#like god this might be worse than midnights even

[dialdrunk]

taylor’s worst sin MUSICALLY is putting the best songs on the deluxe edition because from the bottom of my heart what the FUCK was that???????

[sidekick-hero]

“Hey, have you seen Harrington? Guy’s totally wasted. Can't even stand. Tried to get up, fell down like a goddamn turtle. Garrison's over there throwing chips at him. It’s hysterical, you gotta check this out, man.”

The upside to being the guy everyone calls ‘the Freak’—the guy no one wants to talk to unless they’re looking to buy—is that Eddie can disappear whenever he wants. And tonight, he’s been in full stealth mode, almost ghost-like in the way he drifts through the shadows of this overcrowded house party. When he’s not standing on lunch tables at school, giving speeches, or taunting the assholes who think they run the place, Eddie finds that people tend to forget he’s even there.

Which makes it real easy to hear all kinds of things he probably shouldn’t. Not that Carver's announcement is any kind of secret, not with the way he’s broadcasting it to the entire room. Ever since Harrington lost his King Steve status, the rest of the jock squad has been scrambling to claw their way to the top. It’s desperate. Pathetic, really, if you ask him. But no one’s ever asking Eddie for his opinion.

He should get out of here. Most of his stash is gone, and it’s getting late. There’s leftover mac and cheese in the fridge with his name on it, and if he bolts now, he might just catch the midnight rerun of The Thing.

Eddie tries to ignore the mental image of Harrington—Steve, Steve—sprawled out on that grimy carpet, covered in crumbs and dirt, drenched in stale beer. He must feel defenseless. The kind of defenseless that Eddie knows too well, the kind that gets you laughed at, or worse. But just because Harrington buys a dime bag off him every week doesn’t mean they’re friends. Even if they’ve had a few surprisingly not-awful conversations. Even if Steve’s actually kind of funny for a rich kid, for a jock.

There’s no reason for Eddie to care about what’s happening to Steve Harrington, just like Steve never cared about him.

So why the hell are his feet carrying him toward the living room instead of the back door? Why is he elbowing people out of the way, pushing through the circle of gawkers around Steve? Why are his hands grabbing Steve by the shoulders, hauling him up, and dragging him out before anyone even knows what’s happening?

And why, for the love of God, is he driving to his trailer with Steve snoring in the passenger seat, instead of dumping the guy at his parents' mansion and going home?

Eddie wishes he knew. But his body’s on autopilot, and he’s watching it all happen like he's outside himself, like he’s not the one doing it.

The trailer park is quiet, too quiet for a Saturday night, but that’s January for you—cold as a witch's tit, and getting colder. The van’s heater barely works, and Eddie can see both their breaths fogging up the air, little puffs of steam in the dark.

Eddie cuts the engine, and the sudden silence fills the van like a held breath. Steve shifts in the seat, muttering something incoherent, his head lolling against the window. For a split second, Eddie considers just leaving him here. Would serve him right, honestly. Let King Steve wake up alone, freezing his ass off in a busted van in a trailer park at the edge of town. But then Steve lets out a soft groan, and Eddie can’t help but roll his eyes.

"You're a real piece of work, Harrington," he mutters under his breath, pushing open the driver's side door.

The cold air hits him like a slap, biting through his jacket and sending a shiver down his spine. He makes his way around to the passenger side, yanking open the door and catching Steve before he can tumble out. The guy's heavier than he looks—dead weight, limp as a rag doll. Eddie grunts, struggling for a grip, and finally manages to sling one of Steve's arms over his shoulder.

"Okay, big boy, up you go," Eddie mutters, half-dragging, half-carrying Steve toward the trailer. Steve's head drops forward, his hair brushing Eddie’s cheek, and he smells like a mix of beer, Steve's usual cologne, and something else—something clean, like laundry detergent or fresh air. It's weirdly comforting, and Eddie has to shake himself out of it.

Inside, the trailer is dim, lit only by the glow of the old TV Eddie left on. He kicks the door shut behind them, maneuvering Steve over to the sagging couch. Steve flops down with a heavy thud, eyes still closed, mouth slightly open. For a second, Eddie just stands there, looking at him, wondering what the hell he’s doing.

Why didn’t he just leave him there at the party? Why did he care?

Maybe it's because Steve looks different like this. Not the smug, popular guy who used to strut down the halls like he owned the place. Not the guy who had everything and then lost it all. Just... some kid, really. Some scared, drunk kid who probably doesn’t know where he fits anymore.

“Alright, Sleeping Beauty,” Eddie mutters, leaning down to untie Steve’s sneakers. “Let’s get you comfortable before you choke on your own puke.”

As he pulls off one shoe, then the other, Steve stirs, his eyelids fluttering. For a moment, his gaze is unfocused, hazy, but then his eyes lock onto Eddie’s, and there’s a flicker of recognition.

“Munson?” Steve’s voice is low, rough from whatever he’s been drinking. “What the hell…?”

“Yeah, it’s me, genius,” Eddie says, trying to sound annoyed but failing to hide the faint smile tugging at his lips. “You got yourself in a bit of a mess tonight, Harrington.”

Steve blinks, slowly piecing things together. “Why’d you bring me here?”

Eddie shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Seemed like the right thing to do, I guess.”

Steve snorts, like he doesn’t quite believe him. “Right. The Freak playing Good Samaritan. What’s the punchline?”

Eddie’s smile fades. It inexplicably hurts to hear Steve call him that. “There’s no punchline, man. Not everything’s a joke.”

Steve stares at him, as if searching for something in Eddie’s face, something to latch onto. Finally, he just nods, leaning back against the couch, eyes half-closed again. “Thanks,” he mumbles, almost too quiet to hear. “I guess.”

Eddie feels something strange twist in his chest. “Don’t mention it,” he says, a little too quickly, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as Steve. He turns away, grabbing an old blanket from a nearby chair and tossing it over Steve. “You sleep it off. I’ll be in my room.”

But even as he walks away, he can't shake the feeling that something’s shifted tonight, some invisible line crossed. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe in the morning, Steve will wake up, make a snarky comment, and it’ll all go back to the way it was.

Or maybe, just maybe, it won’t.

[wolvietxt]

𝓟ATCHWORK.

pairings : frank castle x fem!reader warnings : injury, crying, non-sexual nudity, angst, size diff, hurt/comfort, teasing, fluff, happy ending summary : you take care of your boyfriend frank after he shows up at your door, bloody and bruised wc : 1.2k a/n : um hello punisher fandom i’m only on season one i’m so sorry #fakefan😥

the knock at your door came just after midnight, faint but insistent. you had a sinking feeling even before you opened it, knowing who it would be. frank always showed up like this - silent and battered, like a ghost returning to haunt your quiet life. except you really did love this ghost. but tonight was worse. the moment you saw him leaning heavily against the frame, his face pale under streaks of blood, your breath hitched.

“frank,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “oh my god, what happened?”

he grunted in response, brushing off your concern with a slight shake of his head. “‘s not as bad as it looks,” he muttered, but the way he swayed on his feet told a different story. instinctively, you reached out, your much smaller hands pressing against his chest to steady him. he was so solid, so big, but he felt fragile in this moment, like he might collapse if you let go.

“come inside,” you said, your voice wavering as you pulled him in. he barely made it two steps before you had to slip under his arm, guiding him toward the bathroom. “you shouldn’t even be walking. why didn’t you call me?”

“didn’t wanna… bother you,” he rasped, wincing as you helped him sit on the closed toilet lid. his broad shoulders hunched forward, and he sucked in a sharp breath when you knelt in front of him, slowly nestling in between his legs.

“bother me?” your voice cracked, tears already pricking at your eyes. “frank, you’re bleeding all over my bathroom. how could you think…” you trailed off, shaking your head as you reached for the first aid kit under the sink.

his lips twitched, a ghost of a smile despite the situation. “baby, you’re cryin’ already,” he murmured, his tone soft, almost teasing. “i’m the one all cut up, and you’re the one fallin’ apart.”

“shut up,” you sniffled, wiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand before focusing on the deep gash along his side. “it’s not funny.”

“maybe a little funny,” he said, but his voice was gentler now, his dark eyes watching you with something like affection. the size of him made you feel even smaller as you worked, your hands trembling as you cleaned the wound. “you don’t gotta do this, y’know.”

“stop saying that,” you mumbled, dabbing at the cut with antiseptic, trying to focus on stopping the bleeding rather than frank’s cooing at your sniffles. “you’re always saying that, like i’m not here because i want to be. you think i’d let just anyone bleed all over my floor?”

his chuckle was low, rumbling in his chest. “guess not.”

once the wound was cleaned and stitched, you leaned back on your heels, letting out a shaky breath. “all done. but you need to get cleaned up. you’re covered in…” you gestured vaguely at him, your lips quivering as you tried not to cry again.

“hey,” he said softly, his massive hand reaching out to cup your cheek, another of his little scoffs threatening to slip. he was trying to be as serious as possible for you, not wanting you to think he wasn’t taking you seriously, especially after putting you through so much. his thumb brushed away a stray tear, and the contrast of his rough skin against your softness made your heart ache. “don’t cry, sweetheart. it’s okay. i’m okay.”

“you’re not okay,” you whispered, your voice breaking. your train of thought stopped abruptly when you noticed the corners of his lips slightly turning up. “frank! stop smiling. just let me help, okay?” you whined, lifting your head away from his hands.

“okay, sweetheart,” he didn’t argue, too tired to fight you on it. you stood and turned to the tub, starting the water and letting it run warm. the quiet sound of it filled the room, grounding you as you grabbed a clean towel and set it aside. when you turned back to him, he was watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite place.

“come on,” you said, helping him to his feet. he towered over you, his sheer size making the act of guiding him to the tub feel almost absurd. but he let you, his movements slow and careful as he sank down onto the edge. his knees jutted up from the small space, his frame too large for the confines of your tiny bathroom.

“stay there,” you murmured, kneeling again to untie his boots and tug them off. your fingers worked quickly, but you were hyper-aware of his gaze, the weight of his attention making your cheeks flush.

once he was down to his boxers, you helped him ease into the water, your hands fluttering nervously as if you might break him. he let out a low sigh as the warm water enveloped him, his head tipping back against the edge of the tub.

“better?” you asked, perching on the side of the tub.

he hummed in response, his eyes slipping shut. after a moment, his head tipped forward, resting against your thigh. the vulnerability of the gesture stole your breath, and your hand hesitated mid-air before you rested it gently on his damp hair.

“you’re too good to me,” he murmured, his voice low and rough.

“stop saying that,” you replied softly, your fingers threading through his hair. “you deserve someone to take care of you, frank. you deserve…” your voice caught, the words sticking in your throat.

he tilted his head slightly, looking up at you with an amused glint in his eyes. “you’re cryin’ again.”

“shut up,” you sniffled, swiping at your cheeks. “it’s your fault. you’re so… stubborn.”

his laugh was soft, barely more than a huff of air, but it made your chest ache. “didn’t mean to make you cry, sweetheart.”

you shook your head, your hand still brushing through his hair. “you didn’t. i just… i hate seeing you like this. you act like you don’t matter, but you do. you matter to me.”

for a long moment, he didn’t say anything, his dark eyes searching yours. then, slowly, he lifted a hand out of the water, his fingers brushing against your knee. it was such a small, tender gesture, but it spoke volumes.

“you’re somethin’ else,” he muttered, his voice thick with emotion.

the two of you stayed like that for a while, the water growing cooler as his breathing slowed, the exhaustion finally taking hold. you didn’t move, didn’t dare disturb the fragile peace that had settled over the room. he looked so different like this, his usual hard edges softened by the quiet intimacy of the moment.

as his head grew heavier against your thigh, you leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his head. “get some rest,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “i’ve got you, frank. i’ve got you.”

and for the first time, he didn’t argue.

taglist form in pinned post, just added frank castle ><

[gor3-hound]

KISS AND MAKE UP — NAOYA + TOJI

a/n: another commission for my faveeee @nexysworld. MWAH. just a heads up, naoya is referred to as reader n toji’s cousin just cause second cousin sounded weird in writing idk.

cw: 18+ content. daddy-daughter incest (toji), cousin incest (toji/naoya-ish. naoya/reader). threats + slapping (directed at naoya). misogyny. kinda maybe brief dub-con. p in v. oral (f + m receiving). fem!reader. slapping. hair pulling. creampie.

2.8k words

Your dad has been gone for the better part of a week when he decides to wander into the house one morning — surprisingly early giving his typical track record of showing up well past midnight. You’re nursing a cup of coffee, nodding in greeting as his gaze lands on you.

“My cousin is coming over later.” Toji huffs as soon as he steps into the kitchen, lazily leaning against the doorway. Irritation is written all over his features. “Play nice, y'hear? I don't need gramps bitchin’ at me. Y'know what Naoya is like with his daddy.”

Naoya. The mention of his name alone is enough to have you scowling, your expression twisting in a similar manner to Toji’s. That only seems to annoy your father further, an exasperated sigh spilling past his lips. “N’ don’t give me that look, kid. Or him, for that matter. I ain’t dealin’ with another one of his rants about how I raised my daughter with a shitty attitude.”

“He thinks any woman who breathes too loud isn’t raised right.” You counter, huffing as you set your coffee down on your counter.

“Ain’t my problem,” your dad replies easily, shrugging his shoulders. “You only have to see him once or twice a year. Suck it up.”

“How long is he even staying?”

Toji is an asshole, but he isn’t evil. He feels a little bad, considering how much you and your cousin tend to butt heads. His lips thin at your question, pressing together as he walks over to ruffle your hair and pull you against his side. “Couple ‘a days. Sorry, kid.”

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Naoya’s gotten at least a hundred times worse since you last saw him. It’d been a year or so since you were forced to be in his presence for more than an hour at a time, and now that he’s hit his twenties and has been getting more duties in the clan, he seems to think he’s God’s greatest gift. He’s not even a full-year older than you, and yet he loves giving you the whole ‘respect your elders, girl’ spiel everytime you so much as frown in his presence.

He’s been here for a day, and you’re already counting down the minutes until he leaves. Your dad said an important job came up — an excuse to escape Naoya, you’re certain — so you don’t even have him to try and attempt to get Naoya to ease up.

You might genuinely go insane before your dad decides to show up again. If you hear him say that you ‘missed a spot’ while making you clean up his mess one more goddamn time, you’re going to end up in a cell.

“If I’m going to cook for you,” you say in a low tone, swallowing thickly to attempt not to snap. If only to save the lecture you’d inevitably get from Naoya, then your father, and then the head of the clan when Naoya eventually went whining to his dad. “You can at least take the plate to the kitchen after.” “And why should I?” He scoffs, that insufferable grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he regards you with an icy stare. “You’re here. Isn’t this kind of thing the purpose of your… species?”

The muscle of your jaw ticks at his words. You can’t even muster up the strength to force a polite smile on your face, your hands clenching and unclenching at your sides. Better to act like a proper lady than retaliate and have him being even more insufferable than usual. Your silence almost seems to piss him off more — you’re starting to think he gets a rise out of seeing you act out.

“You know, the women of this family are disgraceful.” He continues. “Not one of you was raised with proper manners. My father is too soft on all of you. When I am head of this clan, I plan to—”

“Please. Your own dad thinks you’re an asshole. He’s just waiting for an excuse to pass it onto someone else. I wouldn’t get your hopes up.” You bite out, unable to hold your tongue any longer.

