#its just like... i dunno man... skin feels bad

[smytherines]

sorry, had a sensory and now my skin feels bad

[fear-is-truth]

MDNI | gn!reader. dirty talk. gunplay. suggestive

WADE WILSON has a lot of bad habits. running his mouth, for one. killing people, obviously. but his worst—his absolute favourite—is fucking with you. which is why you’re not even surprised when the cold press of a gun barrel kisses your cheek. ��aww, will you look at that,” he croons, his voice jovial. chillingly, unnervingly sane. “a little bead of sweat right there—uh oh, is somebody nervous? or is it just my devastatingly sexy charm? i mean, i do have the face of a sexier ryan reynolds. and, statistically speaking, a bigger dick. not that you needed a reminder.” the barrel of the gun drags lower, tracing the curve of your cheekbone, down your throat, pausing in the dip of your collarbone. steel on skin, a teasing chill that leaves goosebumps blossoming in its wake. “relax, baby. pinky promise, i wouldn’t dream of pulling the trigger.” cue a dramatic pause.

“unless, y’know, you did something really naughty. like—oh, i dunno—ate the last chimichanga. or, worse, called me spider-man.” wade whistled, shaking his head emphatically. “actually, that one might get you shot and edged for hours.” the gun dips lower, skimming between your erect nipples. his free hand follows—hot where the metal is cold, fingertips barely ghosting over your stomach, lower still, grazing your inner thigh before pulling away.

“but real talk, is it fucked up that i’m turned on right now? not in an ‘oops, almost shot my partner’ kinda way, but more like a ‘we should film this and make a small fortune catering to a very specific audience’ kinda way.” the last part is addressed to the side of the wall where the tv is mounted, along with some sort of invisible camera. you roll your eyes, because what the fuck.

“man, this is fifty shades of fucked up. but hey, we like what we like. and i like… you.” his free hand catches your jaw, tilting your head up. the gun clatters to the floor, forgotten, as he leans in and planted a obnoxiously wet smooch to your cheek. he’s hard beneath his red and black tactical suit. you can feel it, thick and hot where he’s pressed up against your thigh.

then, just as quickly, he’s off you, flopping onto the couch with his feet propped on the coffee table. “alright, your turn, hot stuff, make a grown mercenary beg.” he purrs, stretching his arms. “or we can just skip to the part where you climb on top of me and ride me til i see god. no pressure though.” he shoots finger guns and a wink. “unless you like pressure. in which case, i am more than happy-”

“oh my god, wade.” you groan.

“aw fuck yeahh—baby, just like that. moan my name.” another conspiratorial wink at the invisible camera. “hey, kevin feige, buddy, let’s really push that r rating, huh?”

[suempu]

HAI i forgot if i requested this already but can you do hc’s for laios or kabru with amab reader? gn reader is okay if not ❤️

dom reader for laios’ part + switch kabru + tall man reader + nsfw + amab !!!

<3

kabru.

he likes playing a certain push and pull game with you, the art of trying to be the more dominant one whenever you two get intimate. its similar to a wrestling match and a chess game to him, which makes it enjoyable and fun.

although if you asked him which position you’d like to be for the night, he’d agree (but not without a few cheeky teasing, its kabru after all).

he’s roughly your height, about 2-4 inches apart. loves to rest his forehead on yours because of it. just the feeling of closeness and warmth of your skin makes him happy.

like from my previous kabru hcs, he’s very attentive, especially as a lover. hugging, cuddling or just laying your head on his shoulder is your main source of comfort whenever he pulls you away from the party or during alone time.

if you’re as tall as him, he likes to put his head on your chest and just nap. kind of like a cat with the way he nuzzles into you.

regardless if he takes the lead in bed or not, he will always be unfair and cheeky. whenever you come out on top, he’ll be disobedient and bratty. but only in a way that gets you mildly annoyed.

“get on the bed, i’ll prep you.” you smile, huffing as you sit on the edge.

“but what if i don’t want to?”

you frown at him. “its gonna hurt.”

“what if i want it to hurt?”

you gave him a deadpan expression. “get on the fucking bed.”

he’ll laugh it off, he finds it fun to mess with you.

laios.

if you’re tall then he’s like about 4-6 inches higher than you, which is the perfect height for you to give him surprise pecks. you could literally just talk to him normally, look at him and just sneak in a kiss. he’ll need a few seconds to process it, making you laugh before he blushes and smiles.

laios loves your praise of course, especially in bed, but if you say it in a gentle voice, it gets him kinda giddy.

“so behave. thank you, baby.” cooing at him, you rub the space under his eyes.

he’s a grown man and he’s perfectly capable of taking care of himself, but knowing that you love him and that you’re always there to support him will never fail to have an effect on his heart.

he loves to be loved and loves to love (if that makes sense.)

i’ve mentioned it before, how laios would accidentally break some stuff during sex but there was an instance where he scratched your back while squeezing too tight that it lead to you actually spraining a muscle.

he got so guilty afterwards, he refused to touch your dick or any lower part of your body for a whole month. laios was on the verge of tears but you merely laughed it off and kissed his cheekbone.

“i feel so bad. i’m sorry!” he yells hysterically.

you were in front of the mirror, turning around to inspect yourself before smirking at the red marks on your back. “i dunno, i kinda like this one.”

now laios likes being in your lap, not really sitting on it but he lays on it similarly to how a dog would. his torso is on your lap while his head rests on your stomach. he loves the head pats and the affection after all.

[your-nanas-house]

An idea: Tommy has one of his recurring nightmares and YN decides to help him sleep by giving him a blowjob

Dunno who this anon is but I love this kind of ideas so much!! 🙇🏼‍♀️ So thank youuuu 🤗

Just another nightmare

◇ Pairing: Thomas Shelby x wife!Reader

◇ Warnings: smut, handjob, choking, Tommy is a whore here and a sub... so bit ooc!Thomas, nightmare and PTSD and bad writing.

◇ Summary: Tommy wakes up from a nightmare and Y/n helps him calm down.

◇ Note: Sorry for the mistakes and the English.

"Tommy... Tommy—" her soft tired voice called as her hand shook him awake, bringing him back to reality and out of Morpheus's arms so to escape one of his reccuring nightmares.

Thomas never really talked about them with Y/n, preferring to just ignore them or ponder in silence while lighting a cigarette, instead of wasting her time by keeping her up with past crude memories... even though she offered her ear him each time.

"I'm okay" his low voice grumbled out in a dismissing tone, his body still sweating probably in state of shock as it trembled softly, joined by his fast heartbeat.

He wasn't okay, not at all... his mind was playing twisted games on him again and the past was heavier than usual during the night.

And she knew... but there wasn't much she could do if he didn't allow her to enter his mind to try, so to understand the problem better. The young woman kind of lost her patience, adopting a different approach when something like that happened when she was around.

The questioning and the oral support wasn't accepted from Thomas usually... he searched a more physical one even when there was a bit of hesitation at the beginning. But that night... it didn't seem like he would have calmed down with just some cuddles.

Reason because Y/n decided to try with a different physical and oral help.

So her tender hand traveled from his sweaty chest down to his abs and lower before sneaking inside his underwear, earning a shaky breath from Tommy.

The poor man was still a bit under shock, his body sweating cold, his heart hammering against his chest as his jaw remained clenched. Y/n could see his muscles since the moon reflected its light on them in a lovely way, allowing her to start a path of wet kisses from there.

Her beautiful eyes remained closed as her hand lazily pulled slightly down the fabric so to ease the access. Feeling his pre-cum leak on her warm skin when she accidentally brushed his angry red tip.

"Shhhh, everything is okay, love. You are here... in bed with your wife" the young woman started as she pumped his now hard lenght, using her spit to lubricate the action

"At your house in Birmingham... safe and sound... it's just you and me, honey" she purred softly out attempting to calm him down while her hand kept working. Her free one slowly moved Tommy's sweaty palm towards her so that she could place a kiss on his knuckles before sneaking it in the neckline of her nightgown.

As if by reflex, his rough hand grabbed her left breast, kneading it flesh while he felt her heartbeat against his skin.

Her tactic was working, his body was reacting at her touch and his mind was turning off, letting lust take over him... making his heart still beat fast but not due to fear or adrenaline caused by something awful but because of her small hands working his cock.

The feeling was getting intense and Thomas' eyes shot open as he slowly approached his orgasm, his muscles tensed and his back slightly arched while his hand moved away the blanket so that his icy stare could watch his wife work her magic.

The man could see his dick throbbing thanks to the attention and the familiar pre-orgasm feeling was getting more and more noticable. He could feel her soft fingers giving some attention to his balls as well before black dots formed in his view, making him roll his eyes and arch his back even more.

A whoring moan escaped his lips while he shot his seed, dirtying her hand and the sheets. He never came that hard before.

He could hear a whistle in his ear that covered the background noises in the room but not the breathless and impressed curse that left his wife's mouth.

Thomas was about to say something when she shifted, now wide awake, shutting him with her warm tongue which began to clean up the mess he did.

"You should react at my touch like this more often, love" the young woman commented smugly, gagging when he thrusted up his hips with a fake annoyed expression, so that his cock would have shut her up and removed that shit eating grin off her face.

[clubdionysus]

[BAD DECISION #60] Obduracy

warnings: starlovers!!!! <33 i really luv jimin in this one hehehe, lots of callbacks to earlier chapters!! fingering, pretty tame by their standards!!! but kinda semi-public? i mean they're at home but like... kitchen?? i dunno up to you to decide!

a/n: this one doesnt have a little cover image :( had to make it fresh :( the first non wattpad chapter :( waaaa. im hoping to having something new ready for you tomorrow hehehehhe

wc: 8.3K

bd total wc: 540k (ongoing)

AO3 | MASTERLIST | MINORS DNI

Jeongguk wears his hangovers incredibly well. Like an oversized shirt draped over his broad shoulders, it billows down his body, leaving you to guess what's hidden underneath. 

It's hard to tell if he's suffering like you are, for his face gives nothing but contentment away.

Hair messy and dishevelled, it sits like an unruly crown on his head as he washes dishes left from the evening before. A soft smile lingers on his lips as he hums along to the song quietly playing through the kitchen speaker, his voice far prettier than the original singer. The king of his very own kitchen, there's an innate flick to his wrists as he shakes water off steel bowls and pops them on the drying rack. 

Chest bare, he pays it no mind when tiny flecks of warm water splash against his skin.

Vines of ink trail up his arm and onto his shoulder. His self-modification proves he wasn't born from gold but rather polished to resemble something like it. 

In a way, it makes him so much more valuable. Or at least it does to you.

As you watch on from a bar stool on the opposite side of the kitchen island, chatting with him about the events of the night before, you wonder how it's possible for a man with a smile like his to have a body like that. 

The maths just doesn't compute, but you've never been great with numbers. Have always been more drawn to art—and God, what a work Jeongguk is.

Quite the contrary, you wear your hangovers with far less grace. 

There's glitter all over your skin, and your hair looks more like a bird's nest than a crown.

In front of you sits a barely touched glass of water and two Tylenol tablets yet to be taken. The thud in your head has only intensified since you woke up with a dry throat and achy body, but you're trying to push through it. 

"You're only making it worse," Jeongguk softly scolds you when you whine and slump down to rest your head on the countertop. "Don't be so stubborn."

When he talks like that, all assertive and domineering, it only makes you wanna be even more stubborn. It's in part thanks to your defiant nature, but also in part due to your desperation to have him use that tone of voice with you again.

"I can defeat it," you whine against the cold stone, a pathetic moan humming in your throat. 

With your hair still damp from your shower, you find yourself irritated by how quickly Jeongguk's hair dries compared to yours. It's your own fault, for you're the one who insists on changing its colour with the seasons, but it annoys you nonetheless.

Then again, everything irritates you when you're this hungover.

Truth be told, you'd happily get your hair wet all over again, if it meant you got to indulge in another shower with Jeongguk. Want nothing more than to relieve the way it feels for him to shampoo your hair, rubbing the pads of his fingers in circular motions against your scalp. If the restaurant doesn't work out, he could always opt to be a hairdresser, you think, then mentally reprimand yourself for daring to even think of a scenario in which the restaurant doesn't work out. Would never forgive yourself if you jinxed it.

Jeongguk doesn't mind the grouchiness that comes with your hangovers, 'cause they always come with an added side of clinginess, too. You had wrapped around him like a koala bear for that entire shower. Had your cheek to his chest, arms tightly locked around his back, eyes firmly closed as he washed your hair.

Gorgeous girl, he thinks to himself, then resumes the stern telling off he was giving you. Just wants you to feel okay, that's all. Knows you're too determined for your own good, sometimes.

"Clearly," he almost scoffs, not mean but definitely a little curt. His head's killing him, too. He just hides it better. Swinging open the fridge, he grabs a bottle of water—2 litres—and cracks open the seal. "Take your pills, or I won't get you anything when I order breakfast."

"Gguk," you whine, slowly sitting up straight to look at him with the biggest pout. Head tipped back, he's chugging on his water straight from the bottle at such a rate you're surprised he doesn't choke.

By the time he's finished, he's practically at the halfway point of the bottle. Shaking his head, he swallows his last mouthful down. Pants, a little. Says, "Water, pills, now."

Narrowing your eyes, you finally do as you're told, but make sure to say, "You're mean."

Jeongguk just shakes his head. "I love you."

With your eyes on his, you try your hardest not to show any sign of weakness—but when he presses his lips into a thin, curved line and smiles in a way that makes it impossible to fight, you can't help yourself. 

"Fine," you strop regardless, tossing your pills back and swallowing them down with a chug of water.

"See," he softly says in a way that is both patronising yet ever so gentle. 

He walks around the counter to stand beside you, and welcomes the innate way your hand reaches up to hold his waist. He's just the same in how his hand cradles your cheek, keeping your face angled to look up towards him. 

"Wasn't so hard, was it, baby?" He gently toys.

"You're the worst," you assure him, 'cause he knows he's being a little git right now.

And so, just like the last incredibly soft insult thrown his way, he fends it off by saying, "I love you."

"If you really loved me, you would have let me stay in bed."

"We have shit to do today, B," he reminds you. "I forced you up because I love you. Now, don't be rude. Say it back."

Jeongguk's ability to demand you say such heavy, ardent words is nothing short of a miracle. 

When you first met Jeongguk, the idea of him being so straightforward and forthcoming with his own feelings felt like an impossible task. Yet here he is, unafraid to tell you how much he cares for you, and unashamed to ask for reciprocation.

Tugging him a little closer, you rest your pointed chin against his sternum, and get him looking down towards you. 

Quietly, you whisper, "You know I love you."

"Say it again," he demands once more, his heavy-lidded eyes trained on yours as he speaks.

"I love you."

He smiles, now. Nods. 

"Good," he says, then pulls away to grab his phone and open up a delivery app. Has his favourite cafe pinned to the top. Clicks through to the menu without a second thought, muscle memory prevailing. "French toast? Iced coffee?"

"You know me so well," you hum with a pleasant smile, hopping off the bar stool and meandering over to Jeongguk's sofa. 

He follows you without hesitation and tugs the blanket from the armchair as he does so. You're wearing one of his shirts, and he's just in a pair of sweats, so a blanket seems like a sensible choice for now. 

Jimin still hasn't risen from his pit, and Nabi's clothes are still in the living room—just in a neat pile now, thanks to Jeongguk's innate need for a clean space to ensure he can power through his hangover. 

