence around them is unbearable, and the crick in his neck reminds him of the crown they lost the boy for. Sunfyre approaches closer, without him saying a word, and he knows his choice is gone. This I must do.

His lip trembles in contempt. For who? The whole world perhaps, he thinks for a moment. This whole world that still breathes when he never had any air to begin with. May be only for myself. 

Aegon looks at the boy, one last time. To remember the face that has been sown back to the body, the cheeks that he has only ever pinched for moments brief, the brows that have once rose so high when he asked his questions, the lips that made his pouts just like his, full but sullen. But he at least knew how to make them into a bright smile, too.

“Dracarys.”

The golden rays made of fire envelop the pyre whole; Helaena’s face comes to hide against his arm, but Aegon is unable to look away. The blue flowers are scorched into ash, mixing with his remains. Forget-me-nots.

He won’t forget. Aegon knows his son will haunt him until he meets him once more, and he hopes he does. He hopes he chases after him the same way he used to chase him down the halls of the Keep, unrelenting and determined to remind him what he is supposed to be.

I’ll listen, this time. The father you’ll meet next would be one that avenged you, Jaehaerys.

[katatonicimpression]

Prompt 59for sambucky!

Send me Prompts!

The last on in my inbox! I am so sorry this took me forever. And also sorry because heads up this is Divorce Era™ content.

“I’m in Nola right now,” Sam said, from the back of a taxi in Washington, DC.

He regretted the lie, but this meeting with Ross was beyond secret. Sam did not like the man one bit, but he wasn’t an idiot. You stick to the rules as best you can when the guy telling what to do owns the DOJ. 

Or at least, you do until they give you no choice. But Sam wasn’t in the mood to commit treason… again… at least not this week.

“What about you, you still in DC?” He asked through the phone.

“Nah, New York.”

The taxi moved forward a few feet, then stopped in traffic again. It had taken them five minutes just to travel half a block, which sucked, although it had given Sam a good long time to look at the coffee shop over the road, and the chairs and tables outside of it. Sitting at one of those tables was Bucky.

“...came home last night, actually,” Bucky continued and Sam could swear he could make out his mouth forming the shape of the words from where he was sitting.

The thing is, Bucky had called him. He started this. Did he call him just to lie to him?

“How’ve you been, you good?” Bucky asked.

“Yeah, good. I’m fine,” Sam lied again. “Things are good.”

Things were not good. How could they be when Sam was stuck in gridlocked traffic, probably running late for a coerced meeting with the goddamn president, and was inexplicably on the phone with his ex making small talk while they both lied about their whereabouts.

“How about you?” He asked, instead of any of the questions he wanted to ask (such as, “why did you call me?” and “the fuck is your problem?���).

“Can’t complain.”

Now that sounded like a lie, like he wasn’t even trying to sound happy. He looked a mess too, not that Sam felt good for thinking it. His suit looked awful, and he needed a haircut. He looked tired too, as much as Sam could make out over this distance.

Sam wondered if he missed him.

Because he missed Bucky, despite everything. Especially right now. For all Bucky would pout and glare and probably make the situation worse - for all the ways that Bucky’s skill set was not remotely suited to this kind of situation (navigating the ins and outs of the US military industrial complex) - Sam knew he would feel better if he was sitting there next to him.

Not that he’d ever admit that.

“I was thinking,” Bucky began.

The taxi lurched forward again and Sam had to turn in his seat. He could still see Bucky through the back window. The driver threw him a look in the rearview mirror.

“I was thinking I could come down to Louisiana at some point.”

Oh? He was seriously trying it on again?

“Just as friends,” Bucky added, and Sam didn’t really believe him. 

The taxi started moving in earnest and Sam got one final glimpse of Bucky before they turned the corner, too far to really read anything in his face.

Sam turned back to face the front, rubbing at the crick in his neck.

