#mr. black green star | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ernestelm · 9 months ago

Text

Black Cat Detective movie rant

Ever since I made that video about black cat detective I've realised how much I despised the movie. It missed the mark so badly that after I vented I felt like I had more things that I hated about t.

Im not going to urge people to watch the video because I am cringing at it but I also want people to find it and maybe have more people be interested in black cat detective.

I'm going to be honest, that video made me never want to make a video again. Im just going to be mostly text based, I might start posting animations or something some day but don't expect too much from me.

Useless rants away, Im going to get to the point.

Im starting from the beginning since Im kinda hoping no one reading this watched the video. Bcd is widely considered a classic by Chinese people created in the 80's. I didnt grow up with it, I was more interested in western shows , but I did see people from 2000's which is my age range say that they did. To me this was kind of a red flag, you see, liking western shows means my norm is watching the newest rendition for a series. For example, I watched tmnt 2012, I didnt grow up with the 80's one. So colour me surprise when I started trying Chinese media and they had so little good kids shows that after the 2000's they were still referencing shows from the 80's.

By that point I've already started watching more kids shows, I just didn't want to sit through anime and tvs shows and feel drained in the end anymore. So it was definitely a surprise when the main character started absolutely obliterating the villains. It also showed the more dark side of nature, like praying mantis eating their mate so their offsprings can have more nutrition. The whole show as a concept was kinda cool, my only gripe was that they didn't kill off the main villains despite killing smaller villains you know, typical hero movie tropes.

In 2015 they created a movie, which was where it all went downhill. (It might also be the series's season 2 but I couldnt bring myself to watch it so Im not counting it) They movie was loved by a lot of adults because they toned down the violence. Whatever, its fine, a show didnt have violence as long as they have good plot.

The movie didnt have good plot.

Characters

The characters, weren't good. First off, I didnt like how they added thick eyebrows for bcd and like he still barely had any expressions.

the whole thing about animation is that you can distort facial expressions, surpass what humans cannot do in real life, even the original series had bcd puff up from anger.

Im going to do another section just based on animation later

Other than that they added gag characters like a goddamn duck that keeps coming in with underwears on. It was so goddamn annoying, they even repeated it several times as if taunting me. I find it to be a problem with chinese cartoons in how they dumb down humour for children despite China supposedly being smart. I might bring this up for another rant on a show that I might do in the future but you'll understand what Im saying if you watched any chinese children show in recent years.

They also brought back the iconic villain, one ear, who is both unlikable and barely entertaining, his voice was annoying, I never liked it when he was on screen, he was mostly useless either way.

They also brought in a new "one off villain" a gorilla who's story sorta had potential. He basically got pissed at a friend over a misunderstanding, thinking that his friend was selfish trying take the credit of both of their work despite his friend mostly using "us" and "we", while the people back at base used "you found it". It could've been a pretty good lesson on miscommunication. Other than that, he also started thinking he should take all of the credit, a good lesson on how jealousy can blind a person. Everything was in place and yet they still messed up. I liked how even after seeing his friend apologise to him through a hologram he still couldnt forgive him. He wasn't like the best villain but he was certainly a step in the right direction.

Alright now for the main character, yup that's right, bcd wasnt the main character. It was a pig kid. With a hedgehog for a mother, which is a goddamn pun that can only be translated in Chinese. 豪猪 hedgehog and 猪 pig. Weird design choice aside. The goddamn kid is the most annoying little shit I've ever seen.

Alright Im going to start with the positives, the kid could be a good example on stress on children, which is also a theme for another pig related kids show that I hate, might talk about it someday but I didnt like the show so I'm probably going to take a while. He goes to tuition every single day, his mom honestly kinds of neglects his interest to be a policeman. Only allowing one poster of bcd in his bedroom, giving him tons of homework in one scene, it would've been a good chance to show the stress he is in, already having so much pressure to succeed in life despite only being in primary school. Instead, the show decides to play it off as a gag, haha relatable, dont you think this is funny? As someone who grew up in a competitive Chinese school, I would say no. Story for another day tldr, it ruins your mental health and your relationships if you're not careful.

Now for the negatives, the kid is annoying. Well immature traits are annoying to me, so I might be biased. First off, the kid keeps trying to save the day despite it being wildy out of his capabilities. Exhibit A, trying going against 2 adults, one being a prisoner who escaped from a high security prison. He was lucky that his idol, bcd arrived in time to save him. Bcd even told him that he shouldve contacted him instead of facing 2 dangerous adults alone. And yet the kid kept going in and save bcd, being a kids movie they of course want everything to go well but his presence did cause the two villains to escape containment at one point. His presence did cause bcd to have to hand over a dangerous item as he was held hostage, why? He decided that instead of calling bcd to warn him about his battery being stolen and probably being used to escape, he goes on his scooter to warn him. Mind you, this show has phones, they had a gag were a girl liked bcd and asked for his number, which he replied with China's emergency number so contacting him via phone was an option. In the end everything works out, he was even rewarded for being reckless, now assuming this show was targeted at kids ( based on the juvenile jokes ), what message would this send to the children watching? It certainly isnt a good one now is it.

He also doesnt freaking tell bcd about the plan of the villains instead kept telling him how much he likes him and shit and waiting until he gets asked before splurging out the information. He also made the high stakes feel so much weaker as people's lives were at stake when he was freaking stanning and crap.

There's also his friend who was only introduced to give the kid a vip ticket so he can be at the scene when the 2 villains arrived there despite it not being opening day yet. His friend is absolutely underutilized, his father is the curator of the green star which was the place, and the weapon that the villains used, yeah the event was held on a spaceship, which the villains were planning launch to space as some sort of sick revenge. High stakes that were absolutely underplayed by the protagonists but I digress.

He never went to check on his friend who, as stated was in the location of a crime. He was supposed to be the "best friend" and yet he never contacted his friend after the incident. I cant even entirely blame it on him as after the main character met his idol and "helped" him, he never contacted this friend to tell him about everything or something. Which made their friendship even less natural and making the fact that he was merely a plot device even more obvious.

Plot

After seeing how his friend was treated you already know the writing of this is going to be a treat right? I expected so much from China, who force their kids to memorize Chinese classics and read so much literature, you would think that the place that supposedly invented paper would have better writing but no, its absolutely garbage if you cant tell from my sarcasm in my first sentence.

Now now, Im going to start with the obvious, any writer or like writing enthusiast would know about the quote "show dont tell". Yeah, tell that to the writer of Mr Black: Green Star. Sorry I didnt being up the name of the movie sooner but, I dont like the name at all and was procrastinating on even typing out the words. They continuously repeated this elite group of policemen (yes, from what I can tell they were all male) yet never showed them, I had to go on 知乎 to even find any information about it. Even so, I wasnt even sure if it was official.

Other than that there was this plotline where bcd won his first award at 14 for defeating professor strange (generic ass villain, dr strange wannabe, can you tell how much I hate this movie?) look as much as it messes up the timeline, I might excuse him as maybe being younger in the original series causing him to be more violent. Like maybe he got more responsible causing a more child friendly new gen bcd but that's expecting too much from the writers.

I really, really wished that they started with a movie of him joining the elite team and defeating professor strange or something instead of whatever this is. It would've established his character. Maybe starting with a more feral and hostile bcd, maybe even mourning for his friend who died in the original series and wanting to kill the villains but being told killing is not the solution. It would've been a new chapter, it would've saved a few seconds of my life from listening to characters repeating the same thing, that could've just been in a movie.