"You reckon they're gonna wake up soon?" You ask Jeongguk as he snuggles in beside you, flicking on the television. 

"Not a chance," he laughs. "Nabi's probably gonna escape out his bedroom window or something like that. Spent years denying there was anything going on, and I don't think her pride will be able to take the hit of being wrong."

"You never know," you begin to playfully theorise. "Maybe they're just friends."

"Have you forgotten getting home last night?"

"Well, yeah, but I mean, I shagged you plenty of times, and we've always just been friends."

"Oh, fuck off," he laughs. "We've never been just friends."

"No?"

"No," he says with a cocksure confidence that has been earned over many months of knowing you as intimately as he does. Smiling as you roll your eyes, you don't bother fighting back. It's a losing cause. "We're best friends. Duh."

If you could have it your way, the day would be spent exactly like this—cuddled up on Jeongguk's sofa without a care in the world—but you've got work to do.

The gallery needs to be cleaned up from the night before. It's not a huge amount of work, but still tedious labour that you'd rather not do with a raging headache. One of the reasons you're given such liberty with the gallery space is because you always make sure it's left without a trace, and so you know you need to get it sorted sooner rather than later.

Jeongguk's offered to help out, 'cause his day is empty. Other than discussing the business with Yoongi, his agenda is remarkably clear, and if he's being honest, the last thing he wants is to talk about the restaurant. 

See, Jeongguk worries. He's got everything in the palm of his hand—his girl, his dreams, his future. All it takes is one misstep, and he could lose everything.

Comfort is found in you. Solace.

"Smell good," he mumbles, nuzzling his nose against the curve of your neck, sinking into a more comfortable position snuggled up against you. Doesn't kiss you, but he does let his lips trail up your skin in a way that promises he eventually will.

"Smell like you," you sweetly reply, 'cause none of your things have made their way into his home yet. The shampoo you use is his. The shower gel, the moisturiser, the suncream. It's all him—and you love nothing more than going home with such innocent reminders of him on your skin.

"Mhm," he confirms. That's exactly why he likes it so much. The silage of you is the signpost of him. "Mine."

Any gap between you (which admittedly isn't much at all) is eliminated with the way Jeongguk drags you into his embrace. It's the kind of hug that can only be described as acceptance: there is no you, nor him. Just the pair of you, together. 

It's dangerous territory to embark upon, with such reliance on another person, but it's also a path that you just can't seem to resist.

Laced in berries, the hedgerows of this rambling walk you're strolling down together keep you going forward. Occasionally, you'll stop. Smell the roses. Pluck a berry here or there. Pause when you hear the noise of a wild beast in the forest that surrounds you, or the threatening echo of a farmer and his gun.

But then forwards, you'll go. Destination, unknown. Wherever you end up is exactly where you'll need to be.

The wait for food is wasted away together, dumb conversations about nothing and anything that comes to mind. Jeongguk toys with your fingers. Plays with your rings. Strokes the pad of his index finger over the small callous on your middle one.

"Used to be worse," you acknowledge, holding up your hand to study it. Back when you were in school, the amount of writing and doodling you did meant a callous was inevitable. Now that you're out of the habit of doodling, and far less likely to spend hours writing by hand, it's softened. Almost looks as if it wasn't even there to begin with. Part of your history that is slowly fading away.

One day, you won't be able to recall any part of your life that isn't inexplicitly saturated by him.

He holds up his own hands. Studies them against yours. It's like some juvenile flirt, comparing hand sizes, as if your legs aren't tangled with his, and his other hand isn't wedged between your thighs. 

You're not learning anything new. Are revising, for a lack of a better term. Just like you used to do with the birds, when you wanted any excuse you could use to be intimate with one another. 

It's different now, you suppose. Intimacy. How you view it. Just isn't what it once was. 

Things that used to be sacred to you are now second nature.

Glancing across to Jeongguk as he natters on about the deep line that runs along his palm, and how it signals he's destined for greatness, you realise there's an ache blooming in your chest. 

His pouty lips rabbit on, dark eyes occasionally fluttering across to you, then back to his hand. 

There's a vulnerability to him. It's his eyes, you think, and their need to check in on you. He's making sure you're listening. Interested. Aren't bored or waiting for him to shut up. It's a somewhat nervous habit of his, stemming from the fact he doesn't ever really talk this much with anyone else. 

In a way that no one else is lucky enough to experience, Jeongguk opens himself up to you. About the big and the bad, the emotional and the heavy, but also about the small, lovely, lightweight things, too. Weather talk, mindless chatter he'd never bother engaging in with other people. 

He talks of superstitions and legends, movies he watched as a kid, and dreams he had overnight—a stream of consciousness, all for you.

See, Jeongguk talks. 

Around you, he talks and talks and talks.

If his mother could see him like this, she'd be gobsmacked. He's always been the more quiet one of her sons. Reserved. Cautious to speak in fear of saying the wrong thing.

But he's childlike in his eagerness to share with you, Bambi eyes wide and sparkling, teeth nibbling down on his bottom lip whenever he leaves enough room for you to respond. 

Time is lost in conversation until his doorbell chimes—a notice of food arriving. 

"Go get changed," you say, tapping on his knee as you get to your feet. "I'll sort out breakfast." 

Nodding, he does as he's told, lightly spanking your ass before heading to his room. Glancing over your shoulder, you feign a little hurt.

"I'll kiss it better," he promises, and you know he will. 

The curse of his devotion to you means he can never lie. 

He can, however, keep secrets. Small ones. Teeny tiny ones that will have no consequence other than to make you melt when he finally reveals them.

Checking his phone, Jeongguk smiles to himself when he notices a notification of confirmation—plans made now rolling into motion. You cope with surprises far better than he does. Appreciate the romanticism of it all. He's sure you'll like it.

When he comes back into the kitchen, you have to hold in a desperate groan. Who gave him the right to look like that? And how many cats did you save from trees in a previous life to deserve it?

Dressed for the gym, he's in a pair of dark shorts that sit on his hips as if they were made just for him. The contours of his upper body are on display for everyone to see, a tight black compression shirt outlining the ridges on his chest. 

The silver chain he always wears is tucked outside of the shirt, 'cause he doesn't like the pressure of the fabric on top of it, and his hair lays flat against his head. He's perfectly undone.

As he's putting on a pair of socks by the sofa, he clocks you staring. Simply hums, "Hm?"

Eyes wide and unassuming, he's oblivious to the fact you feel like you might faint just by looking at him, even if the socks he's putting on have individual spaces for each of his toes.

We can't all be perfect, after all—though Jeongguk would argue his socks encourage correct toe alignment, which could only be a good thing. 

"Anyone ever told you that you're a menace to society?" You painfully whine, the groan you were hiding making its presence known.

Almost bashful, Jeongguk tips his head to the side, eyes twinkling your reflection back at you. 

"Flattery won't convince me to let you go back to bed," he teases, playing off the compliment. Socks on, he makes his way over to you without hesitation, his tattooed arm draping over your shoulders, as he presses a kiss to the side of your head. 

"Was worth a try," you playfully tease him, even if you did mean it. Hooking your arm around his waist, you give him a squeeze and glance up towards him. A tender kiss is given and received, his lips softly curving into a smile against yours. "Eat up. Quicker we leave, the quicker you can get to the gym, and the quicker you can come back to mine afterwards."

The outline of your day is solid: go to the gallery and get it cleaned up, meander back to town with Jeongguk, send him on his way to the gym, pick up some groceries and then head home. 

Small errands that will eat up most of the day, but an empty evening that can be spent exactly as you'd like: with him.

"We at yours tonight?" He hums, still getting used to just how easy it is to coexist next to you. Never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined a life like this. 

"Feel like Jimin might need the privacy," you note, very much aware that he hasn't made a single appearance, which is very unlike him. He's normally reciting lines from The Notebook by this point in the morning.

You know he's fine, 'cause you heard the synthetic ding of his speaker being turned on a little while earlier, presumably to drown out any 'conversations' he might be having. 

Jeongguk smirks, picking out a strawberry from the container next to the french toast, and says, "He never gave us privacy."

Tossing the strawberry to his back teeth, there's a smile on Jeongguk's lips that's impossible not to mirror. Turning slightly, you get yourself trapped between his body and the kitchen island. Wrap your arms around his neck. Encourage him down to nudge his nose against yours.

"Yeah, but he also never caught us having sex," you remind Jeongguk, lips brushing against his. Breakfast can wait. Or maybe the menu can just change. "We were incredibly well-behaved as far as he's concerned."

"We were?" Jeongguk quietly flirts, his hips pressing against your tummy, letting you know just how much he enjoys being with you. "I don't think you've ever been well behaved."

"Oh, but I am," you simper right back. Reaching down for his hands, you encourage them to roam your body. Squeeze them over your chest, then encourage them down to the tops of your thighs—or, more specifically, between them. "I'm such a good girl for you, aren't I?"

Pressing his fingers up against your thinly-covered cunt, Jeongguk smirks, the subtle markers of your arousal greeting him like they so often do.

"You are," he nods. "And you're gonna be good for me now aren't you?" His fingers hook the lace of your underwear to the side, and gently begin to tease your wet folds. "Gonna keep it nice and quiet for me, huh?"

Nodding, you let yourself succumb to your unbridled desire to have your lips on his as he sinks his middle finger into your cunt. With a small whine, you totally disregard the promise you've only just made.

And so Jeongguk shakes his head, still kissing you. Barely parts from your lips when he says, "Shush, shush, shush, baby. Quiet for me."

When he pushes a second finger into you, your brows furrow, but the whine you're dying to sound out just vibrates into his mouth. 

"Attagirl," he praises as his fingers begin to pump inside of you. Deepening his kisses, Jeongguk strokes his tongue against yours, as if your body was just made for him to claim. Signed, sealed, delivered: his. Your hips roll into his movements, but it's not enough. 

As much as he wants to keep you plugged, Jeongguk wants easy access more. 

Pulling his fingers from your cunt, there's a satisfied grin on his pretty lips when you whine. 

"Shush," he says with such affection it could make even the coldest heart thaw. Dipping slightly, he hooks his forearms just beneath your ass and swiftly lifts you up. Gets you perched up on the counter. Spreads your legs, and is pleased when you lift the hem of the baggy shirt you're wearing to fully reveal your pussy to him. 

"Look at you, gorgeous," he husks. Genuinely thinks he might die just from looking at your cunt. Too perfect. Too fuckin' nice. Stroking his still-wet fingers up your folds, he wastes no time sinking two fingers into you once more. "Quiet, baby."

"Room," you breathlessly say, desperately trying not to make any sounds that could give yourselves away. "Don't wanna be quiet. Take me to your room."

Jeongguk just smirks. Looks in your pretty eyes and challenges you. "Say chess. I'm not going to my room, but you can say chess."

He knows there's absolutely no way in hell you're saying chess. 

Narrowing your eyes, you reach to the front of his shorts, and stroke his hard cock through the fabric. If he's gonna make this hard for you, then you're gonna do it right back.

"If you're gonna torture me then you may as well do it right," you feign a little boredom, tugging his shorts down just enough to play with him over his boxers. "Your fingers are nothing, baby." A lie, but that's neither here nor there. "Make things difficult for me. Make it impossible for me to keep quiet."

"You really want Jimin to find out, huh?" Jeongguk teases, still playing on the idea that you've ever managed to convince anyone that you are, in fact, just friends. "You want him to know that we fuck?"

But then Jeongguk glances over your shoulder to the doorway that leads into Jimin's room, as the click of his latch goes. Jeongguk barely has enough time to pull his fingers from you, and definitely not enough time to pull his shorts back up over his boxer-covered boner, so instead, he presses up against you to keep himself covered. Thank God he's behind the island and not anywhere else.

If you thought it was torture before, then now must be a whole new level, just a few layers of fabric keeping you apart.

"It lingers, y'know," the grouchy voice of Jimin echoes from behind you. 

Turning your head, thighs squeezing against Jeongguk's hips to keep his dignity protected, you try to hide your embarrassment. 

Jeongguk's hands rest on your thighs, and the one that's out of sight to Jimin is being wiped against your skin to rid his fingers of your arousal. This could have been so much worse than what it is.

"The smell of sex," he adds with a little disdain. "I always knew."

As if the God of Thunder personally gave birth to him, Jimin's face is stormy as can be. His scowl is so deeply ingrained into his expression that you're certain the wind must have changed in his direction as he was first pulling the face. Whatever you drank last night, he must have had it too.

Hair all haphazard, face a little dewey from a warm slumber, there's an unusual dishevelled nature to Jimin. He's not even bothered to put on clothes. Is quite literally in just a pair of boxers. 

It's quite unlike him. Then again, so are the hickies on his collarbones. 

"Well, that's weird, 'cause me and Jeongguk have never had sex," you reply without even thinking, the lies ingrained into your reflexes at this point. Even Jeongguk looks at you with confusion this time. 

"Firstly, we eat off that counter, sickos. And secondly, I heard," Jimin simply assures you both, walking to the counter and picking up a plastic fork. He sticks it into a chunk of the french toast, and doesn't ask permission. Just chows down on it. Speaks with his mouth full. "Like, so many times. In fact, I've heard you at it so many times I can almost predict what's happening when."

"Bullshit," Jeongguk laughs—and he'd be right. Jimin's never heard, not properly at least, unless you count the muffled groans in Pohang that put him off his food for an entire day. He just hates the embarrassment of being walked in upon by the pair of you. The one time he needed privacy the most and he didn't even think to bolt the door—or better yet, go to his own bloody bedroom. He wants you to know what his embarrassment feels like. Jeongguk is unphased, though. "Nabi still here?"

"Shut up," Jimin replies, pulling the rest of the french toast towards him, closing the lid. He narrows his eyes, then snatches the box right up. Holds it to his chest. Scowls at you both. Turns on his heel and returns to his room, grinning now that you can't see him, shutting the door behind himself. 

Neither of you stop him. 

"Is he…"

"Okay?" Jeongguk finishes off your query. "No idea."

But one thing for certain is that Nabi's possessions are still very much inside the apartment. She's still here, and you're willing to bet he shut the door with a smile, holding his stolen breakfast with all the triumph of a cat who got the cream. 

"On that note," you begin to tangent off, knowing you've already wasted too much of the day. "You okay to drive? Or would you rather take the subway?"

"Subway," Jeongguk immediately responds, reaching over to take a sip of his coffee. "Don't wanna risk it."

And he also wants any excuse he can find to spend time with you. Takes three times as long to get to The Ryu on public transport than it does in his car, especially with how he drives.

"Alright," you don't argue against him or bother suggesting a taxi instead. "And am I cool to leave my things here? I'll pick them up next time—"

"You know you don't need to ask," Jeongguk grins, the ring in the corner of his mouth flipping ever so slightly in that heavenly way it so often does. 

"Well, yeah, but—"

"Keep it here," he says. "Don't take your stuff home next time. Leave it. I'll clear a drawer. Some hangers."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he nudges his nose up against yours. "You've been leaving glitter here for months. May as well move onto something more substantial."

As if your heart isn't enough.

"Plus," he considers. "At least that way you can stop stealing all my favourite shirts."

"You love it when I wear your shirts."

"B, I love it when you wear nothing at all," he smirks. "Clothes have nothing to do with it. But on that note, go put some clothes on so we can actually do something with our day."

Reluctantly, you agree.

And just as reluctantly, he lets you go.