Silence fills the room for a few tense seconds. Naoya just… blinks at you, shock written over his features. Shock quickly turns to disbelief, as if the thought of you talking back to him was completely out of his realm of possibility. “Pathetic. You can’t even hear simple facts without growing emotional. The audacity you have to speak to me in such a way is…”

He trails off, lips curling into a sneer as he looks at you. “You should consider yourself lucky I even allow you to speak in my presence, you insolent little—”

“One more fuckin’ word.” The cold voice that cuts through Naoya’s words aren’t your own, but it is a voice you immediately recognise. Your head turns to face your father, the man standing in the doorway with a stony expression.

“I’ve done nothing wrong.” Naoya replies, though you don’t miss the slight waver in his voice.”I was simply correcting the behaviour you refuse to address. My father wouldn’t stand for this treatment of the heir of the—”

“Apologise to my fuckin’ daughter, or I’ll send you back to your daddy in a body bag, kid.” The words aren’t an empty threat — something you and Naoya seem to realise at the exact same time. You watch closely as your cousin swallows his pride, gaze falling to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, words barely audible. It’s a pathetic attempt, really. One your own father isn’t nearly satisfied with.

“Oh, now you wanna keep quiet, huh? Known you since you were a fuckin’ infant, and I’ve never known you to to know when to shut the fuck up. Say sorry properly.” Toji snaps. Naoya opens his mouth to give another half-hearted apology, but Toji is faster as he speaks up again. “Better be a good one.”

Your dad pauses briefly to think, then he’s stepping closer. “Y’know what? I think you should show you’re really sincere. Get on your knees, and say sorry to my kid.”

Naoya does an exceptionally good impression of a fish — mouth opening and closing multiple times as he stares blankly up at Toji. “You… You can’t be serious.”

“Don’t fuckin’ try me today. I’ve had shitty luck with the races, and I’d love to blow off some steam. I’m sick of you and that old man treatin’ us like shit.”

Naoya swallows hard, slowly rising from your battered sofa. He shifts slightly towards you, refusing to meet your gaze as he sinks down to his knees on the floor. “I apologise.”

“Better,” Toji hums, moving to stand behind you, guiding you to the spot Naoya was just sitting. He’s practically kneeling at your feet now, expression indecipherable. “Sit down, baby. Let’s get him to make it up to you, yeah?”

The tone of voice makes you shiver, eyes flicking up to your dad’s face. Between his soft coo and the way he’s looking at you, you feel your cheeks heat. It’s a familiar expression, but never one you’ve received when in the company of others. “Spread your legs for me, good girl.”

Naoya’s head snaps up then, eyes wide as he looks at Toji. You’re unable to school your own expression as you gaze down at Naoya, taking in the way he’s acting. You can’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment, finally having him knocked down a few pegs. You swallow the lump forming in your throat, your heart fluttering nervously as you follow your dad’s command. 

“Show her how sorry you really are, hmm?” Toji purrs, all low as he takes a handful of Naoya’s dyed hair, forcing his face against your clothed cunt. He stiffens, but then he’s quickly melting against you, nuzzling closer to your heat. 

“Not so talkative now.” Toji scoffs, squatting down as he uses his grip as leverage to make Naoya rub against you more. The action draws a soft whine from the back of your throat, your head falling back against the sofa. “Got you actin’ like a well-trained dog, just from the scent of some pussy? You really have that much trouble gettin’ girls in bed, huh?”

Naoya bristles at his words, but he’s visibly more docile than usual as he allows Toji to guide him against you. You’re getting impatient yourself now, squirming against the cushions. 

“You want a taste, cousin?�� And Naoya nods within seconds, eagerly opening his mouth and exhaling harshly. The hot air fans against the damp fabric of your panties in a way that instantly has heat shooting to your core. “Always bein’ a fuckin’ brat, think you even deserve it?”

Toji pulls Naoya back, and you find satisfaction in the pathetic little whine he lets out, even if you find yourself immediately missing his presence between your legs. 

“Daddy, please.” You breathe, voice a mix of needy and pleading. You instantly see the way he softens — something you only ever really get the luxury of seeing — before he lets go of Naoya’s hair. 

“Go on, then.” Toji murmurs, and Naoya doesn’t even blink before his fingers are desperately grasping at your skirt, bunching up the fabric at your waist and tugging your panties to the side before he dives in. 

A low, breathless ‘fuck’ spills past his lips as his tongue licks a long, wet stripe along your dripping cunt, collecting the wetness that had gathered there. He groans against you, nose nudging at your clit as he tongue-fucks you in earnest. His lashes flutter as he gazes up at you, the taste of you making him feel a little light-headed. 

You’ve never seen him so invested in anything. He has a lazy sort of arrogance that follows his every action, but he looks like nothing more than an over-excited puppy as he laps at you with an almost feverish intensity. His eyes are heavy lidded, fingers gripping onto your legs with a harshness that makes you think you’ll be left with bruises as a reminder of what happened. 

“Make her cum, and I might even let you have a treat,” Toji teases. Your peak is rapidly approaching by the time his voice takes your attention away from Naoya. You’d almost forgotten your dad was only feet away, watching the both of you closely. He’s clearly enjoying this — if the tent stretching his pants obscenely was anything to go by. 

Naoya is only spurred on by his words, dragging his mouth upwards until his lips suction around your clit. He sucks eagerly, tongue flicking against the swollen bud until you’re writhing and crying out beneath him. The way Toji sees it, the two of you have never gotten on so well. 

“Nao, please… need… just a little more.” You babble, hand reaching down to tug at his hair. He moans against you, tongue pressing flat against your clit. Your thighs clench around his head, body tensing as you gush all over his tongue. He keeps licking until he’s tugged away, hazy-eyed and hard as a rock. 

“My… treat?” Naoya mutters hoarsely. He’s never one to miss out on… anything that benefits him, really. He’s twitching in his trousers, leaking pre-cum steadily, and he’s just about ready to accept anything that’ll let him get off.

“Always an impatient brat.” Toji says under his breath, large hands coming down to position you on the sofa — hands and knees against the cushions — before stripping off his pants and boxers. “Think Naoya’s sorry, baby. Wanna return the favour while daddy has a turn on your pretty little pussy?”

You’re still panting from your previous orgasm, but the idea of being stuffed from both ends has your cunt pulsing. You flinch a little as your dad slides into you, whimpering softly as your walls flutter around him. You’re still sensitive, biting down on your lower lip to stifle your moans. 

“Aww, cute. Tryna be quiet, baby?” Toji coos, thrusting forward hard, just once, to make you squeal. “Naoya can help with that, yeah? Gonna let him fill that mouth?”

You nod, and Naoya considers that permission. You’ve never seen someone move so fast, his hands hastily pulling at his clothes. He slides onto the couch, kneeling in front of you. 

The only issue with his mouth no longer being preoccupied is he’s now capable of speaking again, and he makes that known to the entire room. He slowly slides his length past your lips, head titling back as the tight, wet heat of your mouth engulfs him. 

“Fuck, that’s good. I knew there had to be a reason my cousin kept you around, considering how useless you are at everything else.” As soon as the words leave his lips, the sharp, harsh sound of skin of skin fills the room. You don’t realise what happened at first, but Toji hips stutter at the exact moment Naoya lets out a sharp hiss of pain. 

Your dad hit him. Hard enough to have his cheek glowing red, his head cocked to the side from the force of the smack. You expect a tantrum, another speech. You get neither. 

His hips buck so violently his cock lodges itself deep in your throat, making you gag. Your eyes water at you look up at him, his pupils blown as a smug smile stretches across his face. 

“Weird little freak.” Your dad grunts, still fucking into you with further. His hands find your hips, pulling you back against his thrusts as you drool eagerly all over Naoya’s cock. 

“Guilty,” Naoya purrs in reply, words cocky and self-assured as he threads his hands in your hair to hold you steady, giving him the leverage he needs to fuck your face. 

“Watch your fuckin’ mouth when you’re talkin’ to my daughter, or I’ll make you sit in the corner and watch me play with her instead.” Toji growls. 

At least that seems to quieten him down, if only so he doesn’t have to give up the pleasure your mouth is bringing him. Naoya’s thighs begin to twitch at the same time his grip in your hair tightens. You work harder at licking along his length, sucking eagerly as he fucks your throat. 

“Come… coming, fuck.” Naoya hisses, forces the entirety of his length down your throat. You choke as his seed fills your throat, unable to do anything but swallow with your nose pressed firmly against his pelvis. You cough and splutter when he finally pulls out, a mix of cum and spit coating your lips and chin as he collapses in the corner of the couch. 

He watches lazily as your dad fucks you. Toji takes the opportunity to push your chest into the couch, nuzzling the nape of your neck to let you hear the quiet grunts he lets out against your skin as his chest presses against your back. His grip on your hips is tight, yanking you back to meet each of his thrusts. 

His cock hits that spongy spot inside of you that has you positively mewling with each jolt of his hips, his lips hot and hungry as he trails kisses along your skin. “Fuck, baby. So pretty. Such a good girl for me, so good… go on, cum for me, sweetheart. Show Naoya how good you are for daddy.”

His words are your undoing, a broken cry leaving you as you cream around his cock, slick coating his length and dripping down his balls. He thrusts lazily a few more times, biting down on your shoulder as he cums deep inside your trembling cunt. 

You flop down almost immediately, falling boneless against the couch. Your head falls against Naoya’s thigh, chest heaving with each panting breath you let out. 

“Might as well come up here,” Naoya hums with surprising softness, arm falling away from his side languidly. It’s about as open as an invitation to snuggle as you’re going to get. 

You shift up against his body, dropping down against his chest with a tired sigh. Toji just laughs, leaning back in his heels. “Christ. Never thought I’d see the day.”

Naoya glares at him, wrapping his arm around your waist. Your eyes are already shut, and Naoya’s close a moment later. Only moments later, you’re both passed out. 

“Brats.” Toji grumbles under his breath as he pulls a throw blanket around your sleeping forms, an unmistakable fondness to his tone. 

[ghostsandguns]

New Year's Eve

Why on earth had you agreed to come to this party?

Your gaze swept over the bustling room as you took a sip of your drink. The music blended with the laughter of friends and lovers, all enjoying each other's company.

When you'd told your friends your New Year's Eve plans consisted of watching Pride and Prejudice and eating leftovers, they had nearly dragged you out of your house.

You appreciated the thought, but as the countdown to midnight drew closer, they had all snuggled up with their partners, leaving you awkwardly sitting between them.

It's not like you weren't interested in dating... you just hadn't found the right guy yet. And yes, maybe you could have tried harder, but for now, the company of your cat had been enough.

Or at least, that's what you tried to make yourself believe.

You were pulled back from your thoughts when one of your friends burst out laughing. ''No way!''

Their partner playfully rolled their eyes before continuing whatever story they were telling.

''I swear! My cousin tried it, and the next day she bumped into this super hot guy at the grocery store''

Meeting your confused gaze, she gave you an amused look before turning to you.

''My grandma told me that when the clock strikes midnight, you have one minute to eat twelve grapes under a table if you want to have good luck the next year''

This had you raising an eyebrow in doubt, but she quickly waved it off. ''Trust me, it sounds weird, but it works,'' she said, her tone full of confidence.

''I saw a fruit bowl on the table,'' she added, glancing down at her watch. ''Aaand if you hurry, you still have some time left.''

''Fuck, it,'' you thought, shrugging off any lingering hesitation. Might as well give it a shot—what’s the worst that could happen?

Setting down your drink, you stood up, and as you made your way to the ''lucky'' grapes, a playful chorus of ''ooohs'' rang out behind you.

Grabbing a handful of them, you glanced around a few times to make sure no one was paying attention to you before dropping to your knees and crawling underneath the large table.

The tablecloth draped low, partially obscuring your view, leaving you only able to see a bunch of legs moving around the room.

"4...3...2..." the countdown echoed through the room, signalling the moment to begin.

You quickly popped the grapes into your mouth, chewing and swallowing as fast as you could before the minute was up.

As the last one slipped in, you couldn't help but wish for a little extra luck in the love department, swallowing it a bit too quickly in your haste.

You burst into a coughing fit under the table, smacking your chest as you desperately tried to catch your breath.

That's when, suddenly, a hand appeared, gripping the tablecloth and pulling it back slightly, causing you to flinch in surprise.

"You alright there, love?"

The figure before you crouched down, ducking his head underneath the table. And holy shit, this had to be the most stunning man you'd ever seen.

''Well, thanks for the compliment, but may I say, you look lovely yourself''

Wait, had you just said that out loud? Mentally smacking your forehead, you let out a nervous laugh.

''I just said that out loud, didn't I?'' you mumbled, instantly regretting it as the words left your mouth. The heat creeping up your neck only making the situation worse.

He smiled at you, giving you a subtle nod. The way his lips curled up was enough to make your heart skip a beat.

God, even his smile was ridiculously pretty.

''Might I ask why you're sitting under a table?'' he asked, his voice laced with a hint of amusement.

You were growing more embarrassed by the second, but the man didn't seem to mind, casually crawling underneath the table to take a seat next to you.

He had to angle his head a bit to avoid hitting it against the table, and his knees were slightly touching yours, making the situation feel more intimate than it probably should have been.

"Oh—I'm just… you know, chilling," you muttered, feeling even more self-conscious.

His smile widened as he reached out a hand. ''The name's Kyle. Mind if I join you?''

Cliffhanger tuntuntun...