Moving on, we have logic. There is barely any. Oh Ern! Stop being such a soggy cereal, can't you just enjoy a movie without debating the logic? No, not when they both cause stupid behaviour and ignore a goddamn chance to be educational which links it to the edu part of the original series. First off stupid behaviour, the kid drives a jet because his dad is a pilot, thats not how it works, I bet the writers thought they were smart like, chekovs gun moment! Remember how the friend made an offhand remark on how the main character's dad is a pilot? Well yes I do. But also I don't drive a boat because my dad is a fisherman because it doesnt work like that.

Other than that g force. Gravity altering device, whatever, I could care less but bcd withstanding 8 g force without equipment? Real shit. They couldve said something about how cats can handle higher g forces or something. Whatever , theres thankfully not much information about that but one thing I am sure of is, the goddamn jet the kid was driving also had g force. Why wasnt that brought up. Why cant the kid handle the device but could handle a jet? They could've thought the kid about g force and make him experience it himself. Maybe do a flashback on it when he was on the jet. It would've been an upgrade to bcd teaching him how to shoot and making the final scene about him never being able to aim well but dealing the final blow perfectly. The shooting part could've been more talent or something honestly, I dont care much of it.

Enough of the g force. Talk more about plot. What else is there to say? This whole thing is just a shallow movie, what am I gonna talk about, the one lff minion who was basically just there to fill in the chase scene? There is barely any substance in this movie, it felt more like a cash grab but like itt can't even sell merch because the character designs were mid and most of them are unlikable other than bcd but that's just my opinion.

Animation

Shit was weak, as I said they never utilised the fact that they used 2D animation. The animation techniques used felt more 3D than 2D.their smear frames are just a white blur. Their expressions are boring. and the side characters looks like this

Ive seen passion projects on youtube with better quality screenshots than these. I would rather it have self inserts of animators. Heck I've seen better quality animation in Bilibili productions. LOOK AT TGCF, HECK, LOOK AT WHITE CAT LEGEND. Those aren't even national culture icons, they weren't even released in theatres and yet look at the quality.

The worst part? They used 2D animation to honour the original series. It didn't feel like honour at all, in fact, it felt like an insult. I feels like the people who watched it only watched the series a few times as a kid and didn't even rewatch it to write the new show.

Anyways, I hope I never think about this movie ever again.

#black cat detective #movie rant #chinese animation #mr black: green star

5 notes · View notes

doctorslippery · 1 year ago

Text

17 notes · View notes

gghostwriter · 3 months ago

Text

Level-One Intruder

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Part 2 Summary: Spencer apprehends an unexpected but adorable trespasser Trope:It’s fluff in a meet cute type of way w.c: 1.8k a/n: I'm a liar. I said I was going to post once I get over this flu but I couldn't help myself, not at all. I just really really wanted to share this cute cute fic I wrote with you all. Not proofread. Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated! 💗 masterlist

The brown tweed coat on Spencer’s shoulders threaten to droop down his arms as he wrangled his keys to unlock his apartment door.

There was little light on the hallway, something that could be attributed to the late hour of twelve midnight. Muffled noises could be heard from next door—a new tenant must have moved in while he was away.

The FBI agent could feel himself coming apart at the seams from the lack of proper sleep. The latest case took eight long grueling days to solve and the team had to make do with what the small town could offer as arrangements.

His back felt stiff from curling on the squeaky sofa bed, trying his best to make himself comfortable and now, all he wanted to do was decompress with a totem of a book and sleep like the dead until his alarm clock rang for the next day.

Dropping his satchel on the ground, silently assuring himself to get the laundry going the next day, a tiny scuffle echoed through his heavily darkened apartment.

Spencer tensed, unsure if his overtly exhausted mind conjured up the noise or if someone else found their way into his haven while it was otherwise unoccupied.

Another sound confirmed the reality causing him to draw his gun from his holster, ends pointing down, as he slowly made his way around the sofa to the first bedroom, minding his steps to avoid the sections with creaking floorboards.

He rounded the corner, eyes straining to adjust to the minimal light the outposts provide him—and nothing.

The room was stale from lack of use and everything looked to be in the right place. The stripped spare bed looked untouched and all the windows were sealed shut. Exactly how he left it.

Another noise caught his attention.

Spencer tightened his hold on the gun and tiptoe’d to the next room—the bathroom and in there, the first real evidence was uncovered.

His eyebrows threatened to meet in the middle as he took in the unspooled tissue roll hanging from its holder. The unused sheets of paper now sat on the green titled floor, no doubt flooded with organisms and bacteria that the naked eye couldn’t see.

He shuddered from the thought.

Quickly moving on, he shuffled his way to the open kitchen. Right away he spotted something amiss—rather a few items amiss.

First, the lower cabinet was ajar. It was where Spencer stored his cleaning supplies and it was rarely opened as it was.

Second, his favorite Star Trek mug that he left out to dry near the sink was now precariously near the edge, threatening to break into a thousand pieces.

And lastly, the empty plastic bag of bread on the counter that he was sure had two more slices before he went away for the case.

There was an intruder and it seemed like he was hungry.

Weapon still in his hands, he slowly he crept his towards the slightly opened mahogany door of the main bedroom. He took a deep breath before rounding up to the room, pistol pointing forward to the unsuspecting guest.

Except there was no one.

“That’s strange,” he muttered to himself, holstering back the revolver to his belt and to his surprise, someone answered or rather, meow-ed back. A fluffy orange cat with a collar on his neck.

The agent smiled. “You must be my intruder—”

Meow.

“—Now, who are you and how did you get in here?”

The cat was silent, content with rubbing his body on his black pant legs, leaving behind stray hairs that Spencer would have to lint away before laundry.

He bent down to see if there was any information hanging from the cat’s green collar.

“Mr. Chewie. Is that your name?”

Feline eyes stared into his and blinked once.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he sighed. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d believe you could understand me but actually according to studies, cats lack the cognitive skills to interpret human language so I still don’t know why I’m explaining that to you.”

Meow.

“Nope, I’m sure you’re just responding to the fact that I am talking to you and my rambling is clearly brought by my lack of proper sleep—” a knock on his front door interrupted his musings. “—one second,” he called out, swiftly unbuckling his holster belt and placing it on top of the dresser. There was no need to frighten the knocking neighbor with a gun.

Spencer turned back to the cat inquisitively sitting next to his feet. “Don’t move.”

As he made his way back to the entrance, opening lights as he went, he could hear the click clack of the feline’s claws against the wooden floorboards. It clearly didn’t take his order to consideration.

Spencer swung the door open as the stranger was poised for a mid-knock.

“Uh—hi,” the woman breathed out.

“Hi,” Spencer drawled out in reply. “Can I help you?”

You rocked on your heels, fingers pulling down the ends of your oversized sweater as if it could lessen your state of undress. Spencer didn’t judge, it was early into the morning after all, nor did he stare long at your navy blue shorts and pink fluffy socks adorning your feet.

“I’m your new neighbor and it’s not really the time to introduce myself but by any chance is there—”

“An adorable intruder in my apartment?”

You nod, sweetly smiling. The glint in your eyes filled with apologies.

“Yes actually, I was trying to ask him where he came from but I don’t actually speak cat and neither does he understand human.”

You laugh sheepishly, fingers gently rubbing at the side of your neck. “I’m so sorry. I hope he didn’t make a mess or bother you at all. I left my fire escape window open for a little bit to let the breeze in and he must have explored out while I wasn’t looking. So sorry again, let me just get him out of the way—”

A rustle from behind made him turn, not before he caught your eyes widening to the scene inside his apartment. Your cat kneading on his brown throw blanket before settling on the sofa.