The subway is always crowded at this time of day. Jeongguk insists you sit while he stands in front of you, holding on to the railing that runs overhead. It's a small kindness—the kind you never really thought about until you met him and learned how lovely it is to have someone actually care about your comfort and well-being. 

He doesn't spend the journey on his phone like so many of the other commuters. Instead, he focuses on the windows, and the small glimpses indicating where you are along the subway line. Occasionally he'll look down at you and smile. Though you're not sleeping, your eyes are closed, cutting out the harsh lights of the tin can you're situated inside. You've never been more desperate for your bed. 

Once you reach your stop, Jeongguk tightly scoots in behind you on the escalators.

"We can have a quiet night in," he softly promises. His hand rubs at your waist, and the elevated position of your body allows him to press a kiss to your shoulder.

Even despite the fabric of your shirt—one that belongs to him, of course—it still feels like a star is burning through your very being. 

Nodding, you place your hand over his and squeeze ever so gently. Reciprocate his warmth. 

You don't mean to be so grouchy and unexpressive, the hangover just really is killing you. If it wasn't for the video Jeongguk insisted on assessing after waking you up this morning, you might not have even recalled exactly just how raunchy you'd been with him at Dionysus. 

Fucking someone at work had always been one of his covert fantasies; the kind of thing he wanted to do just so he could say that he had. Wouldn't mind leaving the box next to it unchecked on his mental to-do list. Would happily do it all over again.

His notice has been handed in, though. Dionysus is no longer his place of work. His contract runs until the end of the month, but he saved up holiday time. Never has to go back, if he doesn't want to.

As his fingers squeeze a little tighter on your waist, he can't help but wonder if he's making the right choices. He's been comfortable at Dionysus. Wasn't making great money, but was making enough. 

But when you squeeze your hand over his, he knows it doesn't matter. He can make all the bad decisions in the world as long as he doesn't make any that'd result in him losing you.

The weather's slowly been getting warmer over the past few weeks. As you exit the subway station, the sun confronts you with such aggression that you almost stumble from the impact of her punch.

"I'm never drinking again," you whine, bringing the hand of yours that's holding his up to cover your eyes a little. He lets you dictate his movement freely.

"You say that every time," Jeongguk reminds you, playfully nudging into your side, before rounding the corner up towards the gallery. "C'mon. Fake it till you make it. Pretend you don't have one."

"Impossible."

The remainder of the morning is slow. Every time you glance at the clock, it seems only a few minutes have passed. 

Cataloguing and processing the sales of art from the night before is laborious. It takes a lot of mental energy that you can't seem to conjure up.

Jeongguk doesn't really know how to help, but he is far stronger than you. Does all the heavy lifting as you prepare various canvases for shipping.

Eventually, he's left twiddling his thumbs, so you insist he heads straight to the gym.

"I'll meet you after," you tell him, as you sit on the floor of the gallery, crossed-legged, a pencil behind your ear and a million documents scattered around you. Jeongguk has no idea how you can work in such chaos. Finds himself getting stressed out by it.

It takes a solid fifteen minutes of assuring him you'd be fine on your own, but eventually he leaves for the gym. The way you see it, the quicker you both get your tasks for the day done, the quicker you can go back to yours, make some dinner, and call it a night. 

"Call me when you're done, yeah?" He says, lingering by the door because he just can't bear to leave you. As the sunlight peers in through the windows, small speckles of glitter sparkle on his skin. "I'll come meet you halfway."

With an ever-sincere smile, you just laugh. "Go."

Finally doing as he's told, Jeongguk walks backwards until you're out of sight. Feels his heart physically ache in his chest. Doesn't understand why he's so damn pathetic all of the time when it comes to you, just knows he wouldn't change it for the world.

Despite the solitude of an empty gallery, you're perfectly content. The lingering scent of paint and paper isn't too far removed from your place of work. Makes it easy to imagine a life where this could be your work. 

Devoting yourself to this is easy. Passion has always yielded a higher reward for you than wages, so you don't mind burning the candle at both ends.

The situation is becoming strained at best, you know. Eventually, something will have to give.

For now, though, you finish off your jobs. Arrange couriers to pick up the artworks sold, and make sure the names and numbers match the deposits with a copy of Jeongguk's business account bank statement, of which you made him print out for you.

"I can just log into my bank on your phone," Jeongguk had shrugged when you'd first asked him for it, seemingly not realising just how insane he sounded. When he clocked your look of bewilderment, he laughed. "What? It's not like you're gonna run off with all the money."

While this is true, looking at the sheer amount of money in there could make you cry. It's all so attainable now; Jeongguk's dreams and a reality in which they come true. 

So engrossed in your own thoughts, you almost jump out of your skin when a knock sounds at the doorway into the office. 

"Sorry," Shinwon hums ever so pleasantly, a smile on his face, thoroughly bemused by how startled you look. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"No, no," you shake your head, endearingly playing off your embarrassment. "I just didn't expect to see you here! Or see anyone here, for that matter."

Between exhibitions, the gallery will be closed for the next couple of weeks. It's partially to allow for the staff to reset, but mainly to allow for careful considerations of how the space will be used. 

As Jina's maternity leave cover, it's Shinwon's job, but you're yet to see any plans from him. You don't even know which artists are due to be showcased. She did say that a new vacancy would probably open up around this time, and if Shinwon doesn't start putting some tangible hard work in, you wouldn't be surprised if it's sooner rather than later.

There's been no mention of it, though. The big bosses don't seem to care about his underperformance, probably 'cause they know he's temporary.

"Just coming by to drop something off," he explains, holding up a small white envelope. Pressing it down on the desk, he looks uncertain, as if there are words dancing on the tip of his tongue. "It went well last night, didn't it?"

With a tight-lipped smile, you nod. Feel your cheeks swell. "Yeah. Went really well."

"Good," he nods. Is about to leave. Pauses when he reaches the door, and awkwardly turns to face you. Nods towards the letter on the desk. "There's gonna be a position opening up soon. You should apply. I'll put in a good word."

Furrowing your brows, you glance over the white envelope, then back to Shinwon. "But they're not hiring any—"

"Letter of resignation," he concedes with a tight-lipped smile. "I've got an overseas opportunity that I don't wanna pass on. I'll work my two weeks, but then there'll be a position to fill until Jina is back from maternity."

By overseas opportunity, he really means that some of his private school buddies are going travelling, and he wants in on the fun. This was always an opportunity of convenience for Shinwon. He was never passionate about it. Not like you are.

"Apply," he encourages. "You basically do my job as it is for free, anyway. May as well get paid for it if you can."

He doesn't stay to chitchat. Probably won't even remember your existence once he heads off on his trip. Was never in this for the right reasons.

You've resented him on plenty of occasions. Been annoyed at the fact he does fuck all and gets paid for it. Yet the idea of actually filling his (albeit incredibly small) shoes is fear-inducing.

A job at the gallery would be the first step to actually doing what you love for a living—being around art and artists. Sure, you could argue that the art cafe gives you that, but a highschooler nervously painting by numbers on a first date has nothing on the works that you see here.

There's joy to be found in your current job, though. Fun. Safety. Home.

But nothing remarkable ever happened to people who choose to remain comfortable.

Quickly finishing your to-do list, all you want to do is speak to Jeongguk about it. See what he thinks. You know it's a no-brainer. You have nothing to lose. You just want him to give you the green light that you're making the right choices.

The headache you've been battling is weak in comparison to your racing thoughts, now. You're thinking of the possibilities—of all of your hard work actually being for something. You've proven to the gallery that you can bring in punters, and that you can utilise their resources for profit. 

It's always been a case of who you know, not what you know, but you know the gallery, now. They know you. 

It could really happen. 

By the time you reach the gym, fantasies of a life with a staff ID card and access to the archives, you can't stop smiling. It'd change your life. Flip it upside down in the best of ways.

The gym is just the same as it always has been. There's a new girl behind the front desk. Not someone you recognise. Smiling as she greets you, she's keen to help, long dark hair tied into a ponytail, her branded shirt tight to her curves. You're reminded that the gym is a breeding ground for beauty, but it doesn't matter. You'll get your cardio in later beneath your sheets. 

She's also got the kind of smile that you just can't help but reciprocate. 

"I don't have a membership," you begin to explain, knowing just how troublesome it was on your first ever visit and not wanting a repeat of it. There's no way you're paying for a month, 'cause now you don't need it as an excuse just to see Jeongguk. You also can't help but overcompensate, and give far too many details in an awkward, endearing mess of an explanation. "Well, I mean, I used to have one so my details are probably on the system. Sorry, not important. I know you guys don't do day passes—"

Furrowing her brows, she kindly interrupts. "We do."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," she says, nodding towards a sign in the corner of the countertop. Clear as day, daily and weekly memberships are listed. "We've done them for as long as I've been here. Don't think it's a new policy. Anyway, happy to help—just a day membership?"

Jiyeong might be a distant memory now, but thoughts of her will never fail to irritate you.

"Yeah please," you smile regardless, sliding your card out from your pocket—and then you're over explaining again. Probably habit from the Jiyeong era. Is also probably why you make a point to mention Jeongguk by a title only you have the privilege to use. "I'm just joining my boyfriend for a session. He's—"

"Oh, he's a member?" she chirps, not rude in her interruption but efficient.

"Yeah," you nod, and are about to mention him by name, but the girl speaks too quickly again.

"Oh, you should have said! Members get a monthly plus one. It's not a free session, but it's half price, so better than nothing," she smiles. "I'll just need his gym ID—or name, I can search the system—so I can put it through."

You know she really ought to ask Jeongguk's permission. You could be any random woman. 

But you're not, and so you tell her. "Jeon Jeongguk?"

"Ah," she nods, vaguely aware of his existence. Unlike Jiyeong, she hasn't spent a substantial amount of time fawning over Jeongguk. To her, he's just another dude who comes in and leaves her alone. She appreciates it, given how some guys can be, but she also doesn't care to reward bare minimum. 

She asks you to confirm his phone number, which you can do without issue, so at least there's some level of security in place. 

It's a perfectly pleasant exchange, and it thankfully rids you of woes you didn't even realise you had. The Jieyong debacle had left a mark on you, but it feels like it's been rubbed clean. Your mind tends to jump to thoughts of her whenever he goes to the gym, and so at least you can sleep well knowing that the new girl isn't interested in any way shape or form.

Buzzing you through, she tells you to enjoy yourself—but as you start heading up the stairs to the main gym section, you already feel your regret looming. A hangover is still a hangover.

You clock Jeon Jeongguk almost immediately. How anyone isn't immediately drawn to him, you'll never understand. Just finishing up with some weights, he's re-racking the ones he's used, skin glowing with sweat. 

There's a beauty to seeing him like this. Primal desires. 

Glancing up to the mirrored wall behind the rack, Jeongguk eyes are on yours just as quickly. It's like you're magnets, destined to meet.

A confused smile etches into his exhausted face, brows furrowing as he turns to face you.

"What are you doing here?" He mouths, head puppy-like in the way it tilts. 

Shrugging your shoulders, you walk towards him. Mouth, "I just love the gym."

"Liar," he simpers when you're within earshot, reaching his hand out for you to take so he can pull you closer, of which he immediately does.

One hand clasped in his, your other hand rests on his still-heaving torso. He's gone hard today, to make up for the night before. His compression shirt is silky beneath the palms of your hands, the strong ridges and contours of his body yours to hold. Other people can look all they like. None of them get to feel. Not like you do.

As he looks down at you, there's a softness to his gaze. A smile that he doesn't care to hide. A sparkle in his eyes that shines even out of direct light. Just a consequence of looking at a star.

"You shouldn't be here," he quietly hums. "We both know you hate it."

"I can go, if you like?"

Jeongguk just shakes his head. Smiles as he turns you both around and begins to walk backwards, pulling you with him.

"You're the one who hated being here," he reminds you. "I loved you being here."

"Obsessed," you grin, gingerly letting him drag you anywhere he likes. "And good, 'cause I used your monthly plus one."

"Yeah," he confirms, ignoring the curious glances of other people in the room as he leads you back to your old 'spot'. "Thought we'd established that already? And that's fine. Use it every month."

Funny, how you used to hypothesise over the lives of other people in this very room, and how you know others must be doing the same for you now. You hope they all think you're besotted with him.

When you look at him like that, all love drunk and starry-eyed, how could they not?

"Was just about to finish up, anyway," Jeongguk tells you, heading in the direction of the treadmills. Glances back to you, then nods in their direction. "For old times sake?"

"For old times sake," you beam, following his lead, stepping up onto the treadmill closest to you. They're all vacant, but Jeongguk steps up on the one beside yours, 'cause of course he does. He'd go on the same one as you, if it were possible. 

God, he loves you being here. Can't stop smiling.   

You don't mention the potential job opening. For old times sake.

Instead, you revel in what it used to be like whenever you came to the gym, 'cause it just makes you so much more grateful for what you've become. Like Dionysus, these four walls saw the groundwork of your relationship being laid. 

You've already lost access to one of the most important places to you both with Jeongguk leaving the club. 

If you change jobs, you'll lose the art cafe, too. The lease is coming up soon on your place, and if Danbi chooses to just move in with Tae, that'll be another safe haven gone. One by one, places of your past are closing their doors to usher you forward into new spaces. 

Life can't always stay the same. Change is needed. Necessary. 

You've changed. So has Jeongguk. You'll continue to change for years to come.

The difference now is that you'll change together. Adapt. Merge, in some ways, just like a pair of orbiting stars so often do.

On the way home, Jeongguk picks up a bunch of wildflowers from the market stall he once bought you apology flowers from. His fingers are intertwined with yours as he pays, hands lightly swinging. 

It dawns on you all rather quickly, as Jeongguk nibbles on his bottom lip and waits for the payment to go through, that maybe this is a change that you needn't fight. Perhaps it's okay to look forward to your future instead of being hung up on the past. 

"C'mon," he tugs on your hand as you leave the market stall, encouraging you to gain a little momentum. "I'm starving. If we don't get me food soon, I'll turn into you with a hangover."

"Cute?"

"Oh, so close," he grins, then shakes his head. "But no. Grouchy and unbearable."

"You were practically begging to shag me," you remind him. "Can't have minded that much."

Jeongguk can't argue against this one. "I didn't—but working out increases like… all the hormones that were working overtime this morning. If I don't eat soon I might die, but if I don't shag you soon, I also might die. Honestly it's a lose-lose situation, B. There's only one solution."

"Sixty-nine?" You offer, 'cause it's perfectly logical. He gets to eat while you get him off. A win-win, you'd argue.

"You're a disgusting pervert," he tells you with stern sharpness, paired with a smirk he just can't help, as if he totally wasn't angling for you to say it. "But now that you mention it, yes. That'd be ideal."

"I don't shag boys who call me disgusting," you reply, knowing that he absolutely didn't mean it like that. You just like winding him up.

"I'm pretty sure I've called you worse before," he reminds you, then holds the flowers out in front of you both. "These can double as apology flowers instead of just my-girlfriend-is-really-pretty-and-I-love-her flowers."

You narrow your eyes as you look across to him, but the smile on his face is just too hard to resist. Thin lipped, his dimples are present, lip ring flipping in the corner of his mouth. 

It's like his lip ring does the thing and you're reduced to jelly.

"Lucky you're cute," you grumble.

"You can thank my mum for that one," he offers, fully aware of how often people would coo over his cuteness as a child and then proceed to tell his mum how similar they are. "And for how pretty I am, too."

Though he's just joking, he's right. He really is the prettiest man you've ever known, inside and out.