[admiringlove]

happy birthday, satoru. i'll miss you till the end of time <3

satoru hated birthdays.

it was the worst time of the year. the cold seeped into his bones, a biting chill that he couldn’t shake. the snow blanketed everything in white, a stark reminder of his own hair color, and somehow, that made it all worse. he despised it. there had never been a reason for him to celebrate the day—or himself. because, really, what did gojo satoru have to celebrate?

he had everything and nothing, all at once. the money to buy the world, but the loneliness that kept it out of reach. he could touch anything, yet he owned none of it. what was the point of a day like this? a cake he wouldn’t eat? a song no one meant?

so when the day inevitably arrived, he found himself sitting alone in his room at nine in the morning. his phone lay in his hand, his lips curling into a small, frustrated pout as he stared at the screen. he thought of you—your face flickering in his mind. you should’ve wished him, shouldn’t you? why hadn’t you? why did you act like it was just another day, like he was just another person? indifferent. casual. distant.

you treated him the same way you always did—sarcasm dripping from your remarks, soft laughter slipping out when geto cracked a joke, cigarettes shared with shoko in the courtyard after class. and then you left.

it seemed as though none of his friends had remembered. and that... hurt more than he thought it would.

all his life, he’d been gojo satoru. the greatest. the honored one. the six eyes and the limitless user. for centuries, no one like him had existed, and maybe no one ever would again. he’d grown up as an untouchable, a god among men. always alone. disconnected from the world, from people. he didn’t even know what it meant to have a home.

but then, he’d come here. to jujutsu tech. and for the first time, he’d found something close to it. he’d found you. he’d found geto. he’d found shoko.

he mutters curses under his breath the moment suguru offhandedly mentions that you’ve gone out shopping with shoko downtown. harajuku, shinjuku—somewhere that usually might have piqued his interest. but right now, he doesn’t give a shit. not one bit. there’s a bitter taste lingering on his tongue, acrid and sharp, and it fuels his growing disdain for the day. he hates it more than ever.

it stings, more than he’s willing to admit. he’d gone out of his way to make sure he remembered your birthday. marked it on his calendar, down to the exact time of your birth, noting your zodiac signs and all the little details that made the day special. he’d stayed up until midnight just to call you, to be the first to wish you. he didn’t want suguru or shoko to beat him to it. that was his thing, his privilege. and then there were the gifts—carefully picked, thoughtfully wrapped.

but you’d forgotten about him. suguru hadn’t even bothered to tease him in that usual, exasperated tone he used whenever gojo flaunted his privilege. not a single snide comment, no playful jabs to pull him down a peg. and ieiri, she hadn’t even called him a loser today.

the thought nags at him, digs deep, and refuses to leave. he sighs heavily, staring at his phone screen as if it holds the answers he’s searching for. it doesn’t. the clock reads four in the evening. the day’s more than halfway over, and no message, no call, no nothing.

the ache in his chest is unfamiliar. for someone who has everything, who could want for nothing, it’s maddening to feel this hollow. so he shoves his phone into his pocket and heads out. no grand plan, no particular destination in mind—just movement, something to distract him. eventually, he finds himself walking into a small convenience store.

he doesn’t linger inside for long, grabbing a tub of ice cream and a bag of chips. it’s not much, but it’s enough. stepping outside, he looks around before settling down on a bench. the city hums quietly around him, distant enough to blur into the background. he opens the ice cream, letting the cold sweetness melt on his tongue, and tips his head back to watch the sun begin its slow descent.

the sky burns with streaks of orange and pink, and the air carries the faintest chill. it’s beautiful, he thinks, in a detached sort of way. but it doesn’t fill the empty space inside him. not today.

he watches the children on the playground, their laughter carried by the wind like a cruel melody. the rhythmic creak of swing sets and the squeals of kids sliding down brightly colored plastic seem to taunt him, their joy a distant echo of something he’s never truly known. he wonders, not for the first time, if his life might have been better—different—if he had been born ordinary. if he hadn’t been crushed under the weight of the jujutsu world, its endless demands a noose around his neck, tightening with every passing year.

would he have laughed like that too? carefree, unburdened by the enormity of what it meant to be gojo satoru? would he have been one of those kids on the swings, arms pumping, head tilted back to touch the sky, surrounded by friends who giggled and cheered him on? would his nights have been spent poring over homework at a desk in a small, cluttered room instead of wandering through empty halls of power and responsibility? would birthdays have been spent in a warm kitchen, candles flickering on a homemade cake, his parents smiling as they sang to him? parents who actually loved him—not for what he could do, but for who he was.

his chest tightens at the thought, an ache that feels almost unbearable. the life he imagines is so vivid it feels like a memory, even though it isn’t. it’s a phantom of something he’ll never have, a cruel dream that slips further away every time he reaches for it.

the sky blushes a deep pink as the sun dips lower, casting a warm glow that he doesn’t feel. he lets out a quiet sigh, leaning back on the bench. he was always surrounded by people, wasn’t he? classmates, colleagues, admirers. even strangers whispered his name like a hymn. but it was never enough. because he wasn’t just anyone. he was the gojo satoru. the honored one. the six eyes. the strongest.

and yet, beneath the grandiosity of those titles, he was just a man. a man who’d learned too early that strength didn’t equate to connection, and power didn’t promise love. always lonely. always alone.

he starts to taste the wooden stick from the ice cream, its faint bitterness seeping onto his tongue. it tastes like birch. or what he imagines birch would taste like. sharp, dry, and entirely unpleasant. his face twists instinctively, and he sticks his tongue out slightly, as though that alone could rid him of the awful taste. the half-eaten bag of potato chips sits abandoned on the bench beside him, the grease staining the corners of the crinkled plastic. it stares back at him like an unspoken challenge, but he’s already lost interest. he doesn’t want it anymore.

he leans back, sighing heavily, the weight of the day pressing down on his shoulders. the orange hues of the sunset feel like a mockery now; too vibrant, too alive for the quiet void curling inside him. at this point, all he wants is to retreat, to drag himself back to the dorms and sink into the familiar folds of his bed. the thought of his extra-fluffy blanket cocooning him is a small comfort, the idea of the springy, overstuffed mattress beneath him almost tempting enough to lift him off the bench.

but more than anything, he craves escape—not just from the day, but from himself. he wants to close his eyes and shut out the world, to drift into a dream where things are different. where the ache in his chest doesn’t exist. where he’s surrounded by people who care, people who love him. not for his strength, not for his name, but for who he is. it’s a small, desperate wish, one that he almost laughs at for its absurdity. but still, he lets it linger, lets it flicker softly in the quiet of his heart as he stares at the last rays of the setting sun.

and then the sun slips away completely, leaving the world cloaked in muted shades of dusk. the chill in the air deepens, and satoru pushes himself up from the bench, his joints protesting slightly. the bitter, almost metallic aftertaste of the ice cream stick lingers on his tongue, unwelcome and unpleasant. he straightens his back with a sharp breath, shoving his hands into his pockets as he starts walking toward the bus stop.

he could call for a car—he always could. it would be easy, convenient, and expected. but something inside him whispers otherwise tonight, a quiet, stubborn voice that tells him to let it go. to adjust. to make do. wasn’t that his life now, anyway? constantly making do. growing used to the loneliness that clung to him like a second skin. learning to be fine with it because that’s what people expected of someone like him. unshakable. untouchable. always alone.

he boards the bus when it arrives, the engine humming low as the doors hiss shut behind him. the world outside becomes a blur of motion as he takes a seat by the window, his reflection faint against the backdrop of passing streetlights and shadowed figures. he watches the city move, people coming and going, lives intersecting in brief, fleeting moments. none of them look up at him. none of them notice him.

when his stop comes, he stands and steps off the bus, offering a quiet, almost reflexive thanks to the driver. the old man turns to him with a warm smile, lines creasing the corners of his eyes.

“take care, young man,” the driver says softly, and somehow, it catches gojo off guard. he walks away, the smile still lingering in his mind. it was small, insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but somehow, it mattered. a fleeting kindness from a stranger, given freely, without expectation. and as he makes his way back to the dorms, he thinks, maybe that made it all a little more bearable.

and as he walks through the gates of jujutsu tech, a strange stillness settles over him. the grounds are eerily quiet, too quiet. jujutsu tech is never this empty, not even on a sunday. normally, the halls would be alive with people returning from missions, chattering about their day or sharing meals. but now? nothing. his brows knit together as he moves toward the dorms, his footsteps echoing faintly in the silence.

no professors. no yaga pacing the halls, barking into his phone or reprimanding students for running. no clatter of footsteps, no laughter or voices bouncing off the walls. the absence is unsettling, and his instincts tell him something is off.

he was too drained to summon any of his techniques, but he let his eyes do the work anyway. as he approached the door to his dorm, his footsteps slow, his heartbeat quickening. there was energy inside—something different, something alive. it seeped through the walls, radiating warmth and anticipation, golden and electric. it wasn’t the cold, sterile energy he’d grown used to in battle; it was something softer, brighter. something he'd craved for as long as he could remember.

he stopped in his tracks, a sharp, shallow breath catching in his throat. his eyes widened, the familiar ache in his chest giving way to something foreign, something terrifyingly tender. he could see it—feel it. you. geto. shoko. nanamin. and more. the room was full, brimming with people whose energies pulsed with affection, with excitement, with care.

his chest tightened, and his heart raced faster than he could control. the pressure behind his eyes spilled over as a tear rolled down his cheek. it caught him off guard, the rawness of it. he hadn’t realized how much this meant—how much he’d needed this. his hands lifted to his face, swiping at the evidence of his weakness, his joy, his disbelief.

he opened the door.

the sound hit him first: a cacophony of cheers and laughter, the sharp crack of party poppers releasing confetti into the air. streamers dangled from the ceiling, colorful and haphazard, while the unmistakable scent of cheap pizza mingled with the sweetness of cake. balloons bobbed lazily in the corners, and a few cans of off-brand soda were scattered across the table. it was chaotic, vibrant, and so terribly them.

before he could process it all, your arms wrapped tightly around his neck. his body stiffened for a fraction of a second, startled by the suddenness of your embrace, before a soft yelp escaped him, unbidden and raw.

“surprise!” everyone shouted in unison, their voices crashing over him like a wave, breaking apart the isolation he’d been drowning in all day.

he froze, eyes scanning the room. the decorations were clumsy, the food was far from gourmet, and the whole setup was almost comically thrown together. but it was perfect. they’d remembered. every single one of you had remembered.

because for the first time in what feels like forever, gojo satoru isn’t just the honored one. he’s just satoru. surrounded by the people who love him.

© all works belong to admiringlove on tumblr. plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

[peggyao3]

Here comes the Sun [2/2]

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Unnamed Ambiguous FMC

SUMMARY: Feyd-Rautha is the center of attention for an entire planet, but it counts for nothing because his favorite concubine isn't paying attention during the fight. How dare she ruin his birthday?

TAGS: 18+, smut, she/her AFAB FMC, mixed POVs, mutual pining, gore, cannibalism ❗ (just a lil), Baron being a homie, Feyd has that bratty vibe, God Complex Feyd, jealousy ❗, other concubines begone, arguments, insults, hate love relationship, enemies and lovers, porn with plot, marriage proposal, vaginal sex, knife kink, pain kink ❗, smut in chapter 2, semi-public sex ❗, angst with happy ending

WORD COUNT: 4.4k

A/N: Girly wears a revenge dress, talks shit with the Baron and gets abducted from the banquet prematurely by a boiled egg.

Reposted from my Ao3 💕| Masterlist

Divider by @saradika-graphics

← Previous Chapter

Vladimir Harkonnen was wrong. His nephew’s mood is anything but entertaining tonight.

It amazes him how a man in his twenties, who has defeated Paul Artreides, the false messiah of Arrakis, can still act like a boy just hitting puberty when a woman isn’t groveling at his feet. Feyd-Rautha refuses to deliver the annual speech he is supposed to give on the grand balcony, so the undulating mass of merrymakers on the hundred meter wide avenue is left waiting. Thankfully, with spice being dealt shamelessly among the hundreds of thousands, the celebration will soon turn into orgy and bloodbath alike, and the absence of Giedi Prime’s beloved na-Baron will be swiftly forgotten.

Albeit now dressed in a traditional, sharp-cut suit made of thick, synthetic fibers, Feyd-Rautha's face is the same as in the arena, now battling a foe whose main attack is absence.

It is two hours into the banquet when she finally enters and immediately becomes the brightest star in the obsidian colored banquet hall. And it is not due to her radiant personality, though that too is not to be underestimated. It’s because of the golden fabric that flows off her hips and chest like the molten gold and orange that a fiery alien sun might disgorge in a coronal mass ejection.

While even the esteemed guests from other Houses have chosen to match their attire somewhat to House Harkonnen by choosing rich, dark colors like mulberry and midnight blue, she has gone for the most provocative opposite, shimmering like  glossy amber. Instead of a preserved mosquito however, her amber cocoon seals a jealous animal that scowls at Feyd-Rautha as soon as his frenetic eyes target her from across the hall.

Life seems to return to Vladimir’s sulking nephew and his icy rage turns into kindling enthusiasm. Finally he can make his move. Nothing is worse than being ignored.

Strings start playing, each sound a low vibration in their ear drums and under the soles of their feet. The na-Baron and his partner of choice are expected to do the first steps on the shiny parquet. Expectantly, he raises his chin and she would like nothing more than to wrap her arms around his striking figure, cup his jaws that, despite casting a distinct shadow down his neck, have a roundness to their shape that she wants to kiss over and over.

Feyd had wanted her to dance with him. Here she is. Perfectly punctual. All he needs to do is walk over and ask her, but in his eyes, having left him waiting is her first move. So asking another concubine to dance is his.

He thinks he's being clever and proudly watches her jaws clench and shoulders stiffen. The anger in her eyes tastes better than any meal he's had today - until she looks away. She isn't supposed to look away.

As long as the strings play the first piece, Feyd dances with a total of three of his concubines. During and after each dance, his piercing gaze latches onto her like spearguns fired from seething tar, but he only meets the back of her head, and after a while not even that. A supermassive black hole obscures his view.

Baron Harkonnen floats to the woman in yellow and activates a barely used switch on his control panel. His massive frame carefully lowers itself, so he is almost on the ground and she may converse with his face without putting a strain on her neck.

“You missed the main course,” the Baron informs her and she is quite aware. For the main course, she would have been expected to occupy the seat on the na-Baron’s left while his uncle as the head of House Harkonnen sits on Feyd’s right.

“What a shame. I suppose I did catch a migraine in the end.”

“Lady Metulli sat at Feyd’S side instead. I was under the impression she couldn’t quite stomach his appetite.”

The woman in the bright dress nods. She is well aware of Feyd’s table manners. Being his uncle’s nephew, he categorically rejects cutlery and prefers to dig into raw meats with his hands and suckle blood and grease off his fingers - or make her do it. Luckily, she wasn’t there to see Lady Metulli purse her lips around Feyd’s fingers.

With rumbling laughter, the Baron adds: “She didn’t want the pill I offered either.”

“What sort of pill was it?”

“Anti nausea, of course.”

“And where is Lady Metulli now?” She must have thought Baron Harkonnen was trying to slip her a poison pill.

“Throwing up in the bathroom.”

At that, her mouth twitches and then she begins to cackle. The Baron’s gravelly breath sends plumes of vapor from his hookah into the air and she nearly chokes on it, but the coughing somehow only amplifies her laughter. Bystanders keep a wary distance to the strange duo. 

Baron Harkonnen snaps his fingers and a servant scurries to the remaining buffet which was moved to a long, sleek table along the side of the hall. They return with a black metal bowl and one red apple. The woman happily accepts the apple and imagines it's Feyd-Rautha's balls when she violently bites a piece out of it.

In her radiant dress, she occupies the center of the banquet hall like a luminary and Baron Harkonnen is her colossal floating satellite who drags a train of black matter after himself in the shape of his overlong robes.

Currently, Feyd-Rautha is a pale, icy asteroid who bristles in the periphery of these two peculiar celestial bodies, orbiting them at a safe distance. His dance partners have been discarded and the designated parquet is swarmed by guests who are supposed to be celebrating his birthday. But as the day draws to a close, praise and attention slip through his fingers like slippery blade handles. Defenseless, he stands at the edge of the dance floor and feels very alone.

Feyd doesn't know what they're talking about, but he has never wanted to gut his uncle more than right now.

“You should try one of the livers.” Vladimir offers her from his bowl.

“You know I don’t eat human livers.” The nonchalance with which she speaks to Baron Harkonnen makes a nearby representative from House Ginaz snap the stem of their glass.

The Baron hums. If with approval or disapproval, she can’t tell, but he plunges his own hand back into the slippery bowl and fishes a liver out. 

Good for her, that she refused. Feyd's jaw flexes under bone-white skin, imagining all the ways he would break her fingers and his uncle's. Feyd would rather draw a much closer orbit around his favorite concubine, but he will not allow her to let him flare up and burn down with humiliation so publicly.

“It looks like my dear nephew is still waiting for a birthday gift from you.” The Baron glances over to his chosen heir and feels almost sorry for him.

“And he can wait until the twelfth of never,” she spits.

A small, inky smile takes shape amid the Baron’s doughy face. She is a Harkonnen if he has ever seen one. If Harkonnen had hair and an aversion to human flesh. Furiously, she sinks her teeth into the red apple and juice dribbles down her chin, making her a sightlier twin of the Baron whose many chins sport a trail of grease.