“Mr. Chewie, what are you doing?” You squeaked out.

Spencer laughed at the outrageous tone coating your voice. It reminded him of Garcia swatting the other agents away from her tech equipments.

The cat answered back with a meow.

“No, mister. You cannot sleep here, this isn’t our home! It belongs to this lovely gentleman over here—” you flashed Spencer a smile. “Now, please get your butt off the sofa and back to our apartment.”

The feline seemingly rolled his eyes and turned his back on you.

“Huh,” Spencer observed. “The studies might be wrong after all. I think he understands you.”

You laughed, shoulders shaking from the absurdity of his comment. “Mr. Chewie might be special or at least that’s what every pet owner believe to be. I never introduced myself have I? I’m Y/N. I moved next door a couple of nights ago.”

“Dr. Spencer Reid,” he replied back.

You tilted your head to the side. “Oh, is that why I haven’t seen you around, Doctor? Busy saving lives?”

He shrugged, scratching the back of his neck. In a way, you weren’t wrong per se. His title did let people assume his career to be in the medical industry instead of having three PhD’s under his belt. The former was more plausible given how young he looked.

The sound of a door opening and closing at the end of the hall caught both your attention. Your eyes flashed back to his, twinkling. “So, Doctor. Will it be alright if I step inside and grabbed my cat?”

He cleared his throat. “Uh—yeah, yeah. Sure, come right in.”

You sheepishly smiled before entering his sanctuary. Eyes soaking in any piece of information that represented who he was.

Spencer felt your warmth as you passed his body. The smell of warm cookies wafting to his nose, dissipating the anxiety that threatened to creep up his spine from letting a stranger into his home.

“Nice apartment,” you complimented. “There seems to be a lot of books.”

He tucks his hands inside his pant pockets. “I like to read.”

“Me too. It’s a great hobby to pass the time.”

You sweetly smiled before swiftly scooping up the lounging cat in your arms with little protest. “Again, I’m so sorry if he disturbed you in any way and please, let me know if he made a mess. I’d like to make it up to you—as a thank you and apology, I mean.”

“It’s no problem,” Spencer watched your cheeks match the color of your socks under the fluorescent light. It suited you, he thought. “Actually, can I just ask you a question?”

“Anything.”

“Why is he—” his calloused hands reaching to pet the orange feline nestled on your chest. “—named Mr. Chewie?”

You giggled, the sound similar to wind chimes being rustled by a gentle breeze. It settled the ache caused by his lack of proper rest. It was fascinating, intriguing, and a little bit frightening if he had to be honest.

“Well, I actually named him after Star Wars, Chewbacca, because of how fluffy he is and the name just shortened itself once I found out how perpetually famished he is.”

“He’s named well,” Spencer surmised, the empty plastic of bread flashing in his mind.

“Well, I shouldn’t be bothering you any longer,” you slowly backed away from his space. “Thank you, Doctor, and have a good night.”

With a sleepy smile on his face, Spencer watched you push open your apartment door. “Good night.”

You flashed your saccharine smile one last time before closing it behind you, leaving him feeling light and bemused for the first time in a long while.

And as he woke up to the gentle streams of the sun on his face, feeling well rested and ready to tackle the paperwork on his desk, the emotion still lingered causing the corners of his mouth to rise up into a soft smile. An after effect of your encounter that he didn’t mind experiencing.

It was a certain type of high.

It was something bright and puzzling.

A note and a batch of cookies taped to his door caught his eye as he exited the apartment. The treats were in this clear, non-labelled package. Handmade then, Spencer noted.

His smile stretched his warming cheeks wide as he took in the scripted letters written on the pink post it that reminded him of your blush and your fluffy socks.

See you around, Doctor!

Have a great day saving lives!

- Your Nurse neighbor & Mr. Chewie xx

Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!

#spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfiction #dr spencer reid #spencer reid #dr Spencer Reid imagine #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid one shot #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x self insert

2K notes · View notes

rose-maidenn · 2 months ago

Text

⋆✿˖°Pick a Pile : What do People dream of you ⋆✿˖

Hey guys here in this reading I dive into various kinds of dreams people have about you some can be very clear and other can be eerie , select any Pile using your intuition and all of it might not reasonate as it is a collective reading

Masterlist | old masterlist

Want a longer reading or another reading book at

Paid readings

Pile 1 :

Symbolisms and confirmers: (not all of them have to resonate if anyone does go ahead and read).

Manhattan, 444 , deli , delhi, psychedelic rock , chappal roan , Manu, sweet 16 , Anna karenina , Malcom and Marie, Mr and Mrs Smith, sweet blond jesus , sundays , 1970s , breakfast , clear cut diamonds , heist , monetairy affair, mole on the left side of cheek , glittery dress , you're wearing pink or yellow or black as you read , you have birthday on 5,21,8,5,12 of the month , you're born on Wednesday.

The first dream about you is dreamt by a young girl or a female friend you admire a lot , it's about shopping and spending time together in a cafe and having doughnuts and chatting about how so many changes have befall you yet how close the both of you feel to each other . I see the symbolism of the fan maybe this conversation is carried out as you guys look at the ceiling .

The next dream about you is dreamt by your mother about you being successful, maybe in a business industry or the singing industry , you might be an alto , I see peonies being represented (wealth and prosperity) , she also might have received a task to do to ensure that something involving writing a small chit and placing it somewhere maybe in the altar, money bowl etc .

The third dream I tap in is dreamt by an online friend , blond or red hairs , they dream of you in a garden harvesting fruit with them I see a lot of red around, this could be sunset time or the colour of the realm is red . I see that they relate to you a lot and want to spend time with you . They keep you in their prayers a lot and hence they dream of you so vividly.

Pile 2 :

Symbolisms and confirmers: (not all of them have to resonate if anyone does go ahead and read):

Cobra Kai , 555, Birth of venus , a purple car , crown , eatery , devilish sweet , idiocracy , self made star , faraway land , willow , apples , yule ball , Saraswati, Athena, yellow , Azul, attar , dogs , bed bugs, blond hair , Birth mark on bosum or scalp , you're burning a candle as you read , you're wearing white , blue or green as you read . Born on 31 , 3 , 7 , 6 , 17 of the month . Born on Tuesday or Friday

The first dream about you is dreamt about you is a weird competitive and erotic dream , it's dreamt by a colleague who has been dreaming to overthrow you , they're so obsessed with you it has turned psychosexual , I'm not getting into details but you might need to do a cord cutting , I feel you're also experiencing dreams about them , honey go ahead and cleanse yourself.

The next dream about you is from an admirer I see them taking you on a helicopter or a private jet to an island and talking with you all day long , they play with your hairs make you food mainly pasta and give you a head massage. They get continuous dreams about you , in other dates they visit museums and sit by rivers talking to you about classics , their childhood and your wishes and wants , sweet so sweet .

The third dream about you is dreamt by a teacher or a guru or a superior, it's related to your academic or spiritual journey , you're on your way to unlock new horizons and the teacher is being asked to prepare themselves to guide you properly . They also see that you place them in your success story and make them famous much like they becoming famous because their student made it big in life .

Pile 3 :

Symbolisms and confirmers: (not all of them have to resonate if anyone does go ahead and read):

Sylvia plath , danger , conceit , burrow , red alert , sapphires, skin , the substance , weaving , crocheting , barbie in the 12 dancing princesses , Trans, bi , blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb , lack of communication, berries , rainbows , horses, manifesting generator , wedding bells , piercings and snake or quote tattoos , you're wearing pyjamas as you read . You're wearing red , sheer , beige , pink as you read . You are Born on 1, 18 , 19 , 25 , 13 , you are Born on Thursday, Monday .