You won't tell him this, though. Would give him far too much negotiation power.

"Who do I thank for how annoying you are?"

“Jimin,” Jeongguk says. "That's a learned behaviour. Nurture over nature."

"Figures," you accept, before tugging on Jeongguk's hand to lead him into a grocery store. "I've got nothing in. Need to pick up food or else you'll be going hungry."

"I thought we already agreed on six—"

"A little decorum please," you cut him off. "We're in a public space."

"You said it first!"

Playfully shrugging, you let go of his hand and grab a basket as you enter. "Watcha fancy?"

"You."

"For dinner, idiot."

"B," Jeongguk sighs as if he really is hard done by. "We've already discussed this. Literally, you."

"Shut up," you laugh, and let the shopping trip descend into chaos. 

Jeongguk just puts whatever catches his eyes into the basket. Gets a kinder egg and a hot wheels car. Will surely just run it over the curves of your body when you're in bed later that evening. Also gets an entire pineapple, and when you raise an eyebrow, he just shrugs. 

"If I don't have a snack before I shower I will die," he assures you. "I'm craving a burger, so you should really be thanking me for the noble sacrifice I'm making. It benefits us both."

"You're an idiot."

"Fine, I'll get a burger."

But when he goes to put the pineapple back, you stop him. Smile. Say, "Pineapple is good."

"That's what I thought," he stands tall and proud, chest puffed, head tilted back. He looks like an asshole but god damn, does he look good doing so. As he peers down at you, you know it'll be a miracle if you even make it to the shower by the time you get home. Want him too bad.

"Stop bickering," you tell him. "Quicker we get home, the quicker we can—"

"Say no more," he nods, taking the basket from you, then zooming off up the aisle. "C'mon, B! Places to be! People to see!"

As he darts off to the next aisle, all you can do is wonder how on earth this is your life.

But it is—and when you finally find him again, standing in line to pay, basket full to the brim from his supermarket sweep, you know that all these changes happening around you really don't matter as long as you have him.

"Alright," you quietly say as you stand beside him, flicking open your phone and heading for your taxi hailing app. "I'll order a taxi. Don't want you to die on the way home."

"Teamwork," Jeongguk smiles. 

"It makes the dream work, or so I heard," you hum with a somewhat smug smile, pleased to be getting exactly what you want: time spent with Jeongguk away from the prying eyes of the three fates.

"Yeah," he quietly says, leaning over to press a kiss against the side of your head. "It sure does."

[dumdogs]

into the spider-verse: nishinoya yuu

volume one, chapter two: calls

word count: 2.5k

masterlist | main masterlist | taglist

On the rooftop of the Flatiron Building, she leans back, and stares at the sky above her. She’s learned that looking down gives her vertigo, and if she’s lying down, she can pretend she’s not twenty-two stories off the ground.

Noya laughs at her, because he always does, but he still holds her hand, because he knows it makes her feel better. “I can’t believe you’re still afraid of heights.”

“I feel like this is a super reasonable fear to have.” She inches a little but further away from the edge as she speaks. She doesn’t even wanna be close to it. “Plummeting to my death isn’t like, a big priority for me right now.”

He squeezes her hand. “You know I’ll catch you if you fall.”

He would. She doesn’t even doubt that for a second. If right now she stood up and decided to take a swan dive off the side of the building, there would be nothing getting in between him and her, and Noya would have her safely in his arms before she hit the fifteenth floor.

But still. It fucking terrifies her.

���Okay, sorry my primal instinct does not recognize that you got bit by some weird science experiment spider and now you defy all laws of nature,” she rolls her eyes, still tightly holding onto his hand as he sits upright beside her. “I’ll work on that.”

Nishinoya leans over a lightly pinches the soft skin of her stomach under her t-shirt. She squeals. “Keep it up with the attitude and I’ll throw you off the side of this building myself.”

“Hmm, not very hero-like of you, Spider-Man.”

“You bring out the worst in me.”

She grins. “I’m going to have to write an article about this. ‘Spider-Man throws innocent journalist with fear of heights off Flatiron Building.’ Jameson will love it.”

Nishinoya scoffs. “Yeah, I’m sure he would. Too bad you’ll be busy being a sidewalk pancake.”

Her eyes find their intertwined hands. It’s always been natural, their friendship, everything that happens between them feels like it’s supposed to. The handholding and the couch-sharing and the arm over her shoulder. It’s always right, with Nishinoya. She doesn’t even have to think about it.

She watches his thumb as it brushes against her skin. “How’s it been out there lately?” she asks.

“Quiet,” Nishinoya replies. “Saving kittens from trees and helping old ladies across the street. Besides Sytsevich, everything’s been quiet since Osborn died. It’s kinda weird, y’know? Like eerie.”

“Yeah, I imagine waiting for the next disaster to strike can feel like that,” she comments, leaning back to stare up at the empty sky. You can’t ever see stars out here. “Hey, Noya?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think you’re gonna stay here forever?” she asks. “Just stick around and be Spider-Man for the rest of your life.”

He hums a bit. “I dunno. I think I’ll probably just go wherever you end up.”

🕸 ｡𖦹°‧✩｡🕷˚⋆｡

She’s sitting on the train, a hot cup of coffee in one hand, and her phone in the other. She’s looking down at an email from her favorite Yahoo user: If you don’t want the whole world to find out, do as I say.

It’s pretty explicit. It’s hard to misinterpret that kind of message, as much as she’s deliberately trying to. Her fingers tap against the paper cup, trying not to let panic work its way up her throat in the middle of this train cab, surrounded by bored commuters that wouldn’t flinch twice at any sort of breakdown she could have.

A heavy breath leaves her lung, and she pockets her phone, trying, with a tight feeling of desperation around her throat, not to think of it. If it’s not in her face, it’ll be marginally easier to pretend.

Yachi’s waiting for her at her desk when she gets into work. She slides into her chair, and Yachi skips the greeting. “Jameson’s pissed,” Yachi says, tapping a pencil against her desk.

“Yeah? What’d Spider-Man do now?” she questions, typing her password in. She mistypes it, and curses slightly under her breath.

“The PI he hired to find out his identity quit,” Yachi laughs. “Apparently there wasn’t enough for him to go off, and the guy got tired of Jameson raising his blood pressure at him for forty minutes a day.”

She snorts. Noya’s told her about private investigators before. Everyone touts that they’re going to be the one to unmask Spider-Man, but it’s kinda tricky trailing a man with superhuman sixth sense and the ability to basically fly through the city. “I give it another three months before he tries this one again.”

“I give it one,” Yachi counters.

Her desktop loads up, and she is immediately hit with a barrage of emails, looking like they’re coming in all at once, all in caps lock. “Fuck, looks like he’s taking it out on me again.”

Email after email, the subject lines varying from things like, “This piece is crap!” to “How are you still employed here?”

Yachi leans forward to get a better at her screen. “Oh, that’s bad. I’ll leave you to that.”

And it’s just that Yachi gives her a sharp grin and two-finger salute that another email pops up. No subject line, just a simple: Wait for my instruction.

🕸 ｡𖦹°‧✩｡🕷˚⋆｡

Harry Osborn looks smarmy on the television screen, a thin layer of sweat shining on his forehead and slick smile that looks a little bit too pleased for his father’s funeral. She knocks her knee into Noya’s leg underneath the blanket they share. “That guy’s such a piece of shit,” she comments, jerking her chin forward towards the younger Osborn.

Noya knocks his leg back into hers. “My guy looks like he just won the lottery,” he remarks, eyes not leaving the screen. There’s a bit of history between Spider-Man and the Osborn family, mainly consisting of Norman committing acts of domestic terrorism from the vantage point of a hoverboard, dressed like a fucking goblin.

“Yeah, well he basically did,” she snarks. “Imagine inheriting Oscorp before you’re twenty-five. Basically guarantees you a fucking thirty under thirty spot.”

He snorts. “I’d rather not have anything to do with Oscorp. I’d rather be broke.”

"Oh, you mean the company that basically sponsored the lizard-ification of Dr. Connors? I can't imagine why." She lops her head to the side to look at him. “And anyway, I’m broke. You’re a freeloader.”

Nishinoya waves her off. “Same difference.”

She snorts, turning to face the television again to see they’re playing old footage of Norman Osborn in a lab (coat and everything), explaining the mission statement of Oscorp. To build a better future.

There were rumors about Norman, post-mortem. Details floating around about how he was driven mad in his final year. That the Osborn curse had infected him beyond hope, and his mind had began to decay, along with his body. Some people think he’s been dead for much longer. Some people think a group of investors had been secretly running Oscorp for years while Norman received private care upstate. Some people even suspect him of being the Goblin.

She wonders if that was the better future he had envisioned.

Noya shifts uncomfortably in his seat. She reaches over and grabs his hand, squeezing it tightly in hers. She’s sure he’s wishing the son will be better than his father. She’s hoping too.

His thumb traces circles over her knuckle. He doesn’t look in her direction. She tries to focus on the news and enjoy the way his hand feels in hers before there’s some police broadcast or distant siren or whatever to call him back to duty.

🕸 ｡𖦹°‧✩｡🕷˚⋆｡

Meet me @ 300 W 57th St tomorrow at 8am. Or I tell everyone about him.

She sits at her desk, biting down on the end of a pencil, and weighing her options.

One: she could tell Noya.

There’s not even a chance he would let her go. Not even if he were there. No matter the argument she would present. Nishinoya would sooner web her to the couch than let her go meet up with some mystery blackmailer. She also knows that this threat would do little to sway him. If she tells Noya, the most likely outcome is him, masked up and aggravated, showing up to fight.

Which would result in ijs99ETJfdhsg@yahoo.com telling everyone.

Two: she could do nothing.

There’s really been no hard proof presented to her that shows that Yahoo user ijs99ETJfdhsg knows what he claims he knows. This could all very well be a big misunderstanding on her end. And so what? Even if he does know what he claims to, it’s not like the world would so easily believe that Nishinoya Yuu, random unemployed man, is Spider-Man. Random liars claim to be Spider-Man every day. Noya could easily blend in with random liars.

The consequence of doing nothing though is, of course, him telling everyone. And still, the possibility that the masses believe him or that Yahoo user ijs99ETJfdhsg does have some hard evidence on his side gnaw away at her. She can’t shoulder that.

Three: she could show up.

She could put some pepper spray in her bag and give Noya the address just in case something happens, and she could go and meet with this mystery blackmailer to see exactly what the fuck it is he wants.

And then, he wouldn’t tell anyone.

The thought of it puts knots in her stomach, and those knots are worsened by the acknowledgement that it’s probably her best course of action.

She sighs, using her cursor to highlight the address he provided and plopping it back into search bar. She’s envisioning some deserted alley, an abandoned storefront or someplace that would leave no witnesses if she were to be kidnapped and/or murdered.

What she wasn’t expecting was fucking Oscorp.

🕸 ｡𖦹°‧✩｡🕷˚⋆｡

Harry Osborn’s office is neat. Almost empty, save for a few hard-drives and a stack of unopened newspapers at his desk. The wall to ceiling windows provide a view of the city she’s never seen before, and standing in the middle of it, she feels so starkly out of place. She looks behind her, just to see the assistant that led her up here closing the door behind him.

She feels trapped, at once.

Harry himself is leaning against a window, and as if operating on a que, he turns on his heel, a sickly grin plastered on his face, and, if she squints, she can almost see a greenish sort of hue in the undertones of his skin. “There’s my favorite journalist,” he greets, arms extended out as if he was going to hug her.

She steps back. “Erm, yeah,” she responds, head turning slightly to eye the closed door behind her. There’s something off in the air of room, something off-putting in the way Harry is looking at her. “Is there a reason you summoned me here through cryptic emails, or did you just wanna like, hang out?”

He stops, and lets his arms drop back down to his side, stuffing his hands in his pant pockets. “Straight to the point. I like that. I like that quality.”

It’s strange to be in the same room as him, New York City’s prodigal son. She’s seen his face on the cover of magazines and on news segments and she’s written articles about him. Harry Osborn has almost always been some kind of mythic figure in her head. An untouchable prince. Nothing she could get away with printing in the Bugle would ever have any impact on him.

But here before her, he does not look mythic, or untouchable, he looks like a very sick man. His hair falls flatly on his forehead, and he uses the back of sleeve to wipe off droplets of sweat. The longer she looks at him, the greener he seems, like his whole body is lightly stained.

Harry takes another step towards her. She steps back again.

“Y’know,” he drawls, and moves to stand behind the large desk that takes up most of the room; she watches him carefully, eyes trained on his every movement, “one of the most underrated parts of a power acquisition in a company like Oscorp, is that you suddenly have a lot more information at your disposal. A lot of information that money can’t buy.”

There’s something about the way he talks that is starkly unnatural. The PR training bleeds out of every word, and though he looks young, but the way he carries himself is eerily like his father. It makes goosebumps rise on the back of her neck. She looks over her shoulder, back at the door behind her. “O-okay.”

Harry takes a seat, like he’s unbothered by her presence. His hand lingers over one of the hard drives. “Did you know that, back in the early two-thousands, this company poured millions into researched on genetically enhanced spiders. They were supposed to be this miracle cure. A magic spider that could cure any illness. Until, of course, the head scientist died in some accident, and they had to kill off the whole project, including all the spiders they bred. Y’know, today, I think we only have one thing to show for that project.”

Her face is hot, and her ears feel like they’re stuffed with cotton. This all suddenly feels like a mistake, like she’s in over her head and she never should’ve come here without Noya. Her tongue is dry when she tries to speak. “Is this, is this on the record, or…?”

Harry leans forward in her chair, and sneers. It chills her blood, that expression, cold and gnarled. “I’m not interested in going on the record with some second-rate journalist at a trash paper. I’m interested in this.”

Harry Osborn grabs the newspaper on his desk and slams it forward. She takes a step forward to get a better look and knows immediately what it is. It’s the Daily Bugle, with Spider-Man on the front page and her name printed on the bottom.

The First-Ever On-The-Record Interview with the One and Only Spider-Man!

Her hands are shaking. She looks up to see Harry grinning at her. “It’s funny, actually, how someone right out of school, with no credentials and no reputation to go off, could get this kind of interview.”

She can hear her heartbeat, and all she can think of is how unbelievably, colossally fucked she is.

Harry Osborn stands and makes his way to stand directly in front of her. The closer he is, the more of him she can see. The green tint of his skin, the almost scaly quality, the point of his teeth. “I want you to find Spider-Man, and I want you to get him to give me his blood.”

🕸 ｡𖦹°‧✩｡🕷˚⋆｡

On the busy street beneath the Oscorp building, her fingers tremble as she dials Noya’s number. He answers after the first ring. “Hey, what’s up? I’m just dropping this bodega thief off at the station-“

“Noya,” she cuts him off, trying to hold back the sob in her voice. “I fucked up.”

taglist: @wyrcan @causenessus @seroh @19calicos @w4nyoung @soulfullystarry @chocolains @jaynawayna @baylz @vuntysharck @mollyrolls @boooolame @staileykout @angee444 @kameyyy @choerry-picking @giocriedpower @sunakeiji @sleepzyy @lunasfics @thecoolestlia @yoshit-he-dinosaur @bectoshi @thatonecroc @karasyuu @iatethemochi @itsdragonius @syverse @savemebrazilhinata @localgaytrainwreck @snail-squasher @atzixo @ahdbodhr @nbcvs @dailyakira @kasumiixs @s1ckntw1st3d @noble-17 @atsumuenthusiast @jino0ix @boobilater @keeboismine @scxrcherr @acowboykisser @acowboykisser @impatienscush @loverlunaire @oneiratxxia10 @kattiscrying @dazqa @termite-joe @quikhs @cupidsblonde @izukuwus

[undomesticated-animal]

Honestly, body euphoria has done WONDERS for my ability to keep a physical self care routine, and I keep thinking back to Young Domi being so fucking OVERWHELMED by the thought of having to haul myself through the daily gauntlet of mirrors, lights, smells, self-shaming, and dysphoria inducing body modifictions made in a desperate bid to feel worthy of my skin. The idea that this could ever be anything but NEUTRAL AT BEST was laughable to me, so much so that I didn't even realize how terrified I felt by the possibility it could be real.