She would make a good niece in law.

Night rolls in and the smoggy sky over Giedi Prime is black like ink. No starlight makes it through the thick atmosphere. The buffets have been swept empty by Harkonnen gluttony and the hall waits for one last thing, the finale of Feyd-Rautha's holy birthday.

A gasp sweeps through the guests when the walls slide up into the ceiling and a gust of warm wind seizes them, making skirts rustle and hair waft. Avidly, they spill past the sleek concrete pillars and out on the extended balcony. The putrid stench of Giedi Prime’s industrial landscape rolls into the air-conditioned banquet hall.

It is exactly one hour before midnight when the first firework whistles into the sky, pulling a tail of silvery particles, and explodes with a low bang that eerily echoes off pyramids and power plants.

She too, slowly advances towards the balcony, her attention snared by the extraterrestrial spectacle. The fireworks come in dozens, then in hundreds, blossoming colorlessly in the sky like parasitic cells under a microscope. They're beautiful.

A gasp escapes her mouth, unheard over the booming fireworks, when two wiry arms capture her from behind and pull her against a solid chest. What took him so long? Her belly flips with butterflies as Feyd-Rautha abducts her unnoticed from the celebration, pulling her back back back until the grand view over Giedi Prime vanishes from their view and the festive banquet hall is replaced by corridors like black tunnels. Only the occasional flash of a firework lights up the path before them and the visage of the pale demon who drags her along.

This is not the concubine's corridor.

Hands against her ribs shove her into Feyd-Rautha’s private chambers. Before her eyes can adjust to the darkness, his fingers are in her hair, tearing without care so the hairdo comes apart. “You've ruined my birthday and you enjoyed it!”

“I didn’t enjoy a single fucking second of this day!” Acting nonchalant only works when he’s not on her and all over her with violent hands and seething eyes, when the air doesn’t smell like his perfume oil. Her chest heaves and she will not cry.

“Then I must have imagined you having the time of your life with my uncle.” 

She tries to jerk her head out of Feyd’s grip, but he holds tight and she winces, her scalp stinging. “At least he was nice to me.”

“Perhaps you should be with him then.” Feyd’s jaw quivers.

“Your jealousy is ridiculous.”

“My jealousy?!”

“Well I’m jealous of the other women you fuck. You’re jealous of me talking to your uncle!” The fireworks are nothing compared to their voices, booming like the occasional earthquakes that rattle Giedi Prime’s volcanic crust.

Feyd threateningly lifts a finger, dark eyes simmering. “I asked you to dance with me.”

“Yes, after insulting our relationship.” 

He walks her deeper into his bed chamber, shaking his head as if to deny the allegations but he can’t, not really. It isn’t fair of her, he thinks. The na-Baron of Giedi Prime has many concubines. It’s his birthright and politically profitable. That he has been bedding only one of them for almost a year concerns no one but him.

Her walk backwards is only halted when her thighs bump into the edge of his bed where they lay only two nights ago and she had felt special in his arms, on top of him, under the weight of his body. Now she only feels like a toy and she’s not only sick of it, she also mentally can’t keep going.

“You are the center of the world, but who is the center of yours?” Her fingers curl into his thick suit jacket and he feels the little tremors in her muscles.

A lingering thought infests him, that her first assertion is a heretic belief, not a truth. The people in the avenues celebrate for the sake of it, the guests in the hall would dance and feast for any politically appropriate occasion. Perhaps his position at world's pivot is only one for show, where he is strung up as a puppet. His importance is the figure he represents, not the man he is. 

Feyd would so love to be the center of someone’s world.

His concubine’s face is angled upwards and the far echo of a firework sends a flash of silver over her features. “Making me jealous will only push me away, you dumb creature.” 

Oh.

He does love her fury, and when she insults him, his heart thrums a little needier. But what he doesn’t love is the note of tears that throttles her lovely voice. His jaws clench, fingers twitching against her scalp. He could throw her on the bed and punish her for the ruined day or kiss her and forgive her, but there’s an ache in his stomach that makes him do neither of the two. “I just… Don’t twist the facts!”

“Maybe you don’t have a heart, but I do. I didn’t want you to have it, but you—” She swallows as her voice cracks. “And now you’re chewing it apart with your heartless mouth.” The following shocks her, but it bursts like a weight off her chest. “Be with someone else! I don’t want to be your concubine anymore.”

Feyd’s heart (yes, he has one), drops into a void and he feels sick to his stomach, falling into the hole that gapes where the ground has been pulled from under his feet.

She tears away from him, hair slipping free, but Feyd catches her elbow. And as she turns back around, he viscerally drops on one knee.

“Then be my wife.”

The last firework explodes in the sky and they are left with a silence so quiet, one might just hear the universe’s heartbeat pulsing against the dome of the skies. A breeze wafts in and brushes her golden skirts against Feyd’s bent knee and he waits, trembling. She can’t say no. He would rather die a humiliating death in front of a million worshipers.

“Your answer?”

She knows, being a wife means nothing. Wives are why concubines exist. Wife is the ultimate empty title that has nothing to do with love, at least not among the Great Houses. Does it mean anything to him? Her mind swims with years and years of manipulation and forced assimilation and finally, the held-back tears spill over her cheeks.

“My conditions,” she boldly speaks and takes a deep breath, not allowing herself to fall into mindless euphoria despite how madly her heart beats and her stomach flips with butterflies. With controlled leisureness, she sits down on the edge of Feyd’s bed and nudges the tip of her shoe against the kneeling na-Baron’s sternum. “No concubines. No pets. I will be your only one. I don’t care which rotten cravings decay in your mind, I will be the one to fulfill them.”

Feyd's lips part and he draws in a quick breath. “Yes,” he breathes and his heart lifts itself from the pit that had swallowed it and Feyd inches closer, head craned back. The free hand slides under her skirts, needily catching her ankle.

“There is no need for anyone else. Tell me what you want me to do for you, I’ll do it.”

“I want you to watch the next time I fight.” Feyd’s nose and cheek twitch as the memory of today sends a sliver of rage through his nerves. Within a heart’s beat, her hand curls around his jaws, thumb rubbing over the twitching muscle. “And I want you to accept my proposal,” he growls much more needily. Blood has rushed to his cock, making it strain against the suit trousers.

“First… Hand me your blade.”

A small, gravelly moan rolls over plush lips and he releases her elbow to unsheathe the kukri from its holster. She takes it with deft fingers and presses it against his willing throat, watching with satisfaction as his pointy Adam’s Apple jumps against the blade. “What are you doing, woman?” Feyd drawls, hips weakly rutting into the empty space between them, not angled right to hump her leg, though he'd like to.

“Swear that I’ll be your only.”

“I swear it.” Feyd drawls without hesitation, pupils blown wide. Agitated breath fans her arm. He can barely wait to consummate their betrothal, squirming like a fish ashore, held at arm’s length by her will.

The clock ticks and Feyd-Rautha's birthday is nearly over. Pleadingly, he cranes his neck, shuffling on his knee. He is so eager to be devoted and brought to heel, when will she say yes?!  “Will you be my wife? Please.”

A heavy breath and scrutiny in tearful eyes, then finally, she breaks into a watery smile. “Yes, I will be your wife.” Happily, she sobs into the palm of her hand and the blade at his throat trembles. Feyd gives her no time to cry in peace and hauls her to the floor by the skirts.

The pair goes down on shiny tiles that reflect the golden material of her dress, barely gold anymore in the ambience of his dark chambers. Fragmented speckles of light dance across the floor as Feyd sifts through the layers until he has them bunched around her hips. Her thighs part willingly, latching around his narrow waist. She pulls close what belongs to her, making the na-Baron come flush with her pelvis.

Feyd claims her as frantically as she does him, calloused hands sliding along her waist to finally unwrap the birthday present she’s denied him all day, the only thing that mattered.

“I hate this dress,” he purrs. “You look like the wrong sun.” 

“Cut it off me then.” She offers him his own blade, chest arching off the floor. “Would you rather have me wear black at our wedding?” Excitedly, her breath hitches.

“No.” In fact, he’d be offended if she did. “I’d rather have you wear nothing and paint you black from the inside.” A flash of gold pervades the night when it reflects on the raised blade. A precise slash across her chest makes the bodice come undone between her breasts. The bite of metal misses her skin by a hair’s width. “Handing me back my blade… Did I teach you nothing?” Feyd purrs, sliding the blunt side over her breasts.

“I have my own.” Her breath hitches when her nipples pebble against the knife. Swiftly, she unsheathes her own blade from the strap around her hips under the skirts. The curved tip catches the button of Feyd’s trousers and slices straight through it, cutting a new fly into the thick material. His freed cock bobs against the flat side of her blade, the tip grazing his taut balls in a fatal kiss.

Feyd-Rautha moans, falling over her body to palm at her breasts and slide his mouth against her throat. She doesn’t have enough time to withdraw the blade from between his thighs and the way he whimpers tells her she has caught the delicate flesh. “Feyd, you idiot. Do you wish for me to dismember you before our wedding night?”

She pulls the blade away and seconds later, Feyd’s cock grinds against her center, slicking himself up with her essence. The velvety head rests heavily on her belly as he grinds his balls against cunt, relishing the sting of the wound. Blood drips over her folds, tinting the slick of her arousal black.

Forgotten, her kukri clatters to the floor and one hand reaches for his cock, the other for the back of his thigh, urging him closer as she lines him up with her entrance, wet but unprepared. It’ll be an adequate sting to match that of her betrothed’s incised testicles. Obediently, he follows, piercing her open with his cock head. A long wail escapes her as her cunt yields under pressure, then a startled gasp when Feyd’s knife is wedged inside the tight space between her two front teeth, so she cannot close her mouth.

Her cunt clenches fearfully around the thick length as he makes himself at home with languid thrusts. If the blade slips, he might just split her gums and lip. She doesn’t dare shake her head no and her tongue retreats far back into the cavity of her mouth, whimpering as he fucks her slowly, taking fascination in the way peril makes her slicker and her walls grip him in a fluttering embrace.

“Every rotten craving,” he cites her slyly. “Fuck.” A rapt look overtakes his eyes when she slides her tongue against the bottom of the blade, featherlight. She’s learned it from him, his favored way of testing the edge of a blade.

“You stole my show today,” he rasps, allowing her to wrap her fingers around his wrist to maneuver the kukri away. She pries it from his hand, then hurls it forcefully across the room. 

“You let me.  Maybe you like it when I bereave you, na-Baron.” The blade lands with a clatter.

“You bereft me of my other concubines.” 

The memory of them strengthens her fingers and she rips the jacket of Feyd’s festive suit open, digging her nails into taut, pale pectorals. “The Great Houses will be displeased.”

“Yes, they will be,” Feyd purrs, plush lips twitching into an excited smirk. “Maybe it’ll start a war.” He accentuates the word with a sharp thrust. The madness of his mirth over the idea is only slightly diluted by the arousal that swims in tar-black eyes. If her selfish claim sparks a war, she will have no regrets over it, because Feyd-Rautha is hers, tied by the heart, not by politics.

Her husband to be fucks her with frantic rythm until slick drips down her cheeks and turns the tiles below wet and sticky. They're both still waiting for the final nudge to come undone, so the night of their betrothal may go on forever. Her hands slide around the back or Feyd's neck, demanding kisses from plush lips and black teeth that glint in the dark.

“You looked so beautiful on your knees,” she moans into his mouth. “You should do it again.” Her gaze sweeps over to the balcony door and Feyd's follows. “You didn't deliver your speech, I heard, because you were, aahh, p-pouting.”

“Don't tease me, woman.” Feyd stands and pulls her up with him, arms hooked around her legs. His thick cock still twitches in her cunt as she wraps her legs around his waist. “Take off your dress.”

She obeys without question, heels of her feet digging into his lower back as she pulls the half-slashed golden fabric that's still gathered around her hips over her head. Feyd hums appreciatively, eyes gliding down her breasts and belly to the point where they're conjoined by the pelvis.

“Now my jacket,” he instructs and with a bit of awkward pulling, she manages to free the fabric from the clutch of her legs around his waist, then slides it off his arms one by one. Somehow, even with only one arm he manages to hold her firmly against his chest, slowly rocking his hips upwards, so her mind never stops reeling.

Last of all, Feyd kicks off his shoes and marches her over to the wall, grinning. “Feyd, what are you-? Wait.” A breeze brushes over her bare back as Feyd kicks the balcony door further open with and carries her out into the open, smiling wide with black maws.

A gust of turbulent, putrid wind catches her hair and turmoil swells from two hundred meters below, guttural chanting that could be celebration or it could be war, impossible to tell how many of them will look up to the palace pyramid and see the na-Baron's concubine seated on the banister and the na-Baron between her thighs.

Gasping, she clings to Feyd's shoulders, stripped of color entirely. The reflected moonlight barely makes it past the clouds, so they are swathed in somberness. It is a truly alien world, one that could really use a new sun.

Feyd-Rautha cants his hips, languidly thrusting into her cunt, pale arms circling her. A thread of slick comes off and drips into the abyss below, past the base of his thick cock. “Not the biggest fan of speeches. I prefer demonstrations.”

He fucks her on his balcony that overlooks Barony, the capital of Giedi Prime, cock drilling into her over the perilous chasm.

“You made me swear it, but you never promised me that I will be your only.” Feyd's plush lips curl into a snarl.

“Hmmm…” She pretends to ponder, a flash of amusement on her lips.

Feyd-Rautha however doesn’t take kindly to the playful hesitation and dips her dangerously backwards, smirking. Her life hangs in the arms of a psychopath and below her is nothing but gaping emptiness for two hundred meters. “I’d rather throw us both down there than share you!”

Her heart thrums like a shield, almost pierced by a slow blade. “I’d rather live another day in your arms, my na-Baron.”

Zestfully, he hoists her back up and resumes fucking her, possessive and rough, one hand tugging on her asscheek, the other clutching her waist. Her mind and nerves swim with pleasure. The euphoria of being claimed as his so brutally makes her want to laugh and cry, white teeth bared at the na-Baron.

He too stares at her, waiting, muscles twitching under pale skin.

“You think I can? When under me is death and a thousand Harkonnens watching?”

“You will.” Feyd leers, lips twitching. His cock drives into her center. Whimpering, she slides her hand between their bodies to rub her clit. “No.”

“No?!”

“You will cum from your husband's cock.”

The confidence that drips thick and velvety from his voice makes her head roll back, moaning. Her cunt flutters weakly, climax digging its tendrils into her core, eager to burst into full bloom. She angles her pelvis, squirming in Feyd's grasp, and props up one foot on the railing, trusting him to hold her.

And he does, laughing. Insanity lights up his eyes as he fucks into her, slap slap slap, pubic mound grinding against her clit. She arches her back and his cock nudges her just right, toes curling, lids fluttering.

“There, that's a good girl.”

She comes undone with a long moan, voice carried away by the putrid wind. Feyd-Rautha's lips and jaws twitch and he covers her open mouth with his. His eyes are open when he climaxes and fills her with his seed, their consummation on display for the whole of Giedi Prime.

Trembling fingers claw at Feyd's shoulders, dampened with a sheen of sweat. His chest heaves with raspy breaths and he raises a finger, trailing it over her throat and clavicle.

“My birthday gift.”