“I’ve got plans this weekend,” he said, which was sort-of true. He suspected this Ross thing would take up his time for a few days at least. The next part was another lie, though. “And next week, we’ve got to to this wedding, one of Cass and AJ’s cousins on their dad’s side.”

“Oh.”

“Raincheck?”

“Yeah, I’d… I’d really like to see you. I’m just so busy right now.”

Busy, evidently, with things he either wouldn’t or couldn’t tell Sam about. Sam knew it would be hypocritical to be mad at him for it. Besides, he had enough valid reasons to be mad at him outside of the secrecy and/or lies.

“Sam?”

“Yeah.” Sam swallowed, something ugly and painful caught in his throat. “Yeah, I’d love to see you too, I just don’t know if I can.”

“We’ll find time.”

“No, I mean…”

He meant he didn’t know if he could bear it.

“Look, I gotta go,” he said, instead.

[kmackatie]

dearest katie! might I request "pattern" or "shiny" for a March prompt? would love a musicians au continuation or a certain wip (waggles eyebrows) but no presh either way 🥰🥰🥰

my lovely Kat! this is in my mind musicians au verse!

(ask me a March writing prompt)

Essek hears him coming. It wasn't that hard when he had lived here for so long. If it was quiet, he could hear the elevator ding, could hear the shuffle of feet and the rattle of keys, and it didn't take long to learn the pattern of Caleb. Caleb liked to have the keys out before the elevator opened; he's observed this on many occasions, and Essek thinks he would be able to pick the sound of Caleb's keys and keyrings out of a lineup of just different sets of keys. Then, would hitch his bag up as he made his way down the corridor, and depending on the shoes he was wearing, would make a certain sound with the cadence of his walk. It also helped that Frumpkin's head would dart up when he heard the same patterns. Essek is slouched in the armchair next to the couch, legs out in front of him, head resting uncomfortably low to the point of causing a crick in his neck, and his phone is held out dangerously above his face. The slouch got steadily worse across the afternoon, and now at this point, he is one with the chair and moving seems like a monumental effort to go to when he could just stay here. Frumpkin hears him coming too, the alert ears a moment before he leaps off the cat tree near the floor-to-wall windows and he skids across the floor to the door. Caleb's keys rattle in the look, fumbling a moment, before it turns and the door opens. "Ah, hallo Frumpkin. "Essek?" This Caleb calls louder, the sounds of bags being set down on the counter, keys following a moment later, and then the refrigerator door. One, two, three. "In here," he calls out, voice oddly strained from the angle. More sounds, Caleb's jacket coming off and being hung on the chair, the pause as he toes off his shoes, and the slight dance he has to do around a Frumpkin who wants to be picked up. But eventually, he makes it to Essek. Lips press to his forehead, before Caleb chuckles, his breath warm. "This cannot be comfortable." "It isn't." "Why are you sitting like this then, hm?" "I was waiting for you." It's the truth, though Essek could have chosen the actual couch but by the time he had that realisation, it was already too late. "Essek." "I'm making my mother proud." Caleb snorts, before stealing Essek's phone right from his hands quicker than he can react. "You can continue to make her proud later. Come, I have something you'll like."

[operationslipperypuppet]

Top five hardshine moments, excluding Moonshine’s distress signal and “how long do half elves live”? (I love those but. We all love those and I’d like to think about some more.)

Absolutely valid restrictions. This is hard bc there are so many.

1. Hardwon asking Moonshine if he can move to the Crick, in the Bahumia epilogue. It’s foundational. He’s staring at the ground and kicking dirt. She’s so taken aback that she can’t express how much it means to her. Emily cried about how she was unable to say the right thing on her way back from the grocery store. And, if you are me and choose to believe they talked about their feelings in the 200 years between c1 and c3 (they near certainly didn’t), it sets up something more happening, post adventure.

2. “If i had to come back as anything I’m glad I came back as half of you”. The whole reincarnate. They really went off with that one. Did the absolute most. Half elf since I met you. The whole shebang.