I can't go back and tell Past Domi all the things I understand now that I know would have mattered so much, but I can say them on the internet and maybe someone gets to learn them faster than I did.

Body euphoria isn't just for trans and intersex folks. And I mean this more than just "oh cis people should get gender ephoria too" (it's true!) because I also mean that the idea that body euphoria/dysphoria is neatly segmented up into little slices of life with no crossover is unrealistic and painful for everyone. Thinking that I was only allowed to care about my euphoria around gender actually made it REALLY hard to recognize I was having DYSphoria around my gender at all. After all, I avoided thinking about that in exactly the same ways I avoided thinking about the dysphoria around other aspects of my embodiment! I must just be bad at body positivity, "it's always easier to do for others than for myself 🤗 teehee" was a go to blow off for me when people asked me to confront how visibly uncomfortable I was in my body.

Because the thing is, it ISN'T easier to do for others than yourself. It really isn't. The part that's easier is avoiding the shame we feel about it. But once we confront the shame, loving your body is the easiest thing in the world. <- this is gonna be where Past Domi went "oh fuck this noise" and bounced but HEAR ME OUT

A body you cannot live with is a body you cannot care for, and a body you can't care for is a body you will almost always struggle to live with. This feedback loop is the CORNERSTONE of body dysphoria for a lot of people. It's a chicken and egg situation where it's nearly always going to be impossible to know what came first, but once either is present, the other will kick into gear to really hunker down in your psyche.

The feedback loop works the other direction too though. This is why people tell you to find the little things that make a tiny difference. They are (usually) not telling you that it'll be enough on its own, but every one of those you find uncovers new ones, and little by little you start feeling up to bigger pieces of self care because you've recovered enough to start putting int the front-loaded work for the worthwhile outcome

When that upwards feedback loop clicks? It's night and day. Like I genuinely don't know how to describe what it's like to just sort of.....wake up different. But it happens all the time, and it KEEPS happening. And you start to realize you're not "waking up different" you're just....getting to know yourself without feeling so uncomfortable with what you're learning that you shy away from yourself

I dunno man, I don't have a point here, but I've been processing old grief lately and the grief of how long I spent viciously hating myself and truly believing that's what neutrality feels like.....Little-Domi deserved better, and so do yall

[ficandkaboodle]

Vaginismus: Secondo x Fem!Reader

Author's Note: So . . . I'm already really bad at these types of things. But I think writing one of these on this type of subject matter is still important. Fanfiction is kind of a very rough place when it comes to acknowledging or writing for sexual disorders. On one hand, I am to assume this is because fanfic, by its very nature, is meant to be like wish fulfillment. Reader inserts are often meant to be the representations of the best versions of ourselves. But . . . I dunno, I feel like that can only go so far when you see representations of all kinds of disorders or issues or even complete non-issues. And yet virtually nothing is ever made with people who have conditions like vaginismus or whatever in mind. I love a good smut but sometimes, reading stuff makes me flinch inward and all I can focus on is the pain I would be in from even a pinky tip trying anything. I just think it's important to try and remind people that PiV isn't the only way to "get stuff done" and that it should be okay if that's a struggle for you. Some people can work their way out of the condition, and some people never do. And I think it should be okay to write about it because all too often it's easy to forget that or feel like you've lost out on being loved or understood over something that, in the grand scheme, is so silly. And since I have the condition and there's a chance I may never get out of it thanks to my fucked up noggin, I think this should be an opportunity to write about it. Hope I did okay. There might be more to follow . . .

Word Count: 2394 CW: Vaginismus and all the lovely self-loathing it entails, reader has a vagina, references to aspects of BDSM ig, MDNI

In your defense, you didn't think it would go this far. Certainly, one could argue that Secondo was a serious man: He wasn't prone to playing with food that wasn't absolutely his to consume. But you supposed you had forgotten that, or maybe you were just high on the the arrogant assumption that you might be a special case. Or maybe it just slipped your mind to intervene when the teasing glances, subtle and overt flirtations, and little talks between you kept going and going and going until --

Now look where it had gotten you: Sat in the office of the most intimidating Emeritus brother, a packet of documents lying on the desk before you, along with an elaborate green and silver fountain pen.

Secondo preferred to use contracts when it came to his potential bedmates he had a particular eye for. Ones he had an especial intention of keeping closer. Longer.

To many, this was an absolute honor. You knew plenty of siblings that would probably kill to be in your place. And as you sat wordlessly before both Papa and his documents, you contemplated throwing yourself onto those swords.

It would certainly be quicker and less painful than ducking out after coming this far.

You could picture it: St. Andrew's crosses, leather, hot wax searing deliciously into your skin, his sharp voice directing wicked degradation before salving you with praises. All the scrumptious things Papa II had gained a notoriety for indulging. You would gladly eat it all up and beg for seconds and thirds.

But you couldn't stop it there; it had to go further. Nobody just. Stops there. Nobody normal, anyway.

The problem was that you didn't consider yourself normal. Which was what made imagining him getting into position all the more mortifying even if in concept. You could picture yourself trying to convert the anticipation you were meant to feel from one of nerves into one of bliss but it doesn't matter. You try so hard to relax and be in the moment but it's a terrible moment!

You'd heard Secondo was blessed. The idea sat in your stomach while its surroundings shriveled in fear and constricted to an uncomfortable degree. Hell, it wouldn't even matter if he were the opposite of blessed: It would all hurt the same. It would still feel as though a needle were shanking its way into your most intimate parts, piercing onward until it struck your lungs and took the oxygen right out of you. And that would only be the beginning of it.

And just thinking that was enough to make the mask slip.

You prayed to Lucifer that the sound of you wordlessly nudging the papers and pen closer to Secondo would somehow be enough to disguise the whimper paining your throat. Unfortunately, it was not.

Your already throbbing stomach somehow made enough room to swallow your heart when you saw the older man's brow quirk.

"Something the matter, Sorella?" His voice, the one you'd grown to swoon into after all these passing weeks, made you want to flinch now. Fuck. You could feel your resolve slipping through your fingers like sand and creating further mess. You just needed to keep it together --

"N-no," you forced out. You tried not to dwell on how tight your voice sounded or how it even hurt just to utter that. A complete opposite to how smooth and natural it had been when you answered his invitation to his office earlier. You weren't even sure why you hadn't expected this to be the reason for such a request. You were so naive then . . .

You tried to push through the pain, tried add on, "I'm just --" but stopped almost immediately. You had no idea what to continue with. Fuck, you were fucking this up so badly! You seriously began to contemplate just standing up and leaving, but then where would that get you?

You still lived here, in the Abbey. Avoiding a Papa was virtually impossible at the end of the day. There was no way you two could carry on as though nothing had ever happened -- the flirting, the gazes, all that junk . . . Oh, Satanas, would you need to relocate? Uproot the life you'd finally managed to create for yourself here, sent off somewhere else just to hide the humiliation of what you were and what you had or hadn't done?

Satan, why did it feel so hot in here? Was that why the air suddenly feel like it was only oozing into your lungs with difficulty?

Clearly, Secondo did not take the silence well. His lips pressed into a thin line. "If I have insulted you, Sorella, I deeply apologize." No . . . "I thought you were aware of my practices." No!! He reached a large, ringed hand out to pull the items back towards him. And somehow, that was the final straw, the final snap before the dam collapsed.

It was like watching your last chance for something being taken away from you, even of your own accord! In fact, it was exactly that: Something you knew was necessary but it didn't have to be that way but fuck, your body and mind were at odds with each other and making it your problem and --

You hadn't even noticed that you'd turned into a crying, hiccuping mess, much less one that talked. It was only when you could see through your tears an actually surprised-looking Secondo (he was capable of shock?!) that you comprehended just what sort of state you were in.

And if it was enough to make the most emotionally constipated man in the Church look disquieted, then you must've been in a sorry state. The room only felt more hot as the burn of embarrassment enveloped you. You hoped it might even consume you in a full-throttle case of spontaneous human combustion as you struggled to swallow back up everything you'd just done.

"I-I-" you hiccuped wetly. It was so hard to formulate words underneath his gaze, which he never took off of you even as he reached for a box of tissues to offer you. You knew it was one of concern, searching for traces that maybe you needed help he couldn't offer you. But for the state your mind was currently in, it twisted it into one of disgust; like maybe all those affections he might've held for you an hour ago were being replaced with ones where all he saw was a madwoman.

It was almost too much. But it was also too late to go back now, wasn't it?

"I . . . My body doesn't work right," you finally admitted in a croaked murmur. Your eyes flew down to your lap in shame, watching your hands twist and tear at the wet tissues you'd just used. "It's a condition. Like my body clenches up down there at the mere thought of penetration. So . . . So sex is off the table, basically. I'm s-sorry . . ."

God, it sounded all so lame when you said it like that. But what else could you really do? How could you communicate to him the physical and mental pain it all caused you? How could you get across to him the embarrassment that came with pap smears, the shame you felt when recognizing how behind your peers you were? Would he sympathize or pity you if he learned that on a good day, you could get the very tip of a well-lubricated q-tip in and have to consider that a victory?

You weren't able to even formulate such thoughts, let alone predict how he might feel besides, perhaps, disappointment. Maybe even disgust.

Secondo liked the finer things in life, after all: How must he feel, knowing he'd wasted so much time and energy on something that was actually broken the whole time?

"I . . . I'm so sorry." At this, your fidgeting froze, your mind beckoning for you to glance up even the slightest. In doing so, even from such an awkward angle, you could see your Papa's expression remain nearly unchanged from before. It was still worried for you, though now with a touch of something more. "I can't imagine how difficult a spot you must've felt you were in . . . And for that, I apologize."

You gave a wobbly expression born of appreciation but also acknowledging the silliness of the sentiment. You gently huffed at the absurdity, "Don't apologize, you couldn't have known." A soft shrug allowed you to upright your position better. "If anything, I'm the one that should apologize. I should've said something in the beginning . . ."

At this, the older man shrugged back. "Perhaps, but I also can understand how uncomfortable that might've made you feel. Telling someone something so intimate can be difficult. Especially if it is like . . . Well." He gestured between the both of you.

You gave the smallest of chuckles (albeit, out of a desperate need to tenderize the mood) as you twisted the shredded pieces of napkin in your lap once more. Yet again, your eyes diverted from their connection with his. "Yeah, well, at least you would've known whether or not to waste time on me."

At that, the mood seemed to slightly change. You didn't feel threatened, but you knew that the breed of seriousness had shifted somewhat. Almost reprimanding. The eyes of Papa Emeritus II were just as intimidating out of the papal paints as they were in them, it seemed.

"I can assure you, Sorella," his normal nature of calmness returned, all traces of hesitancy from moments ago completely evaporated. "I don't see any of the time or what we've done together as a waste. If you have had any partners in the past that might've felt the opposite, then I sympathize greatly with you. But I also know that means you have no experience with anyone worth your time. That is, perhaps, the most disappointing thing of all here."

Damn. What do you even say to something like that? What could you say to something like that? Under normal circumstances, you might've argued in unfortunate defense of past failed connections, pinning the blame on you. After all, that's what made the most sense. or at least, it had. Until now, with the metaphorical mirror being propped up before you by one insistent Papa.

The room fell into silence as you searched for a response -- if you even needed to make one.

"Do you still want me?"

You almost jolted. You hadn't been expecting that to be what broke the silence.

"I . . . Well, yes. Of course I do, Papa." And you did. But . . . "But I don't know if --"

"I didn't ask for specifics, piccolina. I asked you: Do you still want to be with me?"

You struggled with a punctuated inhale. "Yes."

He hummed single low note before taking back the documents and pen. You watched curiously (and perplexedly) as he began to scribble and draw lines at seemingly random places. After what had felt like an eternity, he finally slid the packet back to you.

"Take a look. It's the roughest of drafts, of course, but we can properly revitalize it as needed. If you wish to make further retractions or additions, I give you the freedom to apply them."

Your brow furrowed as you picked up the papers for inspection. Of course, your eyes were immediately drawn to the instances of green ink that now freckled the paragraphs but you took especial time dialing it back and reading in full what these adjustments were meant to even mean.

Acts concerning penetration had been removed or adjusted as necessary, acts concerning outercourse or fondling had been either emphasized or added and asterisked.

"But . . . But Papa, I can't ask you to take away from your own pleasure," you objected. It was bad enough you'd strung him along, even if he argued that you hadn't. This was still quite a lot to grapple with in under ten minutes.

At this, Secondo cracked the first hint of amusement he'd had this entire session. He smirked as he reclined back in his hair. "And what, pray tell, makes you think I wouldn't derive pleasure from doing any of these things, piccolina?"

Porn, smut, the stories kiss-and-tell Siblings would often share in the cafeteria or in the hallways or the quad. Reddit posts.

"Well, I mean," you tried to argue. "They were there for a reason, weren't they? You enjoy those things." You ignored how the smirk on his face only seemed to grow. Hm. Maybe your words didn't have as much umph to them as you'd thought? Still, you continued. "A-and besides: I can't imagine you'd get off as easily from --" You glanced down at a word he'd scribbled in. " -- thigh jobs."

The low chuckle that rumbled from his chest settled your failure of a one-sided debated.

"Oh, Sorellina: You have much to learn about my proclivities," he sighed. "I understand that what the others might talk about may paint a certain picture of me. But I can assure you, any lover worth his salt should know that just shoving their dick into something is far from the end all, be all."

"And besides." The chair squeaked as he leaned in, hands folded on the dark wood of the desk. "It takes a true lover to relish in pleasure's many forms. I am more than happy to show you this, if you will let me."

It didn't matter that you had heard him say and gesture far cruder things: Just the words coming from his lips -- lips you had craved the taste of ever since your first sampling mere days ago -- coupled with the sincerity of his unbreaking eye contact. Your face was once again awash with a heat, a pleasant one born from blush.

You wanted to let him. You'd let him do whatever he could with you. You just needed to . . . let him.

Your body made picking up the pen feel weightier than it could've possibly been. But in a way, you were used to it: You were used to fighting your body and mind, always losing the battle so that they and their anxieties could be pacified while the other parts of you remained barren. Unsatisfied, with the conviction that it was only your burden to bear.

You didn't want a story to tell or even a milestone to complete so that you could better fit in with your peers: You just wanted to be understood. Or at least, like you wouldn't get left behind, chained by your own body and mind's complications.

As you stared at the green ink that formed your name on the pristine white paper, you felt a tightness in your throat. Never before had you felt so liberated . . .

[dreaminofdixon]

Nine.

Long, but it goes together!

Later, back at camp, we’d gathered around the fire, voices low as we debated our next move. Walkers were creeping closer—not on top of us yet, but their stench drifted on the wind, a sour rot that clung to the back of your throat. The city was tapped out—food gone, survivors picked off or fled. The dead were getting desperate, spilling into the woods like a slow, shambling tide.