The very first dream is by a friend you are cut off from or just fell apart from , they're dreaming of you near a fountain or a water body giving them advice or consoling them about something this person is having a bad time actually they sleep really less , maybe you should talk if they aren't bad or toxic . They also dream of you both being In a concert maybe guns and roses

The next dream is by someone who is actively manifesting you , it's crazy and eerie , they don't see your face , could be a soul mate or someone from your soul tribe, they see you spending their time with them and talking about various subjects , also going on a travelling journey also see some arguments and casino is also seen . Guys it's 1:11 am hehe a confirmation

The third dream is an absolute action packed banger of a dream could call it a batman coded superhero dream , it is being dreamt by a past admirer or a childhood friend who still likes you, you're being upheld by a monster who keeps eating your skin and then he /she comes along and protects you and heals you through some dna regeneration technology and then yall kiss and call it a night.

Thanks for reading hope it helped 🌸✨️

#tarot community #tarot blog #tarot reading #tarot cards #tarot #tarotblr #tarotcommunity #pick a photo #pick a pile #pick a picture #pick a card #pac tarot #pac reading #witchblr #diviniation #intuitive tarot reader #intuitive messages #intuitive guidance #intuitive readings

498 notes · View notes

hoseoksluna · 4 months ago

Text

LADY BEETLE | knj

pairing: non-idol!namjoon x oc

genre: situationship au ; sex playhouse ; glory hole / smut, fluff

word count: 10.4k

summary: when you came to seoul's hidden sex playhouse to forget about namjoon, you didn't think the anonymous mr. kim would actually be namjoon.

pin: lady beetle / taglist: join / discord: join

warnings: sex club setting, oc struggles with her feelings towards namjoon, glory hole but with hoseoksluna twist, engaging in sexual practices with a person you don't know, commitment issues, heated conversations, dirty talk, patience game, counting down (for my neva play girlies), oral sex (f. & m. receiving), deepthroat, face fucking, nipple play, unprotected and rough sex, teacher namjoon, spanking, praise kink, size kink, choking on fingers, rough treatment in general, aftercare, oc and namjoonie smoke together.

note: i daresay this is my best work. :D fuck my life, guys. i need this namjoon like i need air to breathe. if i see any of you wearing panties... TAKE EM OFF NOW. sldjflskdjfsl jk, jk. THE SUPRISE IS REVEALED. GLORY FAWKING HOLE. my babies, enjoy this filth. stream neva play. imagine that deep voice of his.... yeah. yeah....... faaawwkwkjsdlfjsdlfjsdfjslfjsls. ENJOYYYYY. LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK. MY ASK BOX IS OPEENNNNNNN.

The building looked ordinary from the outside view. Like any other building in this part of the city. Long and tall, coalescing with the evening heavens and with its freckles of stars—very much like those upon your skin. McDonald’s was just down the road, a to-go coffee stand perfumed the whole street with its coffee beans, and a bookstore stood right next to this peculiar piece of urban architecture, unaware of all the sins that lurked behind its walls.

It may pretend to be pure, with its grand hall, its sophisticated reception and even graceful employees—dressed in the finest of fabrics that glinted beneath the opulent chandelier—but it was just that.

An act.

They smiled at you, but in their heart they knew what you were here for.

In this seemingly normal, ordinary building all your sexual fantasies flare out. In the simplest of words, you come here to get fucked out of the norm that is considered vanilla. You fill out an online application, set the date, the time—and depending on your desire, you even get to see who your dream fulfiller is.

In your case, you were going into this blind.

And so was he, your dream fulfiller.

While you opted to stay anonymous, the only detail you knew about the man was that he was from the cursed Kim clan. Another male that bore the last name like the one who wrecked your nerves to the point that you had to bite the bullet and try this out as nothing else was working. It was a newfound obsession of your best friend, who gifted you a voucher to this place on your birthday. And you weren’t sure if Kim Namjoon had the sixth sense and somehow knew about this, although you’d believe he was very much capable of possessing one, just to piss you off even more.

You have been crushing on this man since the day you met him at your mom’s small ramyeon restaurant you are working in for her. Since the moment, in fact, you glimpsed at his vintage black Cartier watch with a matching singular bracelet adorning his wrist that he kept calmly on the table while he was on a work call, growling and snapping into the phone. Your mom curled her lips, swatted her eyelashes as she grew hot in the cheeks, chopping green onions for him from her cooking station while you were watching over the noodles. It was her who noticed him at first—and it was her who told you to do your best and seduce him.

And when you lifted your eyes, saw that thick mane of his cloudy hair, the cleft of his cheek as he gritted his jaw and then that picturesque hand of his, you sensed that unfamiliar, magnetic pull towards him that made you blush. And you never looked more like her than in that moment.

For some reason you knew better than to not listen to her and do as she says. You felt it was the right decision, the right move and so you fixed your hair, swiped your flower clip through a half of it while your face-framing wisps fell naturally in front of your pink face. Your mom tossed you her lip gloss from the pocket of her apron and you brought him the ramyon she cooked for him.

Smiled at him. Batted your eyelashes at him like your mother taught you throughout your girlhood and it worked.

Namjoon told you were a breath of fresh air when you sashayed towards him after such an important, yet aggravating phone call, apologized for the inconvenience, bowed slightly. Balanced, most delightfully, respect and flirting. Leaned more towards the latter when he would steal glances at you and smile at you at every opportunity that your gaze would connect to his.

Your heart hammered once he came to you to pay for his meal. Your mother stopped whatever it was that she was doing just to beam at him and he personally gave her a huge tip in cash—right into her right hand that he held. Turned to you and asked you if you’d like to have dinner with him sometime.

And you agreed—without knowing he would get on your nerves in the long run.

Namjoon was not a serious man, not as he appeared to be. Although he showed you the side of Seoul you would otherwise never have the option to see and feel with your entire being by taking you to luxurious dinners, cafés, art exhibitions and work events—the things he would say and the things he would do did not reflect those settings by any chance.

He took you from rags to riches and you paid for it by being a victim of his odd form of cute aggression.

The man would get you tangled up in your sentences because he simply enjoyed the view of you getting flustered. He found pleasure in revving you up enough for you to curse at him and growl at him, be it by bugging you with tickles, pokes or be it by making fun of you until you yourself laughed.

There was nothing sexual about your relationship, if you could call it that. He didn’t hold your hand, he didn’t regard you hungrily as so many men do in his place, but he did look at you with the rawest form of purity. At your freckles—ones that made him give you the adorable nickname Lady Beetle—at your butterfly tattoo on your ankle that your dress would always expose from its natural criss-crossed position. The things he would say did not contain any hints of this leading into the bed. And he never kissed you, even though there were many occasions, where he looked like he was about to do it.

He always held back. And while it, and everything else, made you pristinely fall for him, it also angered you so much that there was nothing else you wanted to do but to grab his head and kiss him madly.

And the other day, you did.

Leaned in after the heft of your shared tension grew too big for you to hide it in your hands—only for him to turn his head, slightly, and let you merely kiss his cheek.

That was the final straw. And so you stopped agreeing to his “date” invitations until you stopped replying to his messages altogether. You thought he wasn’t going to have any part of you if he wasn’t willing to properly date you.

And in your anger, you dwelled in the hole he left behind. The hole that was asking for his fatherly attention that caused you so much extraordinary joy. Your mother must’ve sensed it with her motherly instincts that he would occupy that place in your life, which your father didn’t. Your body missed laughing with him until your tummy hurt—and you missed him. And the more you did, the more your anger blazed.