“The sex?” A gust of wind catches her face.

“No.” Feyd smirks. “You. My wife.”

FEYD TAG LIST:

@nostalgichoya, @forgedfromthestars, @sweetiee-o, @missbingu, @minedofmoria

@sebastianswallows, @charmingballoon, @flower-frog, @welliah, @aoi-targaryen

@coastalcowgirl35, @esolean, @szapizzapanda, @tatertooted

HCTS TAG LIST:

@ughdontbeboring

[nectardaddy]

don't ever leave - inumaki toge

cw: mentions of blood and death, anxiety/panic attack, light angst in the beginning

notes: not my fav but it's been sitting in my drafts forever, sorta edited

His throat was raw and scorched from words already, thinking to himself he would only make matters worse if he spoke at all. But what would he say if he could? What could he say at all?

How does one offer comfort without words?

It was past midnight, and the young man grappled with the very thought alone as he held you. Holding you tightly as if you would slip away at any moment. Violet eyes watched as tears slipped down your cheeks, feeling his heart strings tie themselves in knots at your broken form. You held onto him tightly, fingers grabbing at the fabric of his shirt that he had worn to bed because letting go meant being alone. And being alone made your mind race.

He didn't realize how missions strangled you, how much they choked you until you were gasping for breath even when you were safe. Didn't realize how much bloodshed and trauma his mind had already become accustomed to or completely blocked out - thinking as though if he did such, everyone else must, right?

He was so terribly wrong. Closing his eyes in guilt because that was so far from what you had done, and he hadn't even noticed. He witnessed the outpour of emotions he had long since forgotten when he opened his tired eyes to you that evening. An evening where he went to sleep rather early from the events of the day; an evening were his throat singed with pain and he winced with every swallow. An evening where he thought you did the same as you gave him a small smile before heading to bed.

But you didn't.

Unbeknownst to him, you tossed and turned, the inner turmoil of emotions bubbling up and over as you laid in bed. Tears running down your face in the darkness of the night as you repeated today's events in your mind - all the while he was sound asleep. Texting him to see if he was still awake, but with no reply you held your breath as you walked to his room. Choked sobs leaving your lips as you opened his door, too afraid to wait and knock as someone might have heard your cries.

You only craved the comfort of a man who couldn't even speak to it.

He was confused when he heard the door creek open and quickly shut, confused when the sound of soft cries hit his ears, and concerned when he heard the gentle call of his name. Groggy eyes opening at the noise only to find your shattered frame, haphazardly wiping your eyes and shoulders slumped - oh god why were you crying?

Now he was sat up in his bed, holding you like his life depended on it; because in that moment, he thought yours surely did. Pale fingers running down your back as he believed he shouldn't speak a word, he couldn't speak a word. His throat was raw and scorched from words already, thinking to himself he would only make matters worse if he spoke at all. But what would he say if he could? What could he say at all?

That you were alright? His words would snap you into a false sense of security, no longer feeling your emotions but shoving them down even further. Ask you what was wrong? You would spill your guts to him involuntarily, whether you wanted to share or not. Even if he were to utter a safe word, his throat was so shredded it would send him into a coughing fit. Then you would care less about your own feelings and more about his well-being. He was at a loss. So he held you. Unwavering in his hold as your tears didn't seem to stop, but wanting nothing more than to ease your mind.

"Sometimes I don't even want to be a sorcerer at all," he heard your mumble, your words jumbled and hushed as you kept your head in his chest. He could only nod gently, hoping you understood that he was listening, as you continued on. "I can't bear seeing you hurt yourself because I'm too weak to do anything."

His heart sunk in his chest at your statement, closing his eyes once more as his mind raced to block out the memory. But to no avail. The mere thought of the blood that pooled in his mouth earlier that day made him sick, and the visceral reaction that came with the thought of harm coming to you was nauseating. It was a thought he desperately wanted to speak to, one of which he only wished to utter the words he wanted.

He would rather succumb death than have you meet the same fate.

As much as the man swore to himself, to his friends, you didn't have such a foothold in his heart, his life would shatter without you in it. He vowed he would never, not in a million years, be so attached to someone he would risk his very own life. But here he sat, voice mutilated and hoarse as he had done just that. Yuuta would tell him it was, morbidly, romantic, but the young man would wholeheartedly deny ever doing such a thing - he was only doing the mission assigned. But he was naive to think such a thing, naive to push his own feelings aside for the sake of ego.

He didn't want to pull away, but he so desperately wanted to speak to your statement, to ease your mind in some way, shape, or form. The tears you shed made his heart wring and shatter. 'It's alright,' he signed, trying his best as he only pulled away one hand as to hold you with the other. 'I'm alright,' he reassured.

"You can't even speak, Toge," you quipped, your voice harsh as it was filled with tears and sorrow. Within your own words, you found yourself clutching his clothing for dear life. Hoping that if you guarded him, as you did your mind, he wouldn't slip through your fingers. Not whisk himself away through means of being a victor, a protector, because how could one protect if they were gone?

'But I'm here,' he signed, a simple statement that even he reveled in. Sorcery was a sinful business, a lethal business; one of which that broke the spirit, mind, and body. A morbid testament to those who ever dared to join the fray - it was win or die trying. 'I'm not going anywhere.'

Usually, the young man wasn't favorable with emotions, never knowing what to do, if anything at all. But it felt natural for his fingers to touch your chin, instinctive for his touch to be gentle and caring as he offered you to look at him. Violet eyes meeting your own troubled ones and pale fingers thumbing away a tear that slipped down your stained cheeks, he gave you a small, tired smile. "M' here," he choked out, his voice hoarse and broken. Seemingly a whisper compared to your own, as he couldn't find the strength to project.

The act made your heart melt within your chest, and few words were enough to set it ablaze. Though it was coarse and fractured, they were the only words you needed to hear in the moment. He was here, he was alive, he was breathing - hopefully now until the end of your days. "Don't ever leave."

@inumakis-boo @inumakisser

I know you'll appreciate this lol

[icbgwy]

THE WAY THINGS GO ♱. ── 西村力

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⎯‎⎯‎⎯⠀⠀⠀⠀⋆⠀⠀⠀⠀ׄ⠀⠀⠀三

riki ‘ni-ki’ nishimura reluctantly stood in front of a nearly abandoned strip mall in the far east of hongdae. 

most of the shops were either closed or out of business. the only place open at midnight was the shaman house— otherwise known as a guttang— jake and heeseung ushered him to go to. 

this was his last and only option to get his game back to the right track, the voice of his basketball coach echoing in his mind. 

“—if you keep this up— you won’t be on the starting lineup this season”  

riki shuddered at the thought of sitting on the bench his senior year of high school… how humiliating would that be. it might be worse than his current state, he couldn’t stoop lower. he would do whatever it takes to be the ni-ki he was known as.

the bright neon sign illuminated the front of the guttang wasn’t traditional in any sense. frankly riki found it odd that it was placed here in what seemed like the middle of nowhere. it gave him weird vibes. if he wasn’t so desperate he would’ve turned back the instant he saw how dark and gloomy the whole area was, but desperate times call for desperate measures. 

mystic messenger— that’s the same title of the game, y/n  used to play… a pretty lame one at that. 

“what a stupid name” riki scoffed under his breath and shook those thoughts out of his head. he stepped into the guttang and was immediately immersed in the dark atmosphere of it. 

“god this is so lame” riki whispered, as he looked around the place. 

people from various backgrounds all mingled together in the waiting room. although one thing was very clear from all of them; they were desperate. he just needed to get this all over with. he had serious doubts that a shaman would help him with his predicament. 

shit like this never works maybe for gullible low lives with no other options. i’m not there.

“yet.” the synchronized voices of heeseung and jake rang through his ears as a horrible reminder of where his life was headed due to this alleged curse.

riki knew they didn’t mean no harm. they were genuine and real close friends to him. more so than jihoon and soyeon who he had known since grade school. he even allowed jake and heeseung to call him by his real name, riki. not ni-ki, like how everyone else at school did. 

who his aforementioned grade school buddies refused to call him by. he knew they liked ni-ki more. of course they did, everyone liked the effortlessly cool and carefree rich basketball player he grew to be known as. 

so riki impatiently sat on the floor. his feet tucked under him and hands placed on his knees as he waited for the shaman to arrive to the private room he was instructed to wait in by the receptionist.  

his long slender pointer finger anxiously tapping against his knee. his mind raced as he tried to conjured up various causes for his new found misfortune. the sound of soft footsteps and metal bells clanging together pulled riki out of his thoughts. his head snapped up as a woman took a seat in front of him. 

“riki nishimura,” she greeted, her voice calm but laced with authority.  riki frowned, his body instinctively tensing. 

how does she know my name?

oh wait, it was on the paper work i filled out. 

“sit still. you’ve come for answers, haven’t you?”  the shaman chuckled softly, her tone nothing but unsettling. riki nodded in confusion, immediately stopping his fidgeting and sitting up straight. ready to hear the shaman out and get this over with.

“you’ve been cursed by imbalance,” she began, her hands sweeping across the table between them in slow, deliberate motions. 

is she high? what the fuck is she doing with her hands?

“your life is out of sync because of the karmic debt you carry,”  she admitted.

“karmic debt?” riki repeated, raising a skeptical brow. riki tried suppressing a scoff, not believing a word that came out of her mouth. 

“what is this, some kind of fortune cookie scam? oh wait! next you’re gonna tell me i need to buy some magic crystal or some special tea to fix it, right?” riki berated her in utter disbelief. 

the shaman’s lips twitched slightly, a faint smile barely visible on her emotionless authoritative face.

“believe what you want, but the truth remains: you’ve wronged others, and their pain lingers around you like a shadow,”  she added on, ignoring riki’s obvious skepticism.

in her line of work, she was more than accustomed to people not believing her especially when faced with past experiences they’ve tried to bury. 

“okay, sure. let’s say I believe this ‘karmic debt’ bullshit. how do I fix it?”  riki said smugly, leaning back slightly. an air of entitlement surreding him.

he wasn’t taking this seriously, but yet again he never took anyone seriously. he was back to his carefree and nonchalant image he’d been creating for himself since second year of  junior high. 

her gaze locked onto his. for just a moment riki felt uncomfortable, having the urge to apologize and take her and her words more seriously. he was too prideful to do so.

“you must make amends. apologize to those you’ve hurt, to those you’ve discarded like they were nothing.”  

riki’s jaw tightened at the memories that arose from her words. he knew he wasn’t a stellar guy. especially towards girls but was it really that serious to the point he was cursed? 

“that’s it? just apologize? that sounds pretty vague.”  

“you’ll know who when the time comes,” she replied cryptically. “the souls you’ve left behind, abandoned, hurt—they carry your imbalance. start with them.”  

riki’s patience was wearing thin. “right. because cryptic riddles are so helpful to me right now. thanks for nothing!” riki said sarcastically. he stood up abruptly, brushing off his pants and getting ready to make his way out of the room.

“this is a waste of time,” riki scoffed.

“you’ll be back,” the shaman said simply, her voice steady and calm. completely unfazed by riki’s outburst. riki turned back to her with a disbelieving glare, but her expression remained and her resolve unshaken.  

“don’t hold your fucking breath,” he spat back before pushing his way out of the guttang, the faint sound of her bells jingling taunting him. 

“we'll see you very soon” the receptionist called out as he walked away, making riki stop mid step. he shook his head, stepping into the cool night air, he rolled his eyes at the entire ordeal. 

karmic debt? making amends? what a huge joke! i’m fine, just off. everyone goes through that.

but even as he walked away and got into his rolls royce. the shaman’s words lingered in the back of his mind.

“the souls you’ve left behind… abandoned…” he clenched his jaw, his grip on the steering wheel tightened.

this is so fucking dumb. it’s just some crazy lady playing games with me. she doesn’t know me or anything.

but the smallest part of him—a part he refused to acknowledge no matter what—couldn’t help but feel there was some truth in her words. 

fuck it, i’ll apologize even if i don’t mean it. 

ִ ࣪ 𖦹 物事の進み方 ָ ࣪ ׅ

prev . masterlist . next

notes: so sorry for the late update, i got major writers block. i love making conepts then not actually writing but fear not, y/n riki interactions next chapter.

summary: at the start of his senior year, riki nishimura notices that everything feels off—his basketball skills are slipping, and his usual charm with girls has vanished. desperate for answers, he follows his co-captain heeseung's joking advice and visits a local shaman. she reveals the source of his bad luck: major karmic debt. to regain his balance, riki must make amends for his broken and abandoned childhood friendship with the one girl who truly knew him, y/n matsuzaki.

tag list ( open ): @tasnemluvs @elegancefr @jiiyen @skepvids @enhypenlovre @mylettterstoyou @delirioastral @who-tf-soddhi @aespaqq @nat123c @nodoubtily @right-person-wrong-time @beijinkaoya @awhrin @ami-soph @ravendove666-blog @dollrincess @notab1tchwho @starssfall @aryannabananas @paradiseoflosers @raeiology @letwiiparkjay @rikidaze @sol3chu @nishiimuranights @miukidoll @ningningiloveumarryme @sirens-dreams @heartheejake @heesallure @sweetpinkblueberry

[queenie-ofthe-void]

Here's a crack Stobin idea

It's platonic Hanahaki by instead of puking flowers, it's migraines and mind reading.

***

After they're injected with the same experimental mystery drugs in the Russian spy bunker, Steve wakes up two days later with a killer headache.

Must be the concussion.

Except throughout the day it gets worse, worse than his migraines after his fight with Billy. He tries to go to sleep early, but the pain's so intense he seriously thinks his head might implode.

Does he call Robin?

They aren't what he'd call friends. But they survived torture together, so that has to mean something, right?

No, he decides. She's got her own problems and it's almost midnight.

He's up, can't sleep. At 6:30am he wraps an ice pack around his head and sits in a warm bath. At 7:30am he's throwing up water and bile. By 9am he's got a bloody nose and he's popped a blood vessel in his right eye. Just as he's about to pick up the phone, there's knocking on his front door that feels like a hammer to his skull.

Robin's on the front stoop, the front of her Fleetwood Mac sleep shirt covered in drops of blood and she's holding a wad of napkins to her face. She's crying and practically collapses into his arms.

The pain recedes so quickly he gasps. He didn't realize how difficult it was to breathe. The sharp stabbing behind his eyes is gone and it feels like he hasn't eaten in days.

Robin's still holding his shoulder, looking at him with wide eyes. She moves the napkins and even though her face is a mess of dried blood it's clear the bleeding has stopped.

"Steve, what's going on?"

"How the hell should I know?"

Her hand slips from his shoulder as he backs into the house, and suddenly the pain's creeping back in. It's minimal compared to before. Robin grabs his hand again and the pain recedes.

He looks up and she's staring at him wide eyed, mouth hanging open like a fish.

"I do not look like a fish!" Robin scoffs.

He didn't say that.

"Oh holy shit you didn't say that!" she practically screams at him.

She grips his other hand, squeezing them both tight as they stare into each other's panicked eyes.

Oh my god playing on loop between them, yet Robin's mouth isn't moving and he's pretty sure his is closed.

Can we read minds?

I have no idea Steven I've never done this before! You're the freaky stuff expert.

It's called the upside down Robs.

He's so bitchy.

I'm not bitchy!

"OK we have to stop this," Robin finally says. He knows she said it. He saw her mouth move and everything.