Then it hit.

Amy’s scream shredded the night, raw and jagged. I jolted upright, heart slamming against my ribs. Rick and Shane were already moving, Dale and Glenn scrambling behind. The firelight flickered over a scene straight from hell: a walker’s blackened teeth sunk into Amy’s forearm, tearing flesh with a wet rip. Another had her by the neck, blood spraying in dark arcs. Andrea lunged for her, a guttural cry ripping out of her as she clawed at the thing’s matted hair.

Gunshots cracked—sharp, deafening pops. Screams collided with the guttural moans of the dead. The air turned thick with it: coppery blood, rancid decay, the acrid bite of gunpowder. A walker lurched toward me, its face half-gone, one eye dangling by a thread of sinew. I swung my knife, burying it in its skull with a sickening crunch, black sludge oozing over my hands. My stomach churned, but there was no time to puke.

Ed went down hard, a walker’s fingers digging into his gut, pulling out ropes of glistening intestines while he gargled a scream. Jim took a hit too, a chunk of his shoulder gone, blood soaking his shirt dark. Three others—faces I barely knew—dropped, torn apart in the chaos. Teeth snapped. Skin ripped. The ground turned slick with gore, a muddy stew of dirt and insides.

We fought like animals, hacking and shooting until the last walker twitched and stilled. Five gone. Ed was a mess, his corpse splayed open like a gutted deer—no one mourned him, not even Sophia, who just stared, blank-faced. But Amy… sweet Amy was a heap in Andrea’s arms, her neck a ragged ruin, her eyes wide and empty. Andrea’s wails clawed at the air, a sound that sank into your bones and stayed there.

We dragged the bodies—ours and theirs—to a pit. Shovels bit into the earth, the rhythm steady but hollow. The fire crackled, the only sound left as the chatter died. Grief hung over us like smoke, choking out everything else. The hours passed slowly as we watched the burn, flames licking each of the bodies before swallowing them whole. 

I sank onto my log at the camp’s edge, staring at the others, numb but suffocating under it all. The creek called to me—a lifeline—but the woods felt alive with threats, and I couldn’t go alone.

My eyes found Daryl’s across the fire. For a heartbeat, it was just us. I mouthed, “Creek?” He nodded after a pause, and we slipped away, the darkness swallowing us whole.

“Hey,” I said quietly, my voice barely cutting through the rustle of leaves. “Thanks for joining me.”

“Had t’ get away,” Daryl muttered, his eyes flicking to the shadows beyond the trees.

“Today was hard.”

“Yeah.”

His words were spare, but they carried a weight I was starting to feel in my chest. A man of few, yet each one landed like a quiet spark, and I found myself drawn to the way he let the silence breathe.

“How’s yer head?” he asked, his tone cautious, like he was reaching out without stepping closer.

“Better. Much better.” I ducked under a low branch, sensing him right there behind me. “Headaches aren’t as bad anymore.”

“Good.”

“How about you? How you holding up?”

“Fine.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy—it was soft, alive with something stirring between us. I sighed, realizing how much I craved this: his steady presence slicing through the chaos, making me feel like I could hold on.

“Do you think we’ll move soon?”

He grunted his response. Best not use up the quota for words.

“Where do you think we’ll end up?”

“Dunno.”

We reached the creek, checking the dark for threats before settling on the bank. His arm brushed mine as he sat, a fleeting touch that sent a shiver through me, warm and sharp. The night air hung still, but my skin buzzed like it knew him.

For a while, it was just us, the crickets, and the creek’s gentle song. I stared at the water, wrestling with my thoughts. “I’ve heard Rick talk about the CDC. Shane’s mentioned Fort Benning,” I said, keeping my voice low. “I don’t know… Benning doesn’t feel right. After what I saw at my condo, the Guard cutting people down…”

My chest tightened, the memory clawing at me. I shook the thoughts away and pushed through. “How safe would we be there, really? I can’t shake the thought of walking into the hands of the ones who torched the city, who killed the people they were meant to protect.”

He nodded, slow and sure, his eyes on me now. He didn’t speak, just let my words settle, and that quiet felt like a steady hand.

“I just… I don’t want to end up somewhere I can’t feel safe,” I said, tracing a rock’s edge to keep my hands steady. “If it comes to it, I might have to go my own way. I can’t do Benning. I didn’t survive this long to die in a place that’s supposed to be safe.”

“Don’t do that,” he said, his voice low and firm, grounding me.

I glanced at him, a half-smile tugging at my lips. “Why? Would you miss me?”

He grunted, sidestepping it, but his eyes held mine a beat too long, and my pulse jumped.

“Just don’t let Carol hear that,” I teased, nudging the air between us. “Now that Ed’s gone, she’s free to—”

“‘m not interested in Carol,” he cut in, quick and sharp, his gaze pinning me.

The air stilled. I blinked, thrown. “I didn’t mean… I was just—”

“She’s just a friend,” he said, his tone even, shutting down the misstep.

“Oh.” I hesitated, recalibrating. “You two seem close. I guess I read it wrong… sorry.”

He shrugged, looking away, but the tension in his shoulders said more than his words. “Don’t wanna get involved. Ain’t worth it.”

I nodded, letting that sink in. “Never?”

He glanced back, his blue eyes catching the moonlight. “Nah.”

His face hardened as he turned to the creek. “Look what happened today. With Merle. Why bother?”

I bit my lip, his words digging deep. But I couldn’t let it lie. “Because…” I twisted a strand of hair, searching for the right way in. “Because there’s this old line: ‘Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.’ I know, it’s cheesy, but hear me out.” I shifted closer, my knee brushing his, my breath catching at the warmth of him. “You ride a motorcycle, right?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Okay, so think about this,” I said, my voice softening, like I was handing him a piece of me. “You’re out there, ready to ride. You kick the engine over, and that first rumble hits you—your heart picks up, your hands grip the bars, and you’re excited, right? Not because it’s perfect, but because it’s yours. You hit the road, and yeah, sometimes it’s smooth, the sun’s out, and you feel unstoppable. Other times, it rains—hard. The wind stings, the tires slip, and you’re soaked to the bone. But even then, you keep going, because it’s the ride itself that gets you. The ups, the downs, the way it makes you feel alive.”

He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly, but he didn’t pull away. I had him.

“Relationships are like that,” I went on, leaning in, my voice low and steady. “You start out all lit up, happy just to be in it. And sure, there’s rough patches—fights, mess, endings that hurt like hell. But even when it rains, even when it crashes, you don’t regret it. Because there were moments—good ones—that made you smile, made you feel something real. That’s why it’s worth it. Not because it lasts forever, but because it was yours to ride for a while.”

His gaze locked onto mine, deep and searching, and the air between us thickened, humming with something I could feel in my bones. My hand brushed his arm, light but sure, and the heat of his skin sent a jolt through me. I lingered there, heart pounding, before pulling back. “Even the bad rides leave you with something,” I whispered, “something that made you happy once.”

He didn’t speak for a long stretch, just watched me, his eyes tracing my face like he was weighing it all. “Guess that’s true,” he said finally, his voice rough, like it’d been pulled from somewhere deep.

I grinned, a little breathless. “Good. I’d hate to think I’m just over here spinning my wheels.”

He snorted, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Ain’t sayin’ I’m jumpin’ on for the ride.”

I laughed, the sound cutting through the tension but not the warmth. “Not yet. But if a good stretch of road opens up, you might not mind the trip.”

“Depends on the road,” he said, his tone low, teasing but laced with something heavier. His fingers shifted, brushing mine on the ground—quick, deliberate, a spark that lit me up.

“Oh, come on,” I said, leaning closer, playful and…not at the same time. “I’m a damn fine ride. Smooth turns, good mileage. You’d enjoy the scenery.”

He shook his head, but that smirk deepened, and his hand lingered near mine, close enough I felt its heat. “Maybe,” he muttered, so soft it nearly drowned in the creek’s murmur.

“What?” I teased, my pulse racing. “You don’t think I’d make it worth the gas?”

He opened his mouth, but I waved a hand, grinning. “Don’t answer. My heart can’t handle hearing anything to the contrary.”

He chuckled—a low, rough sound that sank into me—and the spark between us flared, quiet but bright.

The conversation drifted after that, but the charge stayed. “What’d you do before all this?” he asked, his voice softer, peeling back a layer.

“Hmm?”

“You a smarty pants ‘fore the world went t’ hell?”

I stuck my tongue out, playful despite the ache. “No. I knew my job, but I wouldn’t call it smart. Just… enough.”

“You did school?”

“Yeah,” I sighed, the weight creeping in. “Lots of time, lots of money. For what? I know everything about stuff that doesn’t matter now and probably won’t ever again. How tragic is that?”

I dropped my forehead to my knees, lost in it, until a rustle jolted me back. Daryl was up, crossbow in hand, moving toward the sound.

“Be careful,” I whispered, my heart jumping.

“Daryl?” I called, gripping the rock like it could hold me steady.

He reappeared, tension easing. “Rabbit or somethin’. Should head back.”

“Yeah,” I said, disappointment tugging at me. “You’re right.”

We walked back in silence, shoulder to shoulder, the night folding around us. At my tent, I expected him to peel off, but he stayed, stopping with me at the flap. I unzipped it, turning to him. “Thanks again.”

He nodded, his eyes locking onto mine, fierce and open. “Get some sleep. Work tomorrow.”

“Right. Goodnight.”

I stepped forward, but his hand caught mine—warm, rough, real. I froze, looking up, my breath catching as his thumb brushed my knuckles, slow and sure.

“Hmm?”

He held my gaze, something raw flickering there. “Yer heart wouldn’t’ve heard nothin’ different.”

My mind spun. Wait… What? Before I could catch it, he let go and walked off, fading into the dark.

I stood there, rooted, the night pressing in as my pulse thundered. What did that mean? I zipped the tent shut, collapsing onto my mattress, shoes kicked off, mind racing. Did he just… 

I groaned, staring at the ceiling. Too much to unravel, but one truth stuck: whatever this was, it was real, and it was ours.

**** You have NO IDEA how long it took me to get the motorcycle/relationship analogy just right. I'm honestly not even sure it's there yet! lol

@imadisneyprincessiswear

@knight-of-the-doctor

[milliesfishes]

⋆౨ৎTender is the Night (Part Two)⋆౨ৎ

[fem reader] contains: mentions of death/dying, angst pairing: billy the kid x fem reader summary: fem reader x ghost billy the kid author’s note: (modern au) based partially on @goosita ghost billy au (which I've been dying for an excuse to write for) which is based on lisa frankenstein (love) Pinterest Board Spotify Playlist

The threads separating life and death are gossamer, as fine as spiderwebs and nearly as breakable. It is a ragged veil that hangs over mortality, fluttering in an invisible wind and offering those encased a glimpse of the other side.

He was nearly a shadow, clinging to the edges of the graveyard, haunting without really haunting. It was as if he’d been swallowed except for the final drop left in his shape, retaining the same pain as someone breathing.

All this time he'd thought the world cruel for keeping him here with no purpose- just aimlessly wandering with nothing but his own thoughts to accompany him. He was well aware that punishment was reasonable- he hadn't exactly been a good man.

Maybe not so bad a man as he'd thought. Not if you'd come his way.

You spent your free time with him, lying side by side with him on the grassy expanse of his grave. Sometimes you brought homework or a book with you, sometimes you played music. And sometimes you abandoned all of it in favor of listening to him.

Slowly, he began to tell you about his few years on earth. Of his passage to America. Of the deaths of his family. How he was thrust into the life of an outlaw without so much as a say. You listened fascinatedly, like nobody else had. Even while he'd had a beating heart and air in his lungs he hadn't been such a point of fascination to anybody. No, he'd been simply existing, no better than his current ghostly form.

Billy felt more alive with you than he ever had when he was breathing.

“How do you think we’d have met in your time?” you murmured one day, lying on your side with your hair tumbling down over your shoulders like a waterfall.

Billy hummed, his hand half wound through a strand. "Maybe at the bar one night. I'd buy you a drink 'n we'd get to talkin'."

You giggled, leaning your cheek on your hand. "I'd have liked that."

"Me too," was his response, murmured as he watched you watch him. Suddenly the great divide between life and death didn't seem as prominent. It was such a delicate thing, yet unbreakable.

Two souls, existing in the wrong space of time. Maybe that was the reason he was made to haunt the earth so long after his supposed permanent disappearance. Maybe all these years of being lonely and feeling neglected were paid for the gift of you.

"I wasn't a good man," he confessed, tracing stars onto your arm and imagining them taking shape, leaving patterns that marked the fact that he was real to you. It was still unclear why exactly he was able to touch you now. Or why you were able to see him. But you were the common denominator. It couldn't be a coincidence that the best thing to happen to him in a century and the revelation of his existence had overlapped. "Dunno if that's been absolved...with death 'n all. But it stays with me. 's if it was yesterday."

You hummed, fingers twiddling with a blade of grass before your wrist. He knew nearly every quirk about you at this point, could read you like a map, chart the nature of what you were about to say. But he'd never deem to guess exactly what that would be. You had a way of surprising him in the best of ways. "You know...I don't believe in the idea of people being good or bad."

"Hm?" Billy blinked at you, the pads of his fingers pausing their motions on your skin.

Turning your head to face the sky, blue in all its glory with fluffy white clouds adorning the expanse of it, you let your eyelashes touch your cheek once before continuing. "People are full of a million intentions and thoughts and feelings. Not all of them can be defined. Not all of them are ever revealed. I don't think it's all measured up against us."

Billy let the quiet talk for a moment as he thought about it, the idea taking space, filling the gap more wholly than guilt ever could. His features lightened, and you smiled at the sight, moving forward and reaching for his hand. He expected your fingers to pass through his form, occupy the space inside the outline. But instead your warm palm sat atop his knuckles, making you both look up.

“Did…?” your question trailed off, as if you weren’t exactly sure what you should be asking.

“Yes.” Billy turned his palm over, letting yours touch it. He was in utter disbelief. First he could touch you and now you could touch him. Something was brightening from the inside, warming him and lighting everything up. It intensified when he looked at you, watching the way your lips parted, the wonder fill your eyes. It was like you were seeing him for the first time.

After that, it was like you couldn't keep your hands off each other. Whenever you came over you were touching him in some way; holding his hand, rubbing his arm, or his personal favorite- lying with your head on his chest. It almost made him feel like a person again, lying among the flowers with a pretty girl in his arms.

With every day, he could feel the weight of emotions he hadn't felt in decades holding him to earth, as if heaven or hell wouldn't let him in due to his love.

Due to his love.

He realized it one day as you were lazily resting with your hair spread across him, and he was thumbing your cheek. In your hands was a copy of Romeo and Juliet, one of your favorites, you'd told him. Every now and then you'd stop and read a passage to him, and he'd smile, enchanted by your love for it.

“Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight! For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night,” you recited, and he could hear your smile in your voice.

My heart didn't love until now, he thought casually. And then it hit him, a rod of lightning from the sky.

You were his sun, his moon. You were the light after centuries of darkness. You cared for him, astounded him with your sweetness, with your view of the world. This had to be the reason he could now touch you. because you were his reason for everything now.

You made him feel alive again.