You couldn’t get rid of it.

You tried exercising. You tried running around the block, only to never do it again because you couldn’t catch your breath and you thought you had almost died that day. You smoked a pack after pack, and that didn’t help either.

Neither did abusing your cunt until you couldn’t go on anymore. Your anger burned down your bedroom and once you groaned and whined, punched the pillows and kicked your legs, your eyes fell upon the voucher you had pinned on your corkboard

Your remedy was in front of you, and in the worst of your anger—you gave it a go.

You filled out that application in the middle of the night, one that made you even hornier. And because you didn’t want to see any other man but Namjoon while you were getting your brain fucked out of your head, you chose the only option there was for that case.

Glory hole.

And the idea of it made your anger falter ever so slightly. You could imagine it was him pounding you through the barrier. The wall would only help your imagination.

Friday. Seven PM. You had to come two hours early because it was a necessity for you to shower at the place after you signed the contract. You also had to quickly think of a safe word, it was the only thing you foolishly forgot to fill out that day, as lost as you were within your flight of fancy. And because the employee standing in front of you made you anxious, you wrote down the first thing you thought of.

Beetle.

Your heart pounded, and when you let go of the pen, the gravity of the moment hit you. You truly were about to swim in a pool of sin only because the man you desperately wanted didn’t want you back. At least not in the way you wanted him to.

The employee led you into the room, where your own personal sin would uncoil. A grandiose, large space, plucked out of a French chateau, with dark antique furniture, an easel with a painting you were quick to skip to in order to ogle at it. Your kitten heels clicked on the old, parquet floors that creaked, scuffed against the carpet that cost more than your yearly salary. It was a room that Namjoon would like—and it was a room that took your breath away.

And the painting paused your blood flow.

The Unequal Marriage by Vasili Pukirev.

A painting of you, essentially, because you can’t have the man you yearn for.

Your heart shrinks, painful pinpricks digging deeply into the flesh. You lift a finger and trace the despondent face of the bride, acknowledge yourself with that secret, yet vivid piece of your agony eternalized within the thickness of the brushstrokes. Her silver flower crown, the gossamer fabric of her veil, and finally her delicate hand. And in your soul, you hold it.

You peek at the elderly groom and disgust seizes you. Because of the poor girl’s fate, because of your own. It feels as though you’re about to sin with that very man and you regret ever coming here.

An emotion that you hurriedly shake off because your best friend paid a huge amount of money for you to experience a good time. Like she did.

Your hand slaps back to your side. Your emotions, too. You will them to hide their starlight just for this one night. Hide their love for the man they can’t have.

You turn around and glimpse upon a table with bottles of both champagne and wine. Think you need one at this moment; think your dream fulfiller would appreciate it if you poured him one, too. But having one sip of that dark liquid, you say fuck it and finish his glass as well.

Undress. Take a shower. Weep under the stream.

And the same employee waits for you when you emerge out of the bathroom in your robe. With manicured hands folded over her stomach, her eyes have softened a little bit, and abruptly, you realize how glad you are that a woman is accompanying you on this strange journey. If a man stood in her place, you would’ve already walked out and wasted your best friend’s money.

“Mr. Kim wishes for you to be naked,” she says, her voice light, but firm. Your skin prickles with goosebumps—you bought a lacy red lingerie for the occasion, to help your imagination do its job to the fullest. A certain wisp of sadness clutches you that you won’t be able to wear it.

Or…

“What happens if I disobey?” you ask, gripping the thick lining of your bathrobe at your chest for mental support. The seriousness of the situation inches nearer and nearer and your stomach knots.

She inhales, straightening up, as if she was about to leave this room. “Mr. Kim is not a regular, so I don’t know anything about this temper, but I would suggest respecting his wishes.”

And she does, making space for your thoughts to whirl, and your eyes trace the flowers on the red Persian rug underneath your slipper-shod feet.

He’s not a regular, so that means he’s not anything like the disgusting groom in the painting. He may be an ordinary person just like you, trying your luck in an unusual setting. Perhaps young, perhaps older—but normal. Not a lecher about to feast on your purity.

Your stomach relaxes as do your muscles and you walk over to the bed to grab your make-up bag. Set yourself into the doll version of you that enjoys a male company with your eyeliner and glitter. Finish the process with a red tendril of lipstick over your mouth—just to leave behind a pleasant trace if the man ever decides to up the fun a little bit.

Will it be fun? Or will you regret every second?

An unanswerable question for your doll brain. You shake it off. Sit down at the edge of the bed and wait.

Wait for him to fuck not just your anger, but your feelings out of your body.

The woman emerges out of the bright light of the hall as if she was a housekeeper coming in to clean the hotel room. To a naked eye, it is not far from reality. This time, her softness has deepened so much that she bears a smile on her face. One, that you’re unsure of what it means. And one that relaxes your system to its finality.

She raises a hand towards the double doors, in the direction of the easel with the painting, and nods, her smile unwavering.

“You may proceed, miss, through this door. You can take off your robe now and get on the bed through the back of the cubicle. Mr. Kim will join you in five minutes.”

Your breath shivers as you exhale. You thank her and she clicks the door shut behind her. Scurrying onto your feet, you gather as much bravery as you can. Your bathrobe plops down onto the bed. You give one last look to the unhappy bride in the painting before you open the door.

You sense her encouraging you to go on—to live a life full of emancipation that she never got to grasp with her fist. And that, you find, is your bravery.

The dimmed room, in size, mirrors the one you just walked out of. And it stares at you head-on.

The cubicle the employee spoke of faces you to the right. A black-painted wooden little structure with a hole in the middle, covered in leather that is cut into long fringes. The lower half of your body will stick out of it and you reckon it depends on Mr. Kim himself what he does with your legs—whether he pins them up using the restrains on the wood or if he holds them.

The unknown lengthens and for the first time during this night, a small ribbon of excitement begins to swathe your chest.

Next to the cubicle, in the far corner of the room, is a dresser. You believe the drawers are filled with toys, but the top is lined with dark bottles of alcohol that you recognize. European—Jack Daniel’s, Jim Beam. Suits the play house’s style, you guess.

And on the left, a monumental bed that takes up the rest of the room. And it’s hung up from the ceiling.

You don’t have time to ogle it as time ticks, but while you run to the back of the cubicle like you were advised, you do notice that there are no paintings embellishing the walls. No person from the old age of time to witness the unfolding of your so-called dream. Sinful, sinful dream.

Maybe that was done on purpose. Maybe you’re supposed to live this dream with the anonymous Mr. Kim in some way.

The mattress inside the cubicle is made out of leather, but it is the strong scent of fresh wood that hits your nostrils. It is decorated with twinkle lights all around, giving it a comforting feel. One pair of restraints is installed into the walls as well, but you think it’s more for leverage than for the wishes of the dream fulfiller. Milky and silken, they stand out from the dark tones of it all, and you gaze at them for some kind of comfort as you strengthen your legs through the hole, the cold tassels drifting along your bare body sending sparks of strange delight up your stomach. You bite your lip at the sensation, scooching up to an awkward, almost sitting position so your legs don’t dangle out, but the backs of your knees press against the edge of the mat.

You cross your ankles.

And you wait, all over again.

Wonder if you should touch yourself or if you should give the honors to Mr. Kim to make you ready for him, but the tassels, the sight of your hip bone tattoo that says angel… your nipples perk up on their own and maybe you’ve come to like the act of waiting for him. Or maybe you like the view of your nakedness at a peculiar place such as this. Of your angelic form bare and about to be taken back to heaven.