"Jesus I'm not sure I can handle your brain Harrington I've already got enough going on up here on my own."

"Yeah tell me about it," he replies as he thinks about her rambling about nothing for hours on end during shared shifts.

Robin sighs, squeezing his hands again as she scuffs her shoes on the white tile.

For what it's worth, I like your rambling.

A light smile ghosts her face. He always feels better when she's smiling, and that gets a wet chuckle from her as she wipes her teary eyes.

"Ok," Robin says, putting her game face on. "We're going to figure this out and I've got some ideas."

~~~

s4 follow-up ficlet

[mirainwonderland]

Summary: you have an anxiety attack and he comforts you

Content: depictions of anxiety and panic, comfort, fluff, established relationship. Brief mentions of blood but nothing graphic

A/N / Disclaimer: I lowkey hate this 🥲 but if you struggle sometimes like I do, here’s how I think Leon would help you (I think he knows what he’s doing because he’s been through them too 🥺). Little disclaimer that everyone is probably different and I just wrote based on the anxiety experiences I have. Sending love and hugs to anyone who deals with anxiety everything’s gonna be ok <3 muah k luv you bye

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Longest day of your life. You’re more exhausted than a mother of five in a coffee shortage. Yet here you are, lying awake, stiff as a board in your bed, staring at the ceiling. A car goes by on the street outside, the light filtering in through the blinds and casting shadowed stripes across the walls and ceiling. You swear you can hear the ticking of the clock in the kitchen from here, and you let out a puff of air through pursed lips.

It’s driving you insane.

How many hours past midnight have you counted again? Oh right, 20 minutes. You feel like you’ve been lying here for eons, counting the even breathes beside you. You’re a little jealous watching Leon sleep peacefully beside you. Usually this is a him problem, and not yours. Not even the consistent, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest has calmed you. Usually his presence made you relax, and from there you’d grow sleepy.

But not tonight for god knows what reason.

You really do know, though. The day you’ve had keeps replaying over and over in your mind. Everything seemed to go wrong, your anxiety was horrible, and to add insult to injury you’re pretty sure your period is coming in a couple of days.

The joys of womanhood. Isn’t it fun?

You blow another breath through your mouth. All jokes aside, you feel like you’ve been doing worse lately. And the worst part about that is that you feel like you haven’t been able to tell Leon about it. You don’t really know why. It feels kind of humiliating to admit you’re not doing good, and you can’t figure out how to even broach the subject in the first place.

So you stay quiet, suffering alone in your silence like a devoted martyr to your anxiety. You wonder how holy you’d be by now if constant internal panic was measured in penance of some sort.

Leon hates it when you do that. He’s told you so many times to just come talk to him. And even though you want to, you can’t seem to break down your wall of pride and let him in. Even though the little girl in you is screaming for someone to hold her when the room goes dark, you still can’t bring yourself to tug on his sleeve and ask for help. You feel like a pick me begging for attention.

You sigh and sit up. You can’t stand your thought process anymore as it drifts to this uncomfortable territory, and you throw back the covers to go get a drink of water. It’s your own greatest enemy, your mind. And the worst part is, you can only run from it for so long. Because no matter how much you bottle things in, it will catch up with you sooner than you think.

You flip on the soft oven light for a little guidance, but not enough to chase away any traces of sleepiness that might be lingering as you fill a glass with cold water from the sink. Your head kind of hurts as you turn to rest against the counter and take a sip of water. Your chest tightens as soon as the water hits your stomach and you don’t really feel good.

You try to brush it off at first as low blood sugar or something. But it doesn’t go away, and becomes a little more insistent, and suddenly your chest aches.

Shit.

Your hands start to shake as that familiar feeling creeps back in to compress on your ribs. It’s a sick feeling, like you’ve eaten too much cake or like you’re really thirsty but no amount of water can help. As it gets worse, you feel like you can’t breathe. You hadn’t had an episode in a while, but all that stuffing your feelings nonsense got to you. Not healthy.

You go to set the glass down on the counter, but you don’t quite clear the edge and it knocks the water out of your hands. The loud noise of it shattering on the tile irritates you more, and your shoulders jolt. Every nerve feels on needle-point edge, the sudden overstimulation making your head feel like it’s gonna explode.

You press a hand against your chest, breathing having grown rapid as your vision blurs around the edges.

“Hey.” You don’t even see or hear him until Leon has your shoulders and speaks right in front of your face. Your shoulders jerk again when he grabs you, and your hands fly out to grab at something. They find his arms.

“I-I… I can’t breathe…!” You tremble, your head growing light and tingly from the shallow panting.

“I know… I know, easy.” Avoiding the broken glass, Leon lifts you effortlessly onto the counter. He’s calm, his voice deep and even and a little rough from sleep.

“I-… I can’t—“

“Don’t think about it.” His voice an anchor somewhere in the haze of reality you’re struggling to get back to. “Take a breath.”

You try. Your lungs are shaking. It hitches, and you almost feel worse. He takes your hand and lays your palm flat agains his chest.

“Like this.” He sucks in a deep demonstrative breath through his nose, out through his mouth, making sure you can feel the way his chest rises and falls with the motion. “You know how, baby.”

“I-I can’t!”

“You can. Do it with me, c’mon.”

You focus your energy and your frayed concentration on the way his chest feels under your hand, the way the warmth creeps up your arm. On the way his breath sounds and feels. On the way the air feels spilling into your own lungs.

Gradually you regain control.

Leon tilts his head, trying to get a look at your face in the dimness of the stove light.

“‘Okay?” He murmurs, and you nod, letting your eyes crack open and your head fall back forward to look at him. You’re suddenly aware that your feet hurt and feel kinda sticky.

“C’mon.” He reaches for you, and you wrap your arms around his neck as he carries you carefully out of the kitchen and down the hall to the bathroom.

The light blinds you when he turns it on, and you squint and blink as he sets you on the counter, and your feet in the sink. The amount of blood on your feet scares and sickens you, but Leon lays a warm, gentle hand on the back of your head as he sets the first aid kit next to you.

“It’s okay. Don’t look.”

He makes sure there’s no shards of glass in your skin, he cleans the cuts gently and disinfects them. You watch quietly as he bandages them up, wrapping up the balls of one of your feet.

The silence is a little unsettling. Is he mad? Obviously he’s probably not too mad about the glass. He’d probably say it’s replaceable. But now he kinda knows there was something bothering you, and you clearly didn’t talk to him about it before it got bad.

“Sooo… what no lecture?” You finally blurt as he ties off the gauze. He glances up at you as he lowers your foot from the counter.

“For what?” You watch as he washes his hands in the sink and puts the first aid kit away.

“You know… for not… talking to you sooner, I guess.”

He gathers you into his arms again and you wrap yours around his neck as he flips off the light and carries you back to bed. He kisses your temple on the way back down the hall, watching as your eyelids droop sleepily when you don’t sense any tension in his body.

“Maybe tomorrow morning.”

He carries you back to bed and tucks you in. Laying down beside you, he holds his arm out for you to come a little closer and curl up under it. You scooch.

He rests his hand on the back of your head, his thumb brushing your hair behind your ear.

“I will say this though…” He murmurs deeply as you look up at him from your little spot in the sanctuary of his arms. “You know you can come to me, you know you’re not a burden and I like being there for you.”

He smoothes his thumb over your hair.

“I love you… k?” He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Okay.” You reply in a little voice. You know he’s right. You know he means what he says. Leon’s not the type to waste words on sentiments he doesn’t mean. And hearing it again makes you feel a little silly for overthinking it.

“Okay.” Another kiss. “Get some sleep, yeah?”

This time, you’re out like a light.

[juyeonszn]

SAME DREAM, SAME MIND, SAME NIGHT

PAIRING kim younghoon x f!reader

WORD COUNT 3.60k

GENRES smut ﹒little bit of fluff ﹒little bit of crack tbh

WARNINGS 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, fawn when she can’t get enough of the brothers best friend trope, hyunjae and jacob are side characters that never actually make an appearance, younghoon is wearing a ghostface mask for 2 seconds 😵‍💫, reader is down bad, younghoon is also down pretty bad, size kink — the obvious yk, he’s big everywhere tbh, vaginal fingering, oral (f!receiving), unprotected sex, missionary/lowkey mating press towards the end LMFAOOOO i’m sorry i got carried away, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, pussy drunk!younghoon (i lied he’s down horrendous), creampie, the couch is a paid actor, last scene is kinda silly kinda cute, lmk if i missed anything!!

SUMMARY hyunjae really shouldn’t have left you home alone.

MORE and day 3 of fawntober has made her entrance 😈 i’m curious,,, how do we feel about these so far? i feel like i’m focusing on this challenge more than i am my school work 😭😭

PERM TAGLIST @winterchimez @maessseongs @itsbeeble @zzoguri

Being home alone has never been much of an issue for you. All throughout high school, you stayed home by yourself when your parents worked late and your brother had practice. And even now, well into adulthood, you’d never really been afraid of being alone.

If it were up to you, you’d live all by yourself. But unfortunately, rent was way too expensive to afford on your own. More fortunately, your brother had a spare room in his apartment for you. Pros included low grocery costs, low monthly rent, and free parking. Cons included living with your brother, living with one of his best friends, and having to deal with two grown men who sometimes acted like children.

It was a Friday night and both Hyunjae and Jacob were out, attending a Halloween party one of their friends was throwing. The holiday was only a few days away, so almost everyone you knew was hosting parties this weekend. Along with being content to stay alone in your home, you were even more so to never leave it. Going out and getting black out drunk or worse didn’t sound very appealing to you.

Nights like these were the rare occasion you got to be with yourself and some movies, snuggled with a blanket on your couch. Living with only men did not provide any luxuries except maybe someone to kill a spider every now and then. So you were abusing the fuck out of the opportunity, dressed in nothing but an oversized sweatshirt and some crew socks, a mug of hot cocoa in your hands as you watch the second installment of the Scream franchise. (Might as well get in the holiday spirit.)

There’s a knock at your door, causing you to raise an eyebrow. It was half past midnight and your brother mentioned that he and Jacob would be crashing over at Sangyeon’s after the party. You were also very much single, so you weren’t expecting anyone to come over either. The only other possible explanation was maybe a food delivery, but you hadn’t ordered anything.

You assume it’s someone at the wrong apartment and choose to ignore it, putting your focus back on the movie. Your mug raises to your lips, taking a long sip of the now lukewarm drink just as the movie’s plot begins to progress. Before you can fully revert into your concentration, there’s another knock.

A sigh escapes your mouth, setting down the mug and pausing the movie. Your sock-clad feet trudge over to the front door, expression flat as you undo all of the locks and swing it open. You jump at the sight in front of you, nearly dying of a heart attack on the spot.

A tall figure, dressed in all black and wearing a Ghostface mask stands on the other side, one arm resting on the threshold of your doorframe and their body weight leaning against it. When they realize they’ve almost killed you, they gasp.

“Oh my god, I forgot I was wearing this stupid thing.”

The person hurriedly removes the mask to reveal one of your brother’s other friends, Kim Younghoon. The tall male rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, apologizing for nearly making you faint. You clutch at your chest as your breathing stabilizes and your heart rate returns to normal.

“Jesus, Younghoon. Couldn’t you have said something before I opened the door?” You hold the heel of your palm to your forehead.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” he bows slightly, his eyes drifting off to something behind you. “Woah, wait, are you watching Scream 2 right now?”

“Uh, yeah?” At that moment you notice the silly coincidence that his costume happened to be Ghostface. “Do— um— do you wanna come in?”

“Yeah, sure.” He smiles, tucking his mask under his arm and following you into the apartment. He shuts the door behind him, making sure to hit all the locks as well.

As the two of you sit at the couch and you resume the movie, you purse your lips in confusion. You were curious as to why Younghoon was here in the first place, seeing as your brother was not. He had to have known that information himself considering he was dressed like he’d just come from a Halloween party. It only made sense that it was the same one Hyunjae and Jacob attended.

“Wait, so what are you doing here?” You ask, fiddling with the hem of your sweatshirt. Shit, you weren’t wearing any pants…

“Oh! Right,” he nods, ruffling his hair a bit. “I woke up really early this morning and it was starting to catch up with me so I decided to leave Sangyeon’s party to head home. Hyunjae asked if I could stop by to check on you since it was on the way.”

A simple call or text from your brother himself couldn’t suffice? You guess the fact that Younghoon really did live close by coupled with Hyunjae’s intoxication might’ve been a factor in asking his friend for the favor. All you can do is hum in response.

You weren’t all that upset by Younghoon’s sudden appearance either, and you were more than happy to invite him into your apartment any time. Out of all of your brother’s friends, excluding Jacob, Younghoon was probably your favorite. Aside from having a little crush on his handsome face, he was the easiest to get along with and you felt comfortable around him. Sometimes you wish he was your other roommate instead.

But then again, the thought of him being so domestic around you was enough to send you into cardiac arrest, much like his accidental jumpscare from earlier. Just imagining waking up to him making coffee and breakfast in the kitchen, wearing your Hello Kitty apron, had your pulse quickening. Oh God, bumping into him exiting the bathroom after he’s showered? Nothing but a towel wrapped loosely around his hips and droplets of water decorating his no doubtedly sculpted chest?

Did someone crank up the thermostat?

“Y/N? N/N. N/N… Y/N!”

You blink, snapping yourself back into reality. Younghoon waves his hands back and forth in front of your face, a cute pout on his lips. He really was not making this any easier for you. You clear your throat, hoping your face isn’t as red as it feels.

“Y-Yes?” Why did you have to stutter, you fucking loser? There you go, blowing your cover.

“I was just wondering if you’ve seen the movies before. But you kinda spaced out on me there. You okay?” He asks, face full of concern. It doesn’t do much to quiet the sound of your heartbeat in your ears. If anything, it makes it ten times worse.

“Oh… Um. Yeah, I have,” your voice wavers. “And I-I’m fine, I swear. Don’t even worry about me.”

Your efforts to convince him are futile and instead of de-escalating the situation, you just add further fuel to the fire. He leans in to you, permeating your personal bubble as he examines your expression. If he moved even closer, his lips could land on your own, and the idea of that has you shrinking in on yourself.

“Are you… nervous around me?”

Did he have any sense of self-awareness? Did he think he wasn’t intimidating in this proximity to you? Kim Younghoon’s new talent just dropped; driving you to the brink of insanity!

You swallow thickly, eyes a little wide like a deer caught in headlights. Your line of eyesight falters to his lips, even more kissable now that they’re so close to yours. You shake your head when you realize that you haven’t responded, praying and hoping you were keeping your composure.

“I don’t really believe you, Y/N,” he says, tone no louder than a whisper, but so voluminous in your empty apartment. “So, I’m gonna rephrase my question. Are you nervous to be alone with me?”

When you process his words, you come to the conclusion that, yes, you are nervous to be alone with him. Your brother and Jacob were usually around when he was, so you’d never been in this position before. You’ve never truly been alone with Younghoon. Perhaps that was because you knew you couldn’t keep your feelings to yourself, afraid you might fuck up and say something stupid to him.

A few seconds pass with nothing but the noise of the movie still playing in the background, your lips pressed together. His eyes bore into yours, dark and swirling with something that looks a whole lot like lust. Your silence is a sufficient answer for him, one of his hands coming up to support his weight on the armrest of the couch behind you. The other trails up your thigh, the sheer size of it big enough to nearly cover the expanse of your skin.