Once he realized it, he felt frozen. He was a ghost in love with a living girl. Billy had never heard anything more hopeless. He felt as though he were yelling into a void. Before he had thanked the higher powers for gifting you to him, but now he was sure this was some kind of torment. Bringing the sweetest, kindest girl he'd ever known into his afterlife and making it so he couldn't have her. Was there ever a crueler thing?

You looked up at him with the most darling of smiles then, shifting on his chest and reaching up for his hand while keeping hold of the book. Billy couldn't help his smile, and he tangled his fingers with yours. An abundance of that old familiar glowing feeling warmed him again, and he disregarded all previous thoughts.

You were worth every bit of it.

tagging @kellielovesmovies because <3 also HAPPY BIRTHDAY QUEEN!!!!!

[hyuukais]

Waiting

Finally, after many busy weeks, you’d be getting to see your boyfriend again. Beomgyu was coming home for an entire weekend. However, you were still stuck at the worst part of his return, the waiting.

word count: 1.5k

genres: beomgyu x streamer!reader, slice of life, fluff, insinuations of angst

warnings: language, mentions of executive dysfunction, reader plays zelda specifically botw because i do not have totk 👎👎👎👎

author: FINALLY SEEING THE LIGHT OF DAY !! hopefully i will have more content coming soon im just in a major slump atm 😔 also shoutout to @ssunnae & @bobariki sunny and rue thank you both so so much for beta-reading this !!

The colorful LEDs shift along the floorboards, currently a fog of purple misting the floor. Trickles of soft mood music set the low-light room into its sleepy atmosphere. Two large monitors illuminate your face in blue light, aided by a small ring light situated to your left. Amid the calm, an underwhelming rage slowly fizzles up in your throat.

“Oh come on; not right now, please!” The sudden battle music picking up in your headphones sends you into a panic as an enemy health bar appears at the top of the screen. Rain crashes on Link, lightning streaking across in pixels. Your fingers smash around frantically, trying to run away as the Lynel begins to draw its bow.

“Please please please please, don’t-” Unable to draw a weapon or get away, a hard strike lighting descends on the character. The hearts filling the top left of the screen go dark.

“God-fuck!” Red light blinds your eyes with the large “Game Over” fading onto the screen. Your head slams down onto the desk, the top of it all that’s left in view of the camera. The long-winded groan that leaves you is still picked up well by your mic. Chat messages fly fast along your monitor; many expressing their simple sympathy for your defeat, others instead laughing at the situation.

Slowly drawing yourself back up, you catch on the monitor displaying the stream and take a moment to look at everything. “Man…I know I said today was only gonna be Zelda but…this is already the 7th time I’ve died.” Your words trail into a whining laugh. More comments flood the chat. Some call out your terrible playing, some suggest other ideas for the rest of the stream, and many are just extremely off-topic.

“I’m not usually this bad! I don’t know what’s happening to me.” You were out of it today, unfocused, and part of you knew why. “I guess…I dunno, I think I’m just tired!”

This space-y feeling had been following you all day. It was the sort of distance your brain felt when experiencing executive dysfunction. Stuck in a loop of boredom; waiting for something, anything. Struggling to do anything, but still wanting to. Oftentimes, it was hard to discern a particular reason for the feeling, maybe burnout or simply worms in your brain. Today, however, you could easily guess the reason. Today, there was something to wait for. After more than a few weeks apart, Beomgyu would finally be coming over.

You and your boyfriend were both busy people; both public figures in your own right. Although, his schedule as an idol was arguably stricter than yours as a streamer. Between the end of the North America leg of the tour, preparing for their Japanese comeback, and the new single, you hadn’t seen Beomgyu face-to-face in close to a month. It was like spending a month in hell. A month without having his hands in yours, body wrapped in your arms, lips painting your skin, heartbeat beneath your fingers; the reminders that he was real and he was all yours. So, now that you’ll finally get him all to yourself for a whole weekend, your brain was searching for any way to skip to having him back in your arms. Hence, why Link has died more than five times by your incompetence.

“Maybe-uh-why don’t we switch gears? Maybe Zelda was a bad idea.” Considering your head space, streaming today in general may not have been the best of your ideas; you still felt bad for skimping out on a regularly scheduled stream. You also kind of hoped streaming would give you some distraction from sitting by the front door like a puppy.

You click around, filling the screen up with your face as you exit the game. “Hmm…what about…animal crossing? Minecraft? Thoughts, chat?”

You watched message after message fly by, all varying that you don’t actually reach a consensus with them.

“I think…hmm…” You watch a moment more, “Okay, I think we’re gonna do Minecraft.”

Once again, your face cam is moved to the corner as your PC feed takes up the stream. The ambient music takes over for your voice, filling up the silence as things load. Grass blocks and wood load in first before the sudden appearance of buildings. You spawn near a small farm you last left off building.

This wasn’t the world you usually streamed from; preferring the action a survival world provided for content. Actually, this was a world you’d created and built with Gyu, and some of the other members much after you invited them. Although, your audience didn’t need to know any of that. “I’m just going to stick to creative this time, chat. Something…calmer, y’know.”

Soon enough, you find yourself sinking into a rhythm with the music. You keep working on the farm you left unfinished, fixing it up with the build of a greenhouse. Little commentary is provided; small tidbits here and there as you casually speak to yourself. Humming to the music at times and finding some focus on small tasks.

Your headspace shifting from inattentive to hyper-fixated, you’re not particularly tuned into any noise besides what’s pumping in your head. Perhaps that’s why you don’t notice the usual creak of the hallway floorboards or the awful squeaking of your office door. You don’t even see all of the chat messages taking note of those very things. Rarely looking away from the game, there’s no note in your mind of the torso slowly creeping up behind your chair; head just out of camera view, hands sneaking up to your headset.

It’s sudden, the relieving of pressure against your ears, the disappearance of your soft tunes, the realization that there is a person in your home and they are standing behind you.

Your scream is shrill and unending. The whiplash from how fast your turn around would have your head spinning if not for the new pumps of adrenaline coursing through you.

There, standing behind you, wearing the stupidest little cocky smile, is the cause of all your problems. Beomgyu was smart enough to keep his face just outside of the camera, hiding his identity from any viewers. Still, with pretty much the rest of him in frame, this is the largest glimpse your audience has ever gotten of your boyfriend. The chat reacts accordingly to such a realization.

You scramble around to mute your microphone and cover your camera; cutting off your connection as more and more chat messages fly faster along the screen. Nothing else matters though, as you spin your chair around to face the man looking down at you. He’s smiling still, eyes crinkled up and lips split wide. The way you leap at him sends him stumbling back.

Beomgyu’s hands come to cradle your back as you take him in your arms; feel him, his heat, his breath, the shake in his chest when he chuckles. His head settles upon yours. You squeeze his middle tighter and tighter and take in the depth of his scent. Head pressed against his chest, his heart beats softly in your ear.

“That…” You pull yourself away to get a look at his face, “was mean.”

He laughs as you slap at his arm; languorously boisterous, infectious with the happiness of his simple presence. A smile breaches your cheeks, soon enough, as well. Beomgyu’s hands tickle along your waist; keep you close, skin touching skin.

“It was a surprise.”

“More like a jumpscare!”

“Same difference.” His breath brushing your skin all this time finally comes ever closer. Douses you in his everything. A sweet peck on your lips, interrupted by a smile and a whisper. “I missed you.”

The fire of his words floods the pit of your stomach. His lips were barely pulled away from yours and yet that was too far. Your hands cupping his cheeks, pull him closer, filling your space with his. Breaths mingling with heavy words.

“I missed you, too.” You bring his mouth to yours; sway in his presence and feeling. Almost pulling away before more. “So much.”

Head tilted back, chest pressed into his, lips meeting in reverie. Beomgyu’s arms encase your waist; your fingers twirl in his hair. So soft, delicate, fluffy—so like him. Such is the kiss. Deep and sweet, nothing further than adoration. It’s intoxicating sugar; he’s delicious and addicting. His taste sticks to your lips as they leave his. Eyes still fluttered shut, taking in the disappearing feeling.

“I…have to finish off my stream.” You can barely stand to push him away, losing the soft brush of his thumb beneath the hem of your shirt, “You get yourself situated and I’ll be right there.”

The pout on his lips is nothing short of goading after losing your kiss. Still, he responds, although not without an eye roll. “Okay, but if you’re not done in 10 minutes, I get to choose the movie tonight!”

He plants a quick peck on your cheek before leaving you in the office. You have to laugh at how proud he is of that challenge as if you weren’t going to let him pick anyways. Though now, you may just have to get your own bit of payback and not leave him waiting.

© HYUUKAIS 2023

[whole-circus]

Hello!! May I please ask for something along the lines of… Like, several creepypasta characters (like EJ, Toby, etc-) with a gender neutral s/o who usually covers their body head to toe, like, not even leaving a piece of their skin out in the open, maybe mostly due to some deep seeded insecurities,, or they got some bodily deformities,,, or both— But they let their creep see them without all the clothing after maybe like a month or two of being in a relationship???

(You don’t have to do this one of course, I just really like your writing, I also hope you have a nice day/night!!!)

Creepypastas x gn.reader that covers their body!

➥ with Jeff the Killer, Homicidal Liu, "Ticci" Toby, Eyeless Jack, Ben Drowned, Laughing Jack

Hi hello love! Sorry you waited a lot! :(

.•┈••✦ 🖤 ✦••┈•.

☆ Jeff the Killer

Oh? S/O? Is that really you? Jeff is pretty suprised - but he doesnt complain! Im pretty sure he would try to get you uncover yourself earlier because he is stupid and a meanie. But when you done that yourself? He is relieved, he would be scared that you are maybe afraid of him? Maybe he did something wrong..? Like lets be real, he is a serial killer, he wouldnt blame you. Ofc he would never say that out loud. But when he sees your body, he doesn't feel any diffrent about you - no matter what you were hiding. If you were insecure then he would be way nicer to you, showering you in kisses..maybe even more close activities..because he loves you for you.

☆ Homicidal Liu

Doesn't mind that you cover your body a lot, and doesn't really mind when you showed him - dont get me wrong, he loves that you feel comfortable and trust him that much, but he never wanted to push you. Also! Even if he finds you really attractive, then he is is in relationship with your for your amazing personality. But when he sees you? Man, I mean he doesn't complain. You are still the prettiest person he has ever seen! No matter what were you hiding - if it was just some insecurities or deformation! He would place kissess all over your body and complement you even more often (is that even possible??).

☆ 'Ticci' Toby

Curious boy!! There is a high chance that he actually aksed you about it..or! He didnt even noticed, he just..dunno, were with you and didnt thought about it. Why are you always so covered head to toes? Are you a spy? Maybe a magic creature? What are you hiding silly..? If you finally show your body and explain, he will be even more in love! Like you are such a dummy, he loves you anyway - no matter if you actually were hiding something like deformation, or if you were insecure. He would kiss all your bad thoughts away! I totally see Toby saying all this lovey-dovey stuff, he would be your number one supporter!

☆ Eyeless Jack

He noticed the way you always dress in a lot of clothes, no matter the weather..or how you try not too look into mirror whenever you pass them. Jack sense that something is wrong, and that you hiding something. He propably thought that its all becasue of him - are you scared? Disgusted? Maybe you didn't feel safe with him? The situation were killing you both, so he was so relieved when you told him the reason! Jack is a grown ass men, and no matter what were you hiding, he doesnt care. Like come on, he is literally a demon, there is no way you could scare him away! He would be even more clingy to you, caring about your well being and always put you first.

☆ Ben Drowned

Ben can be a huge tease about how you dress, he would make a lot of this sex related jokes, so it wasnt easy to you. No worries, he loves you a lot, you are his bestfriend and partner..but he was wondering what is wrong. At first he thought that its just your style (he doesn't judge, he is a ghost himself!!), but you were always covering your body so he got more suspicious. But when he finally sees your body? When you finally tell him what was wrong? He was glad you cared so much about him, that you were so trusting. He wouldn't make a big deal out of it - like oh, you look pretty..now wanna play with him? Ben made you place already..(this place is definitely his arms tho!)

☆ Laughing Jack

Jack is really touchy, he just clings to you like koala and its hard to make him stop. So its pretty obvious that he noticed how you were a bit distant sometimes, always making excuses and stuff. He was pretty miserable because of that, you are his S\O ..he wants you to feel safe and comfortable around him.. So he start asking a lot of questions, most of them were pretty random, druing normal conversations. But he waited..and it was totally worth it - he immediately hugs you and give you a lot of kisses! He would spend hours and hours praising and worshipping you..no worries, he has all the time in the world!

.•┈••✦ 🖤 ✦••┈•.

[akkpipitphattana]

while i agree with your take on k/b being 'fluffier' in recent eps cos of logical character/relationship progression in terms of where they're all at (even if i still think there were missed opportunities/easy wins to be had re. maintaining a little more depth/oomph), i think what frustrates me is knowing that the ga will not see it that way, and instead interpret it as proof that the f/s relationship has always been more complex/compelling. and the most arrrrrgh!!!!! thing bout that is how hypocritical it is, because during eps 1-8, the k/b relationship is, objectively, by FAR the more complex - the sheer number of layers to everything being said and done! the amount of reading tween the lines that needs doing! the subtlety in expressions! - but no, instead it was 'ew don't like it kant's a lying meanie and bison's a liddle baby where's the lovey dovey romance ugh f/s and their funny enemies to lovers hijinks are so much better' and then from ep 9 onwards, when the dynamics shift and we finally get the much-demanded lovey dovey romance tween them, suddenly it's 'ew don't like it it's boring it's shallow ugh f/s and their angsty heart to hearts are so much better' - like, they can't win! and i know it's my fault for letting other ppl's bad takes influence my enjoyment of the show, and equally i know i shouldn't blame the show for the audience, but sometimes i just wanna be like, c'mon man, help me out here! throw me a 'kant phones babe' or 'christ threatens babe' (basically anything relating to babe!) or 'bison isn't happy with the plan cos he doesn't like the idea of kant going to christ knowing how christ has treated him in the past and if he so much as lays a...' or 'at some point style/bison tell fadel him and kant are alike and at some later point fadel has to reluctantly acknowledge it'-shaped bone here!

i dunno - i read your posts (and others coming from a similar place of appreciation and understanding) and i'm good - all's well! no complaints! bring it on! - and then the second i see yet another 'i came for fk but gee golly whiz i stayed for jd cos fs are blowing everyone else outta the water kb who?!?!?!?'-type post i'm back to being a miserable bitch! i feel so out of step with the wider fandom cos i - simply, genuinely - cannot relate. cannot comprehend. nay, cannot even conceive. imagine not loving kb??? not anticipating every second they're onscreen??? not soaking up every fleeting microexpression on display??? not overanalysing every minute gesture/facial tic/word out their mouths??? not wanting to peel back every layer of their trauma-riddled kinky psyches??? not worshipping at the feet of their fucked-up flawed magnificence??? do these ppl not have eyes that see?? ears that hear?? brains that overthink?? yes, i'm being ott - i know they're/the writing's not perfect, and of course not everyone will engage with their characters/relationship like that, in the same way i don't engage with fs on any deeper level than 'this is fun! they're pretty! oh no don't cry!', and that's fine, we all vibe differently with different things! but a) that doesn't stop me from enjoying fs' scenes or acknowledging their contribution to the show and b) i don't feel the need to constantly emphasise the contrast in my feelings towards a vs b because i have no interest in making it a competition or in bringing anyone else and their faves down. i guess i just wish that was more of a two-way street.

in conclusion: i need to grow a thicker skin! i do try and take inspiration from you and your attitude towards the show and its viewers. so, in all honesty, thank you - and those others out there like you! you know who you are! - for providing this highly strung, over-sensitive, perpetually anxious anon with a safe space for kb/fk fans, full of fascinating interpretations and super cool parallels and gorgeous gifsets and detailed dissections and hilarious zingers, and for generally being a reassuring, friendly, and, above all, positive voice in this crazy - sometimes scary - place we call fandom.

i totally get what you’re saying and i can understand why it’s appealing to think if the show only did this or added this one scene, then suddenly everyone would be able to see these characters the way we do. but, the unfortunate reality is that if people don’t want to like certain characters or a certain ship - they simply aren’t going to. i mean like you said, the people complaining about kb are finding completely contradictory and hypocritical reasons to do so, so unfortunately it’s just a case of nothing the creators did would have satisfied them. unless they had changed kb from the jump, which wouldn’t have made them who we know and love. and personally, i would MUCH rather get to appreciate and have kb for what they are than have them be changed to be more “palatable” for the general audience.

and while i completely understand wanting other scenes/lines/additions like that because i would have loved a number of those too, i also don’t think that the creators should have added them in order to win over audience members that don’t like them. i am very much someone that doesn’t think creators should cave to their audience! it’s honestly one of my biggest criticisms of jojo when it comes to only friends, because he admitted to cutting scenes when he saw the audience’s reaction to top and i hate that! let your work speak for itself! you can’t make everyone see your art how you see it and honestly that’s half the beauty in art in the first place! now, that’s not to say i don’t think creators should ever take criticism, it’s just that a creator’s goal should never be to please everyone - because that is just an impossible task. and even if there’s only a few people that understand your art for what it is, embrace that! don’t pander to the people who don’t and won’t ever get it.

that being said, i really extend the same advice to you, nonnie. i know very well how hard it can be to ignore people that shit on the things you love, but the block button also exists for a reason! i also suggest finding the people you trust and agree with and following them and sticking to your dash - that’s what i do and it’s what has made fandom experience far more enjoyable in my opinion!

and thank you so much for your kind words :) it’s always my goal to have fun with fandom and if i can help other people have fun with it, too, then that makes me very happy

[the-kr8tor]

Headcanons? Headcanons!