Your stomach swarms with anxious morsels at that thought and you take a deep breath. At your exhale, you hear the door creak open and close with a certain tenderness that you immediately know it was used in order not to startle you.

One point up for Mr. Kim.

Maybe the Kim clan has good manners and thoughtfulness engraved in their DNA, but they’re men and disappointment always awaits you eventually—

His footsteps lead towards you, carrying that same tenderness. The sound of the muted thuds grow more and more distinct, no ounce of hurriedness lodged in them. A small fire begins to burn in you due to his evident patience, awakening your body, and you’re so, so surprised to detect such gentle arousal just from the energy he’s brought in.

That, alone, causes you to curl in your coyness, but when you hear him huff out a gentle laughter, you instinctively squeeze your thighs first before you bury your face in your hands, your cheeks hot to the touch.

Why is he laughing—

He places a large, warm palm on your knee. You flinch and his touch becomes heavier as if he was telling you not to be scared, its warmth begins to descend down your shin—and then lips. His breath wafts over your skin and he presses his lips against it as a way of greeting.

It is the rule of this sexual practice—no speaking between the partners. And now that it’s unfolding in action, you find yourself absolutely enthralled by it.

You flutter all over, the apex of your inner thighs slick with the liquid expression of your arousal. Your heart pounds, touched by that unusual but kind gesture, and you’re curious for more.

He rubs the place he kissed with his thumb and then… coldness. He must have withdrawn, straightened his posture, and a great oddity begins to take form in you.

Your knees tremble, sensitive from his benevolence.

And you wonder if he’s watching his creation, taking his time as he is for the next move. You long for it, timid, unsure of what to do with your hands. You flex them and unflex them on the leather, your lower limbs gaining momentum, and you feel your wetness trickling down onto the mat. You do well to stifle the mewls gathering in your throat and you yearn for those considerate hands of his to touch you everywhere—

He yanks you forward and, remarkably, the yelp that is flung out of you is hushed, not heard by his ears. At least you hope so—you don’t want to get in trouble, turn that kindness of his around. You’d regret that, and you’d regret that very much.

Mr. Kim spreads your legs apart, but your femininity is concealed by those suspended tassels that tease your core, your clit, and your hip bones, the most sensitive and vulnerable parts of you. A great dose of pleasure surges through you from it and from the way those fingers of his glide upon the inner of your thigh. He reaches as far as where your shiny stain is. A low, deep breath is exuded from his chest when he feels it and he smears it along your pelvic bone and a little bit on one of your folds.

He heightens your tremor by doing that.

You feel bad for reacting like that, but you can’t help it—neither can you stop it. You try to keep your body still and through the opening you can see him propping his hand on your thigh, watching you do so, as if he won’t continue until he knows you’ve regained your composure. And something about that, in its own way, helps you, and it helps you tremendously.

With his palm flat, he caresses your flesh in a circular motion to praise you for it, lifting his hand upwards and beyond your sight. Your stomach undulates and it is now that you notice the navy blue of his dress pants, the growing tent that takes shape in the middle, and owing to the calmness and the sense of safety he’s installed within you, you do the boldest thing you’ve ever done, save for leaning in to kiss Namjoon nearly two weeks ago.

Turned on from the sight of his arousal, you grab a hold of the tassel and you begin to provoke him, deciding that you want his manhood to grow. Because of the way he treats you, you deem he deserves it.

You move, smooth, the leather strip along your cunt, collecting your slick. You shift your hips in circles, the fabric cool and sensual in a way you never thought it would be. Your breaths come out whiny the longer you do it and when you change the direction and move up and down, you can hear his breaths, too. And maybe the blackness of the walls are messing with your mind, but you could’ve sworn, his secret noises have become whiny just the same once you pressed the tassel against your swollen clit.

And it isn’t until you naturally feel the back of his leg with the ball of your foot that he lets you see how much your little show advanced his arousal. The print of is cock is prominent, thick in the tightness of his pants, and you want it.

You no longer want Namjoon’s. You want his.

The plan worked.

And with a smile of a winner gracing your features, to celebrate you start to make yourself feel delightful. You rub your clit, still with the strip, biting your lips in order to suppress your moans, the pleasure more vivacious this time around. He’s not palming himself, he’s not doing anything at all but watching you, his hands by his sides, and perhaps to reward him—you let go of the tassel.

You let him see your pussy.

Shiny, swollen and needy, asking for a man you haven’t seen and won’t even see.

How sinful, how titillating. You can’t wait to have a cigarette after this.

His cock twitches and it beguiles you, the way your hand, without your conscious knowing, extends out and reaches for it through the hole. Your femininity, your sexuality—brazen and alive, unafraid and illimitably splendid.

And in this situation, it is a thing of absolute sublimity, the act of him inching forward and letting you touch him, feel your own creation the way he felt his. You want his number, you want to make him come. You want him to take you out and you want to show it off on your Instagram story, hiding everyone else from seeing it except for Namjoon. A devilish laughter pricks at your throat, desperate to be heard. You sense how heavy his cock must be, how strong, how hard. It’s impossible for you to suck it as he’s not allowed to see your face, but you know the idea of it will haunt your daydreams—

He grasps a hold of your wrist, silencing your thoughts, and you hold your breath. He slides his grip down to your hand and he makes you squeeze him, his length, his balls. Your hole clenches, even your features scrunch up in need, and with your other hand you begin to help yourself, but he stops you.

Pins your hands down on the leather. Maneuvers to firmly grapple both of your wrists on top of your tummy and uses his free hand to push you forward a little bit. Your legs dangle out, uncomfortably, and he’s so attuned to you that he notices. Leads your leg to wrap around him, the other one two, and if it weren’t for the mattress jutting out, you and him would be flush to each other.

Body to body.

He sucks in a breath at the first contact of his thumb and your clit. He must feel how swollen it is and he dips down to your hole, circling it there, gathering your arousal before he returns to that needy flesh, continuing his circles there. Slow, slow circles that make you writhe on the mat, the leather creaking. You lament that he can’t attach his mouth to it, regret that you chose this option because of your foolish feelings, and despite the fact you thought your plan worked and Mr. Kim alleviated your anger, the emotion bursts within you.

Your muscles tense, your lips flatten in a tight line, your fists in his hold clench, and you’re angry. Angry, angry, angry. Hateful of your life, hateful of your body, of your heart. And in the middle of the explosion, you make a mistake.

You growl.

He stops his circles.

Time beats two times before you’re yanked out of the hole, your feet landing on the parquet floors with that familiar gentleness the man bears.

And the man…

The man is no other but Kim Namjoon himself. The source, the epitome of your anger.

And you feel nothing. Your shock evens out through every fraction of your nerve endings, paralyzing you. Time ceases its beats here—while you stare up at him and he stares down at you. Namjoon isn’t seized by the shock like you are, though. He begins to laugh, darkly, hushedly, humorlessly. Slides his hands into the pockets of his pants and takes a step back.

Embeds life into time.

“I fucking knew it was you,” he rasps, that laughter melting into nothingness until the gravity of this situation spreads across this sinful room. Heavy, heavy energy. You should feel ashamed at this very moment, you should cover yourself up, but you don’t. You don’t do anything. “I read your safe word. I thought it was a coincidence, life making fun of me. And then, I saw your butterfly tattoo, but tattoos can lie to me and it was too good to be true. But that growl… that growl of yours can’t lie to me. I know it like I know myself.”

Your growl was your response to his never-dying teasing. If he tickled you, nudged you, bugged you, the only way you would make it stop was by letting out that vexed noise of yours—and it would work. He’d laugh to himself and withdraw his hands.