Younghoon’s lips part when he slides under your sweatshirt and finds that you’re not wearing anything underneath. His eyes flutter shut with a sigh, poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue.

“Tell me you don’t want this, tell me no before I lose all of my self control and I can’t hold back.” He lets his forehead fall to your shoulder, voice hushed.

The better, rational part of you wants to say no. It wants to tell him that you shouldn’t do this, because what would your brother think? Hyunjae would beat his ass if he found out about the two of you, especially on the living room sofa. Hell, he’d beat your ass for sleeping with one of his friends. But the part of you that was unhinged and has dreamt of this moment for years wants to say otherwise.

That part is what has you spreading your legs, taking Younghoon’s hand and leading it to where you need him most.

“Don’t hold back.” You breathe into his ear, your free hand coming up to the back of his neck and pulling his lips onto yours.

You whimper into his mouth as he kisses you, his thumb rubbing tight circles on your lace covered clit simultaneously. He’s by no means gentle, tongue tangling with your own roughly and desperately, as if he’s been dreaming of this just as much as you. He halts his motions, creeping further under your sweatshirt to palm your bare breasts and grind his hips into yours.

Your back arches off the couch, the feeling of his large hand on your chest goading your arousal. Younghoon presses open mouthed kisses down the column of your throat, sucking and nipping your supple skin, licking the abused area to soothe any pain. You can feel him even through the material of his black cargo pants, already hard for you. Without seeing it, you have an inkling of what you’re working with.

Younghoon’s always been tall, standing at six feet with broad shoulders. As long as you’ve known him, his height alone was enough to scare people away, despite the fact that he had the personality of a hyperactive puppy. But now, his body looming over yours and his touch all over your skin, you can’t help but feel turned on by his size alone.

“Can I finger you?” He asks suddenly, slowly pushing up your sweatshirt so he can expose your cute panties. You nod frantically, biting the hem of your top to keep it out his way as he pushes your underwear down your legs with one hand. “Wanna prep you as best as I can, baby.”

He smiles at you again, and in spite of being in such a compromising situation, he looks so stunning. You remember the reason why you’ve had a crush on him this long, because aside from his beauty, he was also doting and caring, willing to go above and beyond for those near and dear to him.

You squirm a bit beneath him when his middle finger glides through your folds with ease, you slick providing enough lubricant for him. He all but groans, inserting the digit into your entrance. Your moans are muffled by your sweatshirt in your mouth, his long finger so deep inside of you it brushes that one spongy spot you could never reach yourself.

Younghoon uses his thumb to circle your clit as his finger thrusts in and out of you, kissing along your jaw. He glances down and moans at the sight of your tits jostling around with each pump of his finger. He lowers his head to attach his mouth to one of your nipples, tongue flicking the sensitive bud.

There’s so much going on, your eyes practically rolling to the back of your head when his finger curls and his teeth scrape the swell of your breast. If his slender middle finger wasn’t enough to send you over the edge, then the sound of him being so vocal was, vibrations spreading on the surface of your skin. Younghoon adds the slightest amount of pressure to your clit when he sinks his pearly whites into your collarbone, coaxing your orgasm.

He swallows your whines, waiting until you’ve stopped spasming under him to slow his assault. He pulls his hoodie over his head, helping you remove your sweatshirt afterward. Your chest heaves, watching with heavy eyelids as Younghoon scoots himself further down the couch. He brings himself eye level with your cunt, experimentally blowing air on your core. You shiver, biting the inside of your lip and running a hand through his hair.

“Such a pretty pussy,” he makes eye contact with you, pressing a sweet kiss to your clit. “Can't believe you’ve been hiding this from me.”

Younghoon pushes your knees up to your chest, hands digging into the fat of the backs of your thighs. The position gives him better access to your glistening cunt. He licks a long line from your hole to your pelvic bone, flattening his tongue against you and repeating once more.

“Fuck, Hoon,” you mewl, holding the back of your hand to your forehead. “That feels so good.”

He hums, lips wrapping around your clit and giving it a harsh suck. That particular action rips a loud moan from your vocal cords. He doesn’t get any gentler, sliding both his middle and ring fingers into you as he continues making out with your pussy. Your head feels light and airy, your brain incapable of producing any coherent thoughts aside from how badly you need his cock inside of you. His thick fingers aren’t enough, you need more. You need him to fill you completely.

The pads of his fingers continuously brush along your velvety walls, inching you closer and closer to your tipping point. You aren’t sure you can last much longer, especially with the promise of having him fully following this. It’s almost embarrassing how quickly he wound you up and knocked you over the ledge again, like he was already so familiar with what you needed.

He swirls his tongue around your clit, alternating between curling his fingers and straightening them. It’s as if he’s doing a come-hither motion. Your whines are uncontrollable at this point, tugging at his hair with every suckle of your engorged skin. The sting on his scalp has him moaning against your cunt, the resonance shooting through your whole body.

“Shit shit, I’m cumming— I’m—“

Your hips buck up towards his mouth, his skillful tongue and fingers still working your overstimulated pussy until you’re begging him to stop. Good God, you already finished twice and he hadn’t even properly fucked you yet. You’re a panting mess beneath him when he parts with your lower lips, chin shiny with your release.

“You can give me one more, right?” Younghoon licks his lips to taste the remnants of your sweetness, wrapping them around his fingers to do the same thing. You let out a strained moan, nodding and connecting your mouths to kiss him roughly.

He laughs into the kiss, pulling back to tuck your hair behind your ear. His eyes resemble crescent moons, crinkled at the sides. His duality gives you whiplash. How could someone so sexy be so adorable at the same time? It was beyond you.

He goes to unbutton his pants, kicking them along with his underwear off his legs as he leans down to kiss you again. You gasp when you’re finally given the opportunity to see his dick, hard and flushed for you. You reach down to stroke him, reveling in the hiss he makes when your thumb glides over his sensitive tip.

You guide him to your entrance, but he pauses. “Wait, I don’t have anything on me.”

“It’s okay, Hoon,” you place a comforting hand on his cheek. “I trust you. I’m clean, I’m assuming you’re clean, and I’m on birth control. I wanna feel you— all of you.”

His head falls to your shoulder once more with a groan, his cock prodding your hole almost instantaneously. You exhale through your nose heavily, the stretch burning so good that you’re raking your nails down his back. Even the feeling of his broad shoulders and back muscles beneath your fingertips sends you into a frenzy. He’s just so huge. You’d never wanted to be ruined by someone as much as you wanted to be ruined by him.

Younghoon coos when you start to whimper, slowly pushing himself all the way in to his pelvic bone. He massages the back of your thighs, still pushed to your chest, pulling out gently before ramming his entire length back in. He does this a few more times to ensure your cunt has adjusted to his size, but the thought of you wrapped so tightly and warmly around him is enough to make him bust without going through the motions fully.

Your sweet pussy is so inviting, sucking him in like a fucking aspirator. He risks a glance down to where his hips meet yours, moaning so uncharacteristically at the sight of you enveloping his cock, coating it with your previous release. You clench when the sound hits your ears, provoking one of your own.

His thrusts are calculated, dragging them out so they’re deep rather than shallow. Despite not pounding into your brutally, like you were used to with past partners, you think you like this better. You can feel all of him this way. Every vein, every pulse, every fucking graze along your insides— as if he was meant to be there.

“You’re taking me so— fuck— so well, baby,” he breathes, voice hoarse in the crook of your neck. “Don’t know how much longer I can last.”

“G-God, you’re s-so b-big,” you cry, sinking your fingernails into his shoulder blades. “I feel so— oh my god— feel so full.”

You look so pretty underneath him, he doesn’t even care that he might go to hell for fucking you. He’d let Hyunjae murder him any day of the week if it guaranteed his spot above you, cock buried to the goddamn hilt. He places his forearm behind your knees, pressing your legs flat and practically folding you in half so he can speed up his tempo.

Younghoon throttles into you at a near animalistic pace, skin slapping on skin echoing throughout your apartment. You’re fucked stupid, noises that you can’t comprehend leaving your mouth to punctuate every single drive of his dick in your cunt and eyes fluttering shut. His tip kisses at that one spot that scratches your itch each time.

One particular gyration of his hips snaps that cord in your stomach and you’re cumming a third time, jaw going slack as your body spasms with the force of your orgasm. You produce no sound, the wave of your release cresting like a jolt of euphoria to your head, Younghoon following suit. However, his reaction is the opposite, so cacophonous and pornographic that it prolongs the twitching of your velvet-like walls, milking him dry of everything he can offer.

As both of you come down from your peaks, oxygen recirculating in your brains, Younghoon sighs and slips out of you. You wince, still so very sensitive from all three of your orgasms and how aggressively he was hitting it those last few minutes. You watch with choked groans as a combination of your cum flows out of your cunt onto the sofa.

Hyunjae was going to lose his mind.

“Shit, we gotta clean this up,” you panic, finally sobering up and moving into a sitting position. “I’d prefer to live long enough to tell you how much I like you.”

“Woah, wait,” his eyes widen animatedly. “Y-You like me?”

You gape at him, confused how after everything you just did together, he would think you didn't have feelings for him. “I just let you fuck me on the couch I share with my brother and Jacob. Do you think I’d do that if I didn’t like you?”

“I dunno. Maybe you were just really horny?” He shrugs, scratching the back of his neck shyly, like he hadn’t just rearranged your insides six ways to Sunday. You get on your knees, capturing his lips in a soft kiss that portrays all the words you could’ve ever wanted to say and more.

“Does that answer your question?” You ask, pecking them once again. “I like you so much, Younghoon. I have since, like, my freshman year of uni.”

He smiles warmly, cupping your cheek and caressing it with his thumb. “That’s funny because I’ve liked you since then, too.”

“That makes me so happy to hear,” you giggle, nuzzling into his palm. “Okay, now get up so I can deep clean this fucking couch.”

© juyeonszn. do not steal, claim, or repost.

[rhettmotel]

Sin Worse Than Whiskey

Summary: With a preacher father and the threat of Hell, it's no wonder that you repress your longing to feel comfortable in your body. When Rhett returns to Wabang as the youth pastor at your father's church, both of you have repressed sins that you can't keep down.

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x AFAB!Reader BUT reader is a repressed transman and Rhett is a repressed bisexual

Rating: nsfw content, 18+, mdni!

Warnings: Talk of religion and homosexuality as a sin. Heavy religious themes, talk of body dysphoria and self hatred for both Rhett and reader. Use of slurs and talk of "fixing" yourself as in "praying away the gay"

Word Count: 635

Author Note: Please make sure you read the warnings provided. If you like my writing and would like to support me, I'd really appreciate if you would check out my Ko-Fi. I use these donations to help with the cost of groceries. If Ko-Fi is not your thing, I also have a list of things I use at Uni. That being said, Please don't feel any pressure to support; just a simple reblog also helps. ❤️ This was inspired by The Starling Girl, Preacher's Daughter by Ethel Cain, a little bit by Midnight Mass and with lots of gentle encouraging by @sebsxphia I love you ❤️

"Remember when you said if you were a boy, you'd want to look like Rhett?"

"Shut up!" You grunt, pushing your sister on her shoulder.

"Girls!" your mother shouts, already way ahead of you and at the car.

It was true, you had said that, but that was in the comfort of your bedroom, not for your sister to be blabbing about where anyone could hear.

There had always been lingering thoughts in the back of your head about what it might be like to live as a boy with short hair and a flat chest, but that was never going to happen.

Once, when you were young and stupid, around twelve, you asked your mother why you hadn't been born a boy and how you wished you had been. This had gotten your mother irrationally angry, ranting at you about how God made you exactly as He wanted you to be and to change anything would be blasphemous. After that, you never brought it up again.

You wanted to be good and holy; you wanted to get into heaven like the rest of your family. You tried to forget about those feelings and even tried to counteract them by dressing and acting as girly as you could. It was going pretty well, too, until Rhett Abbott came back to town again.

Your father, the preacher at your church, had hired him to look after the youth worship and although you were eighteen now and no longer part of the youth group, your father asked you to sit in and observe instead of just letting you have the job. You had argued with him about it for quite a while, but he just kept saying that you needed to observe someone else doing it before he trusted you to do it.

"Don't ever say that out loud again,” you hiss at your sister, low enough for no one else in the van to hear. Who Knows what your parents would do if they heard you or anyone else speak those words again.

The first time that you sit in on the youth group, Rhett can’t seem to stop looking at you. It was probably just because you were neither a youth nor a pastor and still sitting in on his group, but his eyes still made you shift in your seat.

“Why are you in the youth group?” Rhett asks as most of the children are filing out of the room. “You’re eighteen now, ain’t you?”

“I am,” you nod with a soft smile. “I’m just here to observe.”

Rhett looks at you for a moment, then his face softens. “Ah. Did I take your job?” He asks, swallowing a swear word that threatens to escape just after he realizes.

“No, No,” you hold up your hands, not wanting the older man to feel guilty about doing the job your father clearly thinks you are unfit for. “To tell you the truth, I don’t think my father would’ve given it to me anyway,” you admit, trying to push out a soft smile that doesn’t look too sad.

 “I’m sure that’s not true.” Rhett shifts awkwardly on the linoleum floor, and his shoes squeak to fill the deafening silence, “I’ll… see you tomorrow?”

You frown. “Youth group is only held on Sundays.”

“I know I just… I thought since your dad was the preacher and all, you’d be coming to daily mass. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to assume,” Rhett apologizes.

The truth was, you’d never gone to daily mass before. You’d always been in school just like your younger siblings, but since you graduated from one of the strictest Catholic schools in all of Wyoming, now would be the time. “No, I… I’ll be here tomorrow,” you nod, walking before you can embarrass yourself further.

—— Thanks for reading. Chapter 2 will be coming at you next week ❤️

[still-breathing-au-p3r]

Akihiko practically has to excavate the first-aid kit from under layers and layers of built up miscellanea that has been stashed in the supply closet over the years. As he digs, he thanks god, Buddha, or whoever else might be listening that Shinji hadn’t put up a fight about being checked over. That has to count as a minor miracle.

It has been a while since they’ve dressed each other’s wounds like this, now that he thinks of it. Since before Shinji had left, back when Akihiko was the only one on the team with any healing abilities and they’d had to budget his stamina to a miserly degree. 

These days, between Takeba, Amada, and Arisato, they basically never have to worry about anybody spreading themselves too thin with healing, so they don’t ever leave Tartarus battered enough to need mundane patching up.

Once he finally finds the kit, Akihiko sheds his battle harness and armband and sets them gracelessly on the dining table. He settles on the couch next to Shinji while he undresses himself. It’s slow going, Shinji’s movements stiff and careful, but Akihiko doesn’t insult him by butting in. He peels his gloves off and waits patiently. When Shinji pulls the sweater over his head, his hat slides off along with it. He doesn’t bother putting it back on.

He looks smaller without any of his usual layers to bulk out his shape. It feels wrong to think of Shinji as ‘small’ in any context, even if it’s only in comparison. Objectively, Akihiko knows it isn’t even true– Shinji’s taller now than he was back then, his shoulders wider and his ribcage broader.