I never did Headcanons, but let’s see how it goes

-He totally inhales his food, like yk Kirby? That’s him. And plus he never gets bloated or sick! It almost feels like he got some hammerspace in his stomach, bc after eating 3gallons of food he is still that damn stickbug with abs and stuff (does he even have a sixpack? I dunno.)

-He is so TENDER HEADED. You can’t braid his hair without him whining or hissing or whatever thing he does (me)

-Def forces you to do his braids or hair in general when he wants and needs to, and if you can’t? Well too bad cuz you now have to watch 300 tutorial videos while the angle is so weird that you can’t see anything. Your hands are slowly getting sore while you’re doing his hair step by step, squinting your eyes in order to figure out what needs to be done. You are def getting irritated because of those ‘tutorials’ that when Hobie hisses at A BIT OF TENSION you want to smack his head.

-Due to his hair, he probably has like a 100 step hair routine with a cute pink silk bonnet (it def has a sweet bow)

-Probably has either thousands allergies or is lactose intolerant (still drinks milk and eats mac and cheese (not billie and ramona⁉️) and says that he doesn’t believe in being allergic to smt)

-HE HATES TEA!!! I feel like he and Ekko would come along so good, cuz they just don’t like tea (the only exception is when Mayday/ or Billie and Ramona play tea time with pink tutus and tiaras (pinkies are def sticking out and not touching the cup❗️))

-At home he’s either a princess or the most ‘homeless’ person ever, sometimes his boat can be so dirty as if he never heard of cleaning or smt. And yet sometimes he can be such a spoiled princess like srs, I see him walking in his soft pink bonnet and a flowy robe, scrunching his face in a disgusted expression when he sees a BIT OF DUST 🤏 or when he sees a fly and he just did his skin care.

“babeee, kill it!!” *whining voice*

“Why can’t you do it yourself?”

“I just did my skincare! I can’t do it, I will break out again!!” AND YET HE NEVER GETS ACNE 🫵

-sometimes you gotta ask yourself who the passenger princess is in the relationship, bc while he is wearing pink and silk pyjamas, you are def wearing an oversized punk shirt of his with his boxers or smt

YEESS MORE HEADCANONS

Oh he has a six pack! Source: me, I saw it believe me

When I read tender headed all i saw in my head is that one baby doll meme where its head is caved in 😭😂🤣

Oh I'd gladly learn how to do his hair!

Lol I also think he's lactose intolerant! Not b and r!

GASP! A BRITISH MAN WHO HATES TEA?! HOW SACRILEGIOUS!

I wanna be his passenger princess tho 😍

[musicfeedsmysoul12]

Soulmate Drabble 2

Jay (They had picked it after seeing a bird named a blue jay, a pretty bird that made them smile after they had left the Qun) sighed as they picked up another knife.

“How many knives can someone need?” they asked as they held the dagger so Harding could see it.

“Dunno,” Harding said, eyeing the blade. “So… you're Gathering?”

“I am,” grimaced Jay. They paid for the blade with a sigh. “Its not… fun.”

“Come on Rook. What could be so bad about it?” Varric asked. He was busy with his own shopping, and no one commented on his Gathering. The taboo subject of who his soulmate was, a platonic one apparently, was never spoken.

“Because having a human Soulmate is frustrating when you’re Qunari.” Jay grumbled. They fingered the flower buds on their arms. That was how Qunari could tell their soulmates, if the flowers Bloomed. Under the Qun, soulmate pairs were kept together. There was no romantic love under the Qun but Blooms were kept together because it was believed they worked better together. If they were compatible to have children it was allowed.

“I mean, I get it,” Harding said. Her hand went to touch the flowers she had on her arm. Jay hummed. They knew exactly how it was. “Having a different race for a Soulmate is… tough.”

“It is,” Jay sighed. They didn't hate it. Feeling the urge to Gather had been heavily discouraged by the Qun. They didn't want to have Jay going Tal-Vashoth, or anyone else going so.

Jokes on them, Jay did so anyway after they were told to just move on after seeing what the Viddasala did. When they tried to argue with the other Hissrads, they'd been told to stop it.

Jay had left soon after. They couldn't… Well, they hadn't been to aware of things like that. They'd been numb, blind and deaf to the world. Until that moment when they realized how many would die.

They couldn't do it.

Leaving the Qun, and then stumbling into a Darkspawn attack that Blighted them had changed their life. Being a Warden was amazing.

They didn't hate their urge. They just worried that their soulmate wouldn't want them. Had tried to get the flowers removed or the such. It wasn't uncommon for people to do that. Especially concerning Qunari.

Jay eyed the coffee at another stand, wondering if they would be accepted.

-

“It is always a good day when you can kick the asses of Venatori,” Jay grinned as Bellara outright giggled from beside them.

“Even if we’re walking through a prison full of them?” the mage asked. Jay held up their two handed axe.

“Yes.” they said simply. Bellara chuckled as they headed further into the underwater prison.

Jay was frankly amazed by it. It was beautiful in an eerie way, and the giant bones outside the windows made them gasp in awe, the fire in their blood burning. Bellara had commented about Ghilan'nain and how she'd been told to drown her giant monster creations to join the rest of the Evanuris.

Jay could safely day thank whatever the fuck was listening the god had. Fighting those things would be terrifying.

(They may also be a bit disappointed they didn't get the fight.)

Walking into the last room, Jay paused seeing a bunch of Venatori surrounding some ice. They glanced at Bellara who shrugged.

“Alright,” Jay began. “How about we play-” they paused when they felt their arm grow warm and turned their head to stare as the flowers bloomed across their skin. Their eyes widened, and the snapped around to stare at the Venatori just as the ice cracked. A man with wings jumped out of it and began slaughtering the Venatori. Jay watched with an open mouth as Bellara gasped. When the man turned to face then, Jay glanced at their arm.

The flowers were still there. Their head went back to stare at the man who had turned to stare. His arms were covered but Jay knew.

“How many knives do you need?” they blurted out. The man paused and chuckled.

“A few. I am Lucanis Dellamorte. And you?”

“Jay Thorne.” they smirked. “You need better taste in drinks. Tea is better.”

The disgust on his face made them laugh, a little hysterically.

They had a sneaking feeling things would work out.

Notes:

This was fun. I imagine Lucanis is still dealing with his shit from canon but his soulmate is around which helps. Jay is respectful enough not to push. They also get into fights over tea and coffee a lot.

Qunari have Flowers! They bloom upon meeting their soulmate and sadly a lot of people try to get rid of them.

Jay is a former Hissard who couldn't stomach anything after Trespasser and left. They enjoy the Wardens much more.

[seeking-elsewhither]

Hey you know how I said I needed to write a thing? Well.

(plot what plot all i know is the need to write my favorite doomed twins and also my favorite father-son-brothers)

------------------------

"You need to shave."

"Yeah yeah, I know. I'll get to it."

"See, you say that, but this is the third time this week I've reminded you and you still haven't."

He clutches the sink in the refresher so hard that were it made of a weaker material than durasteel it would warp or shatter. The man in the mirror in front of him is nigh-unrecognizable- disheveled hair, ashen skin, blackish-purple bruises under dull brown eyes and the sheen of tear tracks tracing high cheekbones and a square jaw. Furrows in his brow deep enough to bury a man.

When's the last time he's eaten? Drank? Slept?

Does it matter?

(Does anything matter anymore?)

"So. You gonna shave tonight?"

"I dunno, Ech. I kinda like it."

"Oh, you have GOT to be kidding me."

"What? I think it gives me a kind of, y'know, rougeish charm!"

"The only thing it gives you is a reputation for bad stylistic decisions, I mean between this and the tattoo-"

"HEY, you leave my tattoo out of this!"

"I will NOT, that was a BAD call on your part and besides, you came crying to me afterwards and I didn't sleep ALL NIGHT because you wouldn't SHUT UP-"

There's a razor, on the edge of the sink. Just a simple straight-razor. Jesse's, probably, or Hardcase's. Maybe even the Captain's. He doesn't know. He doesn't care.

Shaking hands curl hesitantly around the handle. He tests it in his hand; the weight, the balance, the way he'd test a blaster or a vibroblade or a- a grenade- a bomb-

"Have I ever told you I hate your beard?"

"Every day. At this point I keep it just to annoy you."

"You know what, I take it back. I don't hate the beard. I just hate YOU."

"No you don't."

"Yes, I do. I really, truly do."

His hands tremble so violently with every heaving sob that there's more blood falling into the sink than hair. Sometimes the blade slips on the thick brine that spills down his face and opens a new knick that stings with the shock of the salt. But he doesn't feel it, not really, just keeps hacking away at what remains of the stubble on his chin with a reckless, mindless abandon.

Neither does he hear the haphazard footfall outside the door. He doesn't notice the knock, doesn't see it slide open, and barely registers the light that pours in from the hallway or the haggard, half-asleep man that stands in the frame and blocks it.

"Fives?"

His head snaps from the mirror to the doorway, and all his sopping sight can make out is a dark blur against harsh white light. He squeezes his eyes shut and hangs his head and feels his shoulders slump. And then his whole body follows and he crumples to the floor. The razor is still loosely curled in his fingers.

Large, rough hands find his shoulders with surprising gentleness and pull him close to a warm beating heart. Force, he feels like a tubie again. He just sobs harder. Calloused fingers ease the razor out of his weak grasp and set it a few feet away before coming to gently brush through his curly locks, and he can't breathe anymore, just gasp against a broad, steady shoulder and dig his own digits into the thin fabric of his Captain's blacks.

"Oh, Fives. What is this?"

"I don't- I--"

"No, wait, stop, that was rhetorical. Hey, hey, deep breaths. Just- hey, no, shh- let me help you clean yourself up. You look like a nexu with mange."

If he wasn't weeping so heavily, he'd give a weak chuckle.

"You CANNOT be serious."

"I am! He told me he liked it! I can keep it!"

"No. No, you're lying. There is NO WAY the Captain actually COMPLIMENTED your atrocious excuse for facial hair."

"He said, and I quote, 'It makes you look older'. And then he told me I was shaping up into a fine soldier. So. Boom. Check and mate."

"Kriffing Force. I'm going to throw myself into the vacuum of space. This galaxy has lost its wits. Just shoot me now."

The blade sweeps cleanly over his jaw, patiently guided by Rex's steady hand. The bleeding is mostly staunched, the tears have been washed away, and under the Captain's direction his face is as smooth and fresh-looking as it was the day of his graduation, the day of his first assignment, the fateful day the Rishi Moon Station was attacked and the two first met.

Rex sets the blade down and gently tilts Fives's chin around to inspect his work. "All right. There you go. Hey." His grip, while not ungentle, goes firm, and brown eyes meet exhausted, bloodshot brown eyes. "Listen. I don't ever want to find you hysterical in the dark with a blade to your face again. Understood?"

"…Yes, sir."

"Fives." His eyes and hand and voice soften. "I'm so sorry. Really, I am so, so sorry. You cannot get so lost in grief that you hurt yourself. I know that's not what you were trying to do, but this- it's reckless. You aren't reckless. Promise me you'll find someone next time you spiral, alright? Whether that's me, or one of our brothers, or General Skywalker, or even General Kenobi. It can be anyone, I really don't care who, as long as you do the responsible thing and find them."

"I'm not a cadet," Fives whispers, but really, he doesn't have it in him to be truly indignant. Rex is only acting in his best interest, only trying to help, only trying to do the right thing. He can't be angry at him for that.

"And I'm not saying you are. But you are a member of Torrent Company and therefore under my supervision. And I like you, kid. I'd… I don't know what I'd do if you- if anything were to happen to you."

Fives doesn't say anything. He doesn't know if he can. He just offers a tiny, shaky nod of acknowledgement, and after a long moment involuntarily hurls himself forward and back into Rex's arms.

They catch him. Because of course they do. Fives has never had a father, not really. But he hopes that if he did… well, he hopes that he'd be a lot like the Captain.

"You know what? Fine."

"Fine what?"

"Don't you DARE 'fine what?' me, you've been grinning and innocently batting your kriffing eyes at me for the past three minutes.'"

"Oh no, please, dear brother of mine, enlighten me. Fine what?"

"I really do hate you, you know. Fine, I'll admit that now that it's had some time to grow in… Oh, Force. I can't believe I'm actually about to say this."

"No no, DO go on, Echo. I'm on the edge of my seat."

"Would you stop being such a shebs for, like, two seconds? Kark. Kriffing Force. It pains me to say it, but now that it's had some time to grow in, your beard is- Ugh. It's fine. I guess."

"I'm sorry? What was that? Did MY brother, ARC Corporal Echo, just tell me that my beard is, and I quote, 'fine I guess'?"

"You're insufferable."

"This is- this is unheard of! This calls for a celebration! A parade of some kind! Get the Daruvvian champagne! Call the Chancellor's office, make it a Galactic Holiday! ECHO admitted he was WRONG!"

"I did NO such thing. And besides, you're getting ahead of yourself. I stand by my previous statements on your tattoo. Your beard is not the victory you think it is."

"I'm sorry, I can't hear you over the sound of my own vindication."

"You're the worst."

"I love you too, Echs'ika."

YOU

Fives-

and then Echo-

and then Rex comes in and-

and- and-

*cries in Mando'a*