You part your mouth, but you can’t say anything. Your shock rises in you like a tidal wave that submerges in you and you drown.

Then, a perplexing song of a mockingbird breezing through the wind outside sounds out within the room, saying things your body is unable to.

Namjoon blinks, taken aback by your lack of retort. No words, no growls. Merely the song crooning along the spaciousness of the atmosphere. He licks his lips.

“Why did you stop replying to my messages?” he asks, and you find it obscene that he’s inquiring about this when you’re all bare, trembling, and with your arousal dripping down your inner thighs. If anything, he should be asking you what you’re doing here, but it’s like the fact isn’t news to him.

And what you don’t know is that he pours life into you with his bizarreness.

Your first reaction is to scoff. Your second is to bash your fists against his chest, pushing him a step back. And Namjoon… he smirks. As if he succeeded in his plan—pulling you out of your state of shock into a blooming garden of your emotions, where you can run, where you can scream and where you can inflict violence.

Where you can speak.

“Why did I stop replying to your messages?” you throw it back at him, your voice rising in volume, and Namjoon straightens, delightfully watches you be full of life. “You think you can share your life with me, take me on dates, pay for me and leave it at that? Turn your head when I try to kiss you? Do you think I’m some kind of lady companion—”

“No,” he interrupts, tilting his chin up, his dominance on full display with the deepness of his voice, the width of his shoulders and his powerful stance. You drip for him, but you’re as powerful as he is. You’re equal—equally tangled up in the same sin. “You’re my Lady Beetle, aren’t you?”

Your breath hitches, your nipples hardening, and your wetness is so, so uncomfortable, trickling down your flesh. And he provokes the pressure of your arousal in your core by that nickname, even more so when he lifts a finger and traces the freckles upon your right shoulder, the meaning behind that term of endearment, from his distance. Even more so when he sinks his fingers into the hair on the nape of your neck, uttering his following words.

“Get back inside the cubicle.”

But you’re not obeying. You don’t know his temper either, but you are getting yourself into trouble. And you’re not getting fucked until you know that he reciprocates your feelings.

And you know what to do.

“Kiss me,” you murmur, crossing the distance, inching towards his face. Namjoon tilts his head down, his lips nearly brushing against yours, and that’s all he does, nudging your anger. “Kiss me, Namjoon, or I’m walking out of this room.”

He lets the tension simmer, unblinking, consuming your eyes from this close proximity. And when he opens his mouth, you think he’s about to kiss you, but you’re mistaken. Deadly, deadly mistaken.

“Did you come here to forget about me?” he whispers, inching even closer until your nipples graze against the soft material of his sweater, hums in question when you don’t answer. Lifts your chin to make you look at him when your eyes stray away, your anger bubbling in you. He perceives the real you, always has, and you don’t have to say a word. Only a person intertwined with your soul could be able to do this; why won’t he act on it?

“Did you come here to look for me?” you whisper back, pressing your torso against him until your breasts squish against his hard chest. His still hard manhood pokes you in your tummy, harder than it was when you touched him earlier, and wrap your arms around him, your hands traveling all across the width of his back until they wander down his loins, even lower to his buttocks.

He pants, but his voice is not affected by the whirlwind of his emotions. Delicious, delicious whirlwind.

“Yes,” he says, firmly, flattening his lips and growling when you squeeze his butt. You enjoy those selfish touches so much that your grin illuminates the room, a ball of light amidst all this darkness. Your anger watches on, stunned. “What do you think? If I wanted to move on, I wouldn’t have chosen a fucking glory hole out of all the options. I’m not like you. I don’t give up. I’m patient.”

“Patient…” You taste those words on your tongue, dwelling on them. They’re bittersweet, and you stand in the middle of your decision whether you like them or not. “What are you waiting for?”

He sighs, lifting his hands and digging his fingertips into your ribs, holding you to him. You mirror his movements, and you let out that strained breath of yours when he bends his head and places a singular, wet kiss onto the side of your neck.

You had asked him to kiss you, even though you didn’t specify where, but you didn’t expect your body to tingle this much and grow boneless in his unfailing hold. You cling to him with all your might—there’s nothing left for you to do.

You’re his. Have been his since the moment you saw his watch.

And you can’t believe you haven’t noticed that Cartier adornment when you were ogling his manhood.

He brushes away a wispy strand of your hand before returning it back to its rightful place. “You deserve the world and I’m not there yet to give it to you. And you’re not gonna look for it elsewhere, I’m not letting that happen. I’m gonna give it to you.”

Honesty is here at last, the explanation to his distance. You hide the fluttering joy that opens in your chest, but you do let him see the smile that begins to curve your lips. He likes you; you can live at peace now. No more anger, no more daydreams.

“Kim Namjoon,” you breathe out, moving your hands to his sides. “Is that a promise I hear?”

He nods, tilting his head to the side as his pupils grow large. “Yes, that’s a promise. The last relationship I was in fucked me up, but I’m gonna get right, and I want you to hold onto that promise.”

You hum. “What does that mean for us right now?”

He smirks, that cheek cleft enchanting you all over again. “If you want kisses, then kisses is what you’re gonna get.”

Your smile lengthens until your cheeks hurt, heated. “I want kisses. Lots of kisses. On different places of my body, too.”

Namjoon retreats back to your neck, peppering kisses along that column. You whimper, hands hurrying to undo the button of his pants, desperate and arbitrary. But with a disapproving noise, Namjoon stops your hasty movements. Pins your hands behind your back.

“Patience,” he whispers, gliding his lips across the kisses he left behind. Your skin prickles with goosebumps against him, your nipples so stiffened that they ache, and, most unfortunately, you moan softly in impatience. “You’re gonna learn what true patience is, little beetle.”

Color heats your cheeks and as you grin, you bite your bottom lip. “Be my teacher, Namjoon.”

He chokes out a groan, dizzied by the idea, one that fades into your yelp when he unexpectedly turns you around and pushes your back against his chest, your arms long and criss-crossed behind you, hands flat against his cock.

Something tells you this lesson will be one of great difficulty for you. And of great pleasure.

Namjoon cups your jaw, swivels your head to face him a little. “Where do you want those kisses?”

Your quivering breath fans out across his big hand. “On my nipples.”

At your quick answer, he makes a sound of approval and with a feathery-light touch he sails his knuckles down the right side of your chest, from your collarbone down to the beginning of your supple breast, where he stops his voyage to study your reaction. As much as you’d die for his fingers to go a little lower, you keep your tremors in tact. Even your fingers remain obedient, relaxed in their position and not tempting his temper. You close your eyes, try your bestest to hold it while you wait it out, and your slick by now creates a pool between your feet. Namjoon’s cock twitches at your goodness and he sighs a little praise into your ear, just for you to hear. It roots deeply in your gut, where it stirs the butterflies that are painted in the color of his eyes.

His knuckles descend lower and lower, stop at the apex of your nipple, and the nearness is enough for you to stoop in your desperation.

Something you shouldn’t have done.

Namjoon slaps that pointy flesh, coaxing such a filthy moan out of you that it reverberates through the room. The harshness, intertwined with the swift stimulation of your nipples spreads a buzzing sensation down your body, settling in your aching clit, and the loud noise you let out echoes in small whimpers, wordless pleas for more. He becomes harder in your hands, as if he could translate them, and the temptation croons at you again, telling you to squeeze him. This time, you can’t really hold back. This time, you want him to do it again.

On the other breast.

You squeeze him, the weight of his cock an inexplicable experience that drives you to a point of carnal madness. You slide your palms along that thick length and the way he’s quiet, unspeaking, unbreathing, puzzles you and alarms you simultaneously.