3. Jake’s casual reveal that Hardwon’s contingency letter was to Moonshine. The fact that when he was staring down near certain death, she was who he wanted to leave a parting note to. “What rhymes with love?” Fucking wild.

4. The kisses in the Queen Ezra fight. Maybe it’s because I just listened to it but it was more intense than I remembered. He does it to try to help her. “I think she can save herself”. She gives him a quick kiss right after waking up. They never speak of it again. Chef’s kiss.

5. The moment in Apocalypse (I think) (it’s somewhere around that episode) (could also be split the party) when Moonshine turns to Hardwon and says something to the effect of “who would have thought we’d end up here”. It’s very much Moonshine and Emily giving herself a moment to acknowledge internally that she loves Hardwon to me. Because she’s always party focused. And singling out Hardwon is deliberate.

Honorable mention to Hardwon’s “Moonshine if you’re listening I’ll be there tomorrow. I’ll be there soon” from C3 E44. Because he could have tried to reach out to either of them. But he addressed Moonshine. Of course he did.

[hurlumerlu]

Trust the process.

a short THK fanfic

Turkish baths have their uses. They’re factory-like in ways he can’t quite explain, and suffocating, both literally and metaphorically – every room quick to make the doors disappear if you turn your back on them – but they have their uses. Kant should probably find a kinship with the place.

"So?" The captain asks.

"So I’m making progress," Kant replies. Sweat drips down his face, slow and unpleasant.

Why people sweat for fun is entirely beyond him: he’s rarely keen to do anything if the AC isn’t on, and his over-reliance on snake brand powder has his little brother calling him grandma and Bison nuzzling into his armpits – Bison likes the smell. He hasn’t said so, but he’s a show don’t tell kind of guy.

"That means you don’t have anything."

"It means I have his trust."

"So I heard."

Something icy slithers into the steam room, sliding up his spine, around his throat. He clears it, best he can: "You bugged the tattoo shop."

It’s not a question, not an accusation either. It’s nothing.

"For the biggest case of my entire carreer? Of course I bugged the tattoo shop. Don’t get all precious on me now."

Kant lowers the arm that had, without his imput, raised protectively to cover his chest.

"I must say, though," continues the captain. "Little Bison’s not quite what I expected."

Of course he’s not. His outfits seem almost designed to bring other scenarios in mind, of authoritative hands forcing young delinquents to confront their own inocence. Kant’s not opposed to that kind of porn, he’ll jerk off to anything, but he’s been the delinquent often enough that the whole thing has lost its mystique. Bison’s warm, awe-struck eyes at Kant’s pain, however? That’s something else.

And the captain heard.

No.

Listened.

"So what is this, exactly, Chris? Do you regret not taking me up on my offers, now that you’ve heard me moan?"

Kant’s on his feet, which is a bad idea – it doesn’t do well to tower over the man who has you by the balls. He hadn’t been too proud to beg when he had been caught red handed, wrist-deep in the wires of some billionaire’s car. He’d offered every services he knew how to perform, plus a few he had yet to learn. The captain had other plans for him, and not enough appetite to use and strong-arm him, but it still hangs between them, at least on Kant’s side: a distant, detached sort of shame. He hadn’t looked directly at it in years.

"Don’t be absurd," the captain sighs. "I’m worried about you."

It’s a new one, but Kant isn’t stupid: he knows a threat when he hears one. "Why?"

"Will you sit down? I don’t want a crick in my neck."

"You know I could do that kind of job with my eyes closed."

"I asked you to sit down."

The captain has the most unnerving gaze. It’s too soft, like his voice. He never, ever sounds unkind. Kant sits

"You think this is the first time I fuck a mark? I have it under control."

"But it can be intoxicating, can’t it? This level of trust."

"It’s what I do. On your orders, it’s what I do."

"I know."

"So what’s different?"

"You tell me," the captain almost smiles.

"Then I'm telling you: nothing’s different. You just hadn’t seen how I work before. If I don’t give a real part of myself, how can I expect anyone to take the bait?"