At the same time, it’s harrowingly true. He’s visibly underweight, and not all of that can be due to his time in the coma. It’s like there simply isn’t enough of him, and what’s there is stretched too-thin over his frame.

This is also the first time Akihiko’s seen the bandages around Shinji’s shoulder and abdomen. There are no red stains seeping through the gauze, which is a relief. He starts to carefully peel the medical tape free from Shinji’s skin, letting the crash course Nakai-san had given him on bandage changing run on loop through his mind.

It doesn’t occur to him until the first bandage is removed and the knotted starburst shape is on full display: it’s the first time Akihiko has seen the scars, either.

A halo of puckered skin interrupts Shinj’s shoulder, fanning out in shiny pink ridges around the bruise-red, sunken center. Its twin on his chest is slightly larger and more concave.

He hadn’t realized how big any of them would be. The ones up near his shoulder especially, where the bullet had gone all the way through him–

It reinforces with sickening clarity just how much of a miracle it is that Shinji pulled through. That he’s still here.

Akihiko jolts. Shinji isn’t even facing in his direction, so what–?

Shinji rolls one shoulder– the unscarred one– and Akihiko knows without needing to look that he’s rolling his eyes too. He ignores the display of petulance and gets to work surveying for new damage, starting with the shoulder.

There’s no fresh blood, and the area around the scar doesn’t look damaged or inflamed at least. Just to be sure, Akihiko probes the surrounding skin gingerly with the pads of his fingers, testing for swelling or anything that feels overly warm to the touch.

Shinji shudders and Akihiko jerks his hand away.

Shinji only shrugs– he does it with both shoulders, evidently by mistake, since he immediately flinches and bites out a curse under his breath.

Well, even if he’s downplaying it, he’s still admitting to it. Akihiko had been planning on getting Shinji started with his physical therapy routine tomorrow (or today, he supposes, since it’s after midnight) but…now he’s not sure.

Maybe he should hold off and give Shinji a break. He knows both from his own experience and the extensive amount of research he’d pored over after Shinji had (begrudgingly) asked for his help– pushing too hard will only stall his recovery, or even make things worse. 

There are some simple stretches he could try to coach Shinji through that wouldn’t be too strenuous or time-consuming, and that might also help with the pain. But he knows Shinji will still push back against even that, on principle if nothing else. Picking that particular fight would probably put just as much strain on his body as Akihiko was trying to avoid to begin with.

And hell, after everything that’s happened, Akihiko isn’t sure he has the energy for it, either. They all deserve a break.

Shinji obeys with the put-upon air of a cat being moved out of the way of foot traffic, but he’s not able to fully conceal how much of an effort it is for him. The scar on Shinji’s side doesn’t seem to have re-opened either. There is no exit wound counterpart on his back.

Unbidden, Akihiko’s thoughts are invaded by the question of whether they had removed every piece of the bullet while Shinji was on the operating table, or if some fragments of it had been irretrievable. Nausea crawls through his stomach at the idea. He doesn’t ask.

[haveyouseenthisskeleton]

What If the guys had a kid in college.

college kid calls dad late at night because they are overwhelmed and need him to help them cook a recipe he use to cook for them.

Undertale Sans - He's teleporting right away to help. Now, the thing is that Sans is not the best cook either, so he will do his best lol. He's just happy his big baby still needs him and it's really just an excuse to see them for a bit.

Undertale Papyrus - He's guiding you via video call to the best he can, but eventually, you have to add Undyne to the call... And soon after Toriel to save your kitchen because things were already not that great with Papyrus, but it turned a lot worse with Undyne lol. Never again.

Underswap Sans - Blue gives them his taco recipe and guides them through the process, but he lacks patience and his kid takes too much time, to the point he starts to be a little angry in the end. Please hurry, he's bored and he wants to do other things!

Underswap Papyrus - Who cares about the recipe, what do you mean you're overwhelmed?! Are you sick? Are you in pain? Did you have a bad day? ARE YOU DYING RIGHT NOW?! OH MY GOD, YOU MUST BE DYING DON'T MOVE HE'S COMING!!! Yeah, Honey doesn't live very well with the separation with his baby lmao.

Underfell Sans - ... You mean his still half-frozen quiche? You go to the supermarket, you buy one and you try to make it eatable. He doesn't see what else he can do for you honestly. You sure you got the right number and didn't want to call his S/O instead?

Underfell Papyrus - He's doing it while trying subtly to understand what's going on with you. He doesn't like his child stress-cooking. You don't stress-cook without something stressing you. He wants to help but he knows you got his habit of not saying things because it's too late and he doesn't want to repeat his own mistakes.

Horrortale Sans - Well great, now he's stressed as well because you're stressed. Oak can't focus to give you the recipe, he can hear you're not ok and so he's not ok and keeps asking you if you're alright, more and more distressed. He even uses all of his energy to teleport to you. He just needs to make sure you're fine and alive you know. He can still take the train to go home.

Horrortale Papyrus - He gives you the recipe for one recipe, then get worried you might ask that because you don't know what to cook and feel distressed and then he starts to read his entire cooking book to you so you can have multiple choices. After that, he stresses cooks until he convinces himself you must be starving, and he goes to find you to give you everything he just cooked, he doesn't care if he has three hours of car to reach you.

Swapfell Sans - At the end of your cooking session, you feel even more pressured than you were before calling your dad lol. Nox tries his best to be patient, but you don't have half of the ingredients and your kitchen is a mess, he can't believe you didn't take after him to find what you need easily. A clean space for a clean mind for Toriel's sake! You're lucky he lives far away because he would have come to clean your kitchen and put all your utensils more practically.

Swapfell Papyrus - Uh... Now is the time to confess he actually never cook your favorite nuggets, he only ordered them from McDonald's and put them in the oven to make you believe he did them. You feel so betrayed you have no words. How the hell did you not notice in 17 years? Even Rus is shocked you didn't honestly. He's even a little embarrassed for you. So, uh... Order some nuggets or something?

Fellswap Gold Sans - Well, it's very easy you see. Take your phone, open Google, tap the recipe you want and here you go. Yeah, he's not going to help you. It's almost midnight, he is exhausted and he doesn't want to cook this late in the night. You'll get over what's frustrating you, he raised you like that. You tried lol.

Fellswap Gold Papyrus - You'll never get an answer as Coffee didn't save your new phone number and panicked when he saw a number he didn't know calling him lol. Text him, it will be faster and he prefers write it anyway.

[atsadi-shenanigans]

FSBE 11 - Faerunian Birth Control

You learn about tea.

On AO3.

You emerge into what passes for morning. Or midnight. It’s fucking miserable, is what it is.

Every joint grinds and aches as you shuffle towards the dim glow of the almost campfire. Your legs move like an arthritic eighty-year-old granny, muscles stiff and creaking, and your head feels even worse.

Still catch yourself looking for white hair.

Astarion didn’t come back. You woke up alone. Again.

Some people is like that. You already know that. He ain’t even, like, alive, let alone being human. And y’all’s relationship (you do not blush over that word) (hopefully not so much other people notice) is still so new. Can barely stand itself up, let alone walk. Y’all’re figuring everything out, is all. And he was probably embarrassed.

You still look to his quiet tent as hurt twists your gut.

“Feeling better?” Gale says. Hands you a mug of cool tea. Fire won’t get hot enough to boil it hot, but y’all don’t got ice and Mr. Wizard don’t wanna use magic on that when he might need it to not get bit in the face again. So y’all get this tepid nonsense.

Still. It’s got some caffeine.

God almighty, you miss coffee.

You grunt a response. Feel all scraped thin again. Content to sit there by yourself and nurse your tea (and your feelings).

Gale tries to take a sip of his own mug and grimaces. Catches you looking. “Sorry. I just can’t bear a proper leaf at less than scorching.”

Maybe it’s cause his accent translates to your ears (thank you dirt potion) as British, but the man is not a fan of iced tea.

“Ain’t proper iced tea, neither,” you say. It ain’t sweet enough, on top of the ice shortage.

“What was it you called the drink again?” he says. It’s in English, carries a southern twang (ha), and comes out, “This drink speak what?”

You hide a smile on your next sip.  Anybody ever follows after you (if y’all survive this shit mess), they are gonna have some questions if they run into Gale.

A short English lesson begins (iced tea). It’s harder for him than learning Faerunese (Common) or Chondathan is for you. English is a bastard of a language on its good days, and ugly sounding to boot.

“But there’s no clear system of grammatical rules applying a plurality,” Gale mutters after a good five minutes. “The pronoun doesn’t change at all, unless it does, but then it changes the entire word and there’s no clear indication which nouns that even applies to! How do you—and I say this as an archmage, if you please—remember which is which?”

“Context” you say. Take a sip. “And plain old memorization. I don’t even get it right all the time. I don’t really think about it.”

“And the word do.” He drawls that one out. “What even is that word? It seems to have no set meaning, yet you say it isn’t a placeholder—”

Movement to the right. White on red. Astarion emerges. Usually, after he bites you, man is downright peppy. Eyes bright, hair glossy, crops watered. Now he’s got dark smears under his eyes, and blinks groggily at the dim sky.

“Ah,” Gale says. His mouth twists up in a half grin. “I see your attention has been rather stolen.”

Astarion looks over at that.

“Sorry,” you say, snapping back to Gale. Which is stupid. It’s not like Astarion didn’t notice. It’s not like he didn’t have his hand in your pants last night and then came— “I heard ‘do’ is a borrowed verb, possibly from a different language that got folded in a couple centuries ago.”

But Gale holds up a hand. Smile softer, now. “It’s quite alright. I understand the effect having a partner can have on one’s focus.”

Huh. That actually makes this all worse.

The scent of flowers drifts over you with a cool breeze. You try not to shudder as Shadowheart comes to a stop over you, her lips pressed thin.

“I…think I may see if our dear friend Karlach can do something with this awful tea,” Gale says and stands before you can even form a “wait”.

You lift a cup in salute to his retreat. Wish you could follow. But have to look up to catch Shadowheart dropping into the spot in the dirt next to you.

“Morning?” you say.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” she says, because everybody in this camp is allergic to polite goddamn greetings. Except Wyll, who lifts his own cup of cool tea in a gesture of solidarity.

Then Shadowheart hands you a purple pouch the size of your fist.

“Uh,” you say.

“Nararoot,” she says. “You can slice off a piece about the size of a fingernail and eat it directly, or steep it into tea. It’s less bitter as tea, which I’ve heard you prefer.”

You take the pouch. Inside is what looks a lot like a cluster of ginger, except a purple-maroon color.

“Okay?” you say. Stare at her.

She holds that stare so long you’re sure she’s just gonna leave you hanging. Seems bemused about it, too. Then, “I assume you don’t want to be with child during all this? Take that twice a tenday, and you shouldn’t have to take other precautions.”

It’s…oh. Oh. She done gave you the Faerunian pill.

The rest of camp is suddenly real invested in downing cold breakfast and packing up. Astarion’s whole head is hidden behind an open book but…that fucker’s shoulders tremble. That bitch is laughing.

“I, uh,” you say. “I don’t think—”

Shadowheart leans forward, expression soft but real focused. “I don’t know what you’ve heard of vampires, but they can—very rarely—father a child. With our luck running the way it has been, I’d rather be cautious than not.”

It really ain’t about—also, y’all haven’t been doing the kinda stuff that would even result in that.

“I really don’t—”

“Unless you do want a child?” Shadowheart says, and there comes the judgmental eyebrow. Good god, she’s good at that.

Wyll chats with Lae’zel about y’all’s path for the day. Gale has found Karlach, who holds his mug between her hands—now glowing hot red—as she grins in a way that makes your seated-ass knees weak.

“I can’t,” you say. “Get pregnant.”

As the entire camp comes to one of them natural, unforeseen lulls in conversation at the same. Goddamn. Time the words leave your mouth.

“Fuck yeah!” Karlach says. The mug looks a bit soft in her hands, the liquid visibly boiling. She looks up, eyes wide. “Oh, uh, I meant. Sorry.”

Jesus strike you dead. You bring a hand up over your face.

“Oh,” Shadowheart says, blinking fast. “I, I had no idea. I’m sorry.”

And now she thinks she’s the one who done fucked up. God fucking damnit all.

“No,” you say. “It’s not. It ain’t nothing bad, I mean. I did it. Or, I had a doctor do it. A procedure.”

Queue the stealth glances you feel crawling over your scalp. Except from Lae’zel, who stares outright. And Astarion…still hiding behind his book but at least he ain’t laughing no more.

Is that something that’d bug him? Shadowheart said he might, maybe be able to knock up somebody. But it ain’t come up cause y’all’ve been together like that twice now in about a week.

But some people get real weird about that. Even when they think it’s a biological thing. If they learn you up and got your insurance to pay for it? Took the time outta your day to track down a doctor willing?

They get real fucking judgy and weird.

“It’s a procedure I asked for,” you say. “They take out two, small bits so you can’t. Not like, the whole thing. Just, uh, the parts that connect them. I ain’t never gonna get pregnant.”

“Right,” Shadowheart says. Glances away. Is…is she blushing? There certainly seems to be a touch of pink on them cheeks. She flashes you a strained smile. “It appears I’ve overstepped. I am sorry. I, well…”

She don’t look over to the red tent and the pale man lounging out in the front, pretending like he can’t hear every word.

You smile. Just a little. “You was doing your cleric thing and looking out for me. I appreciate it. Really.”

She stares another moment, searching for something in your face. Seems to find it and nods.

“You can, y’know. Might want this back.” You hold out the pouch, cause you ain’t sure how much the pill is here, but she takes it, so it ain’t like it just grows on the side of the road.

She more or less skedaddles after that. Nobody says shit. They leave you to sit there and finish off your room temperature tea. Which you do your best with, and shake the dribbles out. Can’t afford to use the limited water left to rinse it. Hopefully, Wyll was right and that inn ain’t far. Y’all got dried rations enough, but with no water, that ain’t gonna matter very long. And Astarion…

Lae’zel at least lets you know she’s coming this time, by approaching straight from the front. You look up. She stands there, arms crossed, peering down.

“Morning?” you try, because you are gonna get one of these fuckheads to say it back to you someday.

“Hmm,” she says, which is a step closer than last time. “You allow your physicians to gut you so you may use your body as you wish?”

That…is not any kinda description of what you said. All you can picture now is that space horror movie where that girl got into a machine to cut out the alien thing growing inside her.

“I have heard your kind cannot control when they lay an egg, as we githyanki do. I am surprised your people would go through such lengths in order to alter themselves. I thought them like you: too soft and weak to bear it.”

Huh. That’s…huh.

It was a pain in the ass to find a doctor that didn’t make you jump through a dozen “I really mean it, I never want kids and here’s eight referrals saying so and five years’ documentation to back that up” hoops.

And there’s a history with Native women and forced, unknowing sterilization, courtesy Uncle Sam. You never actually told nobody from your family what you done. Except Uncle Randy, who drove you to the appointment and back, all drugged up (and got you pizza afterwards, to eat on the couch with an ice packet on your belly). They all just figured you was gay and hiding it.

“Sure,” you say slowly. “Thanks?”

Lae’zel nods. Considers you again. “You will join me tomorrow so I may teach you how to wield your new weapon. You will join me all the mornings after as well. Consider that when you make your nightly…courtships.”

That last word all, dare you say it, awkward.

Nobody watches you now. That’s nice. It’s nice not being the main entertainment for the group.

“Right,” you say. “Thank you, Lae’zel.”

She nods. Stalks off.

Astarion ain’t out front of his tent no more.

Note: Between 1970 and 1976, the US sterilized Natives (and other minorities) without their full consent or sometimes knowledge. A conservative estimate is that 25% of childbearing Natives were sterilized.