"Is it what’s happening?"

"You know I’m doing this for my brother." It’s the single dirtiest thing he’s ever done, bringing the kid into this. The cold feeling around his neck turns oily and viscous. Sweat. It’s just sweat. "You think I’d throw away his future for a pretty piece of ass?"

There’s a hand patting his tigh, right before the captain gets up.

"Alright, Kant." He always pronounces it can’t. "As long as you’re careful. Let’s say I trust you for now."

[viridiave]

❤️💚💀 for the ask game 👀👀

Hi Sly!! Thanks for the ask!! Gonna assume this is about the 8path games lmao

❤️: Which character do you think is the most egregiously mischaracterized by the fandom?

I'm not sure tbh - rather than mischaracterized I think Ochette tends to be handled carelessly? And it kind of frustrates me that this isn't COMPLETELY the fandom's fault, because canon doesn't really treat her much better despite having good potential. There's a lot about Ochette's character that I wish was explored on a deeper level, like her general philosophy on forming ties and using her love of food for something deeper than a quirk of her character - they ALMOST had it with how her Chapter 3 ended, but to me she didn't amount to being much more than like. The Christian kid in Filipino movies who tells the adults to stop fighting because it's silly (if you know, you know).

Other than Ochette I think Ogen gets bad credit sometimes too. Like I get that logistically speaking his license should be revoked but honestly looking at Alfyn's Chapter 3 and what he's supposed to represent to Alfyn, he WORKS - he's a jaded man whose ideals were shaken and this drove him down a morally complicated route, using his talents to render judgement as he sees fit. He's someone who clashes with Alfyn (who would beat the hell out of thugs if he really needs to but still ultimately turn the other cheek and heal them once he gets everything he needs) on a fundamental level - something that Alfyn was bound to face EVENTUALLY. I don't think Alfyn's Chapter 3 (and really. Alfyn's story in general) would have worked nearly as well without him and Miguel together.

💚: What does everyone else get wrong about your favorite character?

Damn I can't even pick who my favorite is. But I guess if I REALLY had to say something, I think how Crick's devotion to Temenos tends to be portrayed misses the mark on his relationship to him. Vice-versa too if I'm gonna be particularly nitpicky about things. As much as I enjoy Temenos and Crick's dynamic, there's a lot more broiling underneath the surface between them both - one such thing is like. The deeper implications and meaning behind Crick's devotion to the Sanctum Knights and why he's so quick to defend its name. We KNOW he wasn't raised in faith, faith saved HIM - and this does a LOT of mean things to his psyche. What Temenos does to him is cruel and tough but ultimately NECESSARY. I'd like to see more turbulence between them, that's honestly what makes their relationship so interesting to me - not because Temenos is some forbidden unknown that enters Crick's life, but because Temenos plays an active part in SHATTERING everything that was keeping Crick afloat in the years following him abandoning his old life.

Edit: on the Temenos doing cruel things bit I mostly refer to his subtler attempts at breaking Crick's rose-tinted view of the Church - starting with himself and the role of Inquisitor. Temenos is kind of the beginning of Crick's existential destruction and the catalyst for his rebirth and growth, if I had to put it to poetic words

💀: If you had to choose one major character to die, who would you choose?

Okay damn this is a hard question. Am I allowed to think about this in a postgame context. Because my honest answer would be either Cyrus or Temenos - like don't get me wrong, I love both of them to bits, but in my brain it just makes sense to me that out of their respective parties, they'd be the first ones to kick the bucket? It's hard to explain but if I was gonna kill anyone off in a fanfic they'd definitely be the easiest ones to come up with a reason for.

Cyrus I'm picking because I just think that regardless of how selfless anyone else in the party could be, in a life or death situation - he'd be the quickest one to make the hard decision, if he thinks that's the best solution to the problem at hand. Temenos more or less has the same reasoning for me but for him it'd also just be so much meaner to have him watch everyone ELSE die first, so I feel like in a script he'd die first just to spite my expectations.