You look behind you. Catch his features screwed up in such pleasure that you whimper again, announcing that you’ve seen him in his weakest. And Namjoon is brought back into his teacher mode. He allowed himself that fraction of time for his own pleasure, perhaps for yours, too, and you’ve never discovered something so imposing.

Your sexuality and his, interwoven, a thing of glory more magnificent than this playhouse itself.

“Little beetle, you’re just so naughty, aren’t you?” he rasps into your ear, pressing you against him with both of his arms wrapped around your chest, nuzzling his face into your neck. He kneads your breasts hard before he slaps them, both at the same time, and you make such a mess. “So impatient, so desperate to touch and be touched. What am I gonna do with you? Can you even learn, hm?”

Knead. Slap. Namjoon tweaks your nipples, circles them with his fingers, filling your body with such pleasure that your knees nearly give out on you. And he holds you to him by your neck, a firm grip that conveys to you that from now on, he won’t be very nice.

And you don’t really mind.

“Get back inside the cubicle so I can deal with you accordingly,” he mutters his order, tracing the shell of your ear with his puffy lips before he latches onto your earlobe, sucking it into his mouth briefly, making you cry out. “Do you know what happens to girls who can’t be helped?”

Your voice is strained, impossible to use. “No.”

“They get spanked and fucked so hard that they forget who they are,” he reveals, sailing his hands back down your body, flicking your nipples on the way, before his palms anchor at the V-shape of your private parts. He plays with your folds, stimulating your clit in that way without touching it. You grind your hips into his movements, seeking more, but he slaps your pussy for it, halting you. “That’s the only way they get salvaged.”

And then he lets go of you. And the look he gives you is so lecherous, so dirty that your legs are jelly as you scurry to the end of the glory hole cubicle, thinking that this entire moment is speckled with glory that will haunt you for the rest of your days.

You get back into position, your legs dangling out, and Namjoon repeats his voyage. Sails, sails down your tummy before anchoring at the mound of your cunt, but this time he doesn’t gratify you with any delight. He continues down your wet thighs and, abruptly, he turns you over, pushing you forward so your bum shows fully, your tippy toes touching the floor.

The tassels are warm and saturated with the dew of your arousal, tickling the small of your back.

“Now listen to me,” he says, his fingers wandering all around your flesh, but not where you want him the most. “I’m not Namjoon at this moment. I’m not your teacher. In your mind, you’re gonna go back to who you thought I was before I showed myself to you. Mr. Kim. And you’re gonna address me as so, do you understand?”

Your brows furrow and you curve your body to the side in question, not understanding this sudden change of the play. You may have wanted this fictional Mr. Kim more than you wanted Namjoon but that was before you found out that he felt the same way as you.

“Why?”

He massages the round, graceful cheeks of your bum, propelling you to rest your torso flat on the mat, comfortably. “Because you deserve it. Because your Namjoon isn’t where he’s supposed to be yet. So I’m not fucking you as Namjoon, I’m fucking you as Mr. Kim. This is the only time you’re getting fucked before I get right, so I suggest you enjoy every second.”

You gasp at his words, but your hole reacts first before you do, opening and closing all for his eyes to see—and they do. And he likes the view so much that he takes his thumb and perseverates the brief motion, your center coating his digit in sopping wetness. Your hips follow him and this time, he lets you. He gives you a moment to comprehend your future full of pure possibilities and kisses and you detect in your soul no disapproval. Because you’re rewarded with his heart in the end, it’s worth it.

His heart is one of gold, one that won’t perish.

You’ve seen it in the way he treated your mother, in the way he would stop his teasing when you had enough. In the respect he has towards you because he isn’t ready for a relationship. In the promise he gave you, even though that gold is scratched.

You love him, and because of that you shall play his game.

“Yes, Mr. Kim.”

He kisses the fleshiest part of your bum, wetly, humming into your skin—another reward.

“That’s a good girl,” he praises, nibbling the place he gave love to. “Try staying one.”

You mewl, grinding into his face, desirous for a release. “Yes, sir.”

He draws back and chuckles. “Look at you, so good all of a sudden when you’re all spread for me. You’re still getting spanked, little girl.”

You whine, pretending that you don’t like what awaits you, when in reality you can’t wait. “Can I get another kisses after?”

His laughter roars through the room. “Where do you want them?”

“On my pussy, Mr. Kim.”

He growls, swearing, his hands nowhere to be found on your body. “You’ll get lots of kisses on your pussy if you take these spanks well. Can you count them down for me?”

You nod, but you quickly realize that he can’t see you. Your dusky world pirouettes and you’ve tumbled into a state of haziness, needing his firm hand, his dependable stability. “Yeah, I can.”

Namjoon coos, his palm back on your bum, fondling it. “Good. Do you remember your safe word? You’re still getting those kisses if you use it, darling.”

You dissolve into the leather, your body limp, but you do remember the magic word of utmost adoration. “Beetle.”

A kiss on your flesh. “That’s it. Perfect. Does someone you know call you by that nickname?” he asks and you giggle, the comfort and the safety of the moment almost lulling you to sleep. “From ten, little beetle.”

And he rouses you from your sleepiness by landing a sharp spank on the cheek that he made so tender. The pain is so acute, so good that you almost forget to utter out the number, swimming in the sensation as you are, but Mr. Kim isn’t upset by it. No, he helps you.

“What number was that?”

“Ten.”

“Ten, that’s right. You’re doing so good.”

Mr. Kim’s kindness enters you all over again, liquifies between your legs, and you moan out. The following sting of his palm is greater than the previous one and your chest arches off the leather, but you like it. Even though he doesn’t alleviate the spank, lets only the air make it better, you still like it—so much that you don’t make a mistake and count it down.

“Nine.”

And he repeats it after you, spanking you again and again until the skin of your left cheek is inflamed, burning red, and the perception of the pricks is too much for you to handle. But taking after him, you don’t give up. Grit your jaw, flex your fists, scream out the numbers until you reach one and that side of your bum feels numb.

And Mr. Kim praises you for it so lasciviously that you can only whine in response, your little noises muffled by the leather.

“Good girl. You took your punishment so well. Your ass is so prettily red, oh my God. You’re gonna get those kisses now. So, so many of them until you come all over my tongue. Spread your legs even more for me.”

You do as he says, mind blank, and you hear the thud of his knees hitting the floor. That alone makes you drool, the sound of his submission, let alone his satisfied groan when he attaches his mouth to your pussy lips.

And you can’t voice out the surplus of your emotions, the unrestrained joy that you feel because you’re being eaten out by a man that you love, but because of their boisterous nature, they come out nonetheless. Out of your tear ducts, out of the corner of your mouth in the form of drool and little muted noises that are impossible for anyone to hear but you. And you fail him. You can’t imagine a fictional person sucking on your clit like that, that feels as though your soul is being yanked out of you like you were so many times upon this night. No, only Namjoon can do this to you—and so, privately, you bask in it. In Namjoon’s tongue swirling circles on your clit; in Namjoon’s lips sucking them so hard that you lose track of time, surroundings and your own being. In Namjoon’s hands shaking your bum in his face; in his fingers rubbing rapid side-to-side motions on your wet clit from the front when he fucks you with his tongue from the back.

You’re transported to a place that is neither heaven nor paradise. A place he, himself, must have brought into existence by the energy of his utter devotion for you. And you make it real when you come—sprinkle him with the fountain of your essence that contains the molecules of the universe he created for you. And you float, you float, you float. And he seizes the gravity by praising you for squirting for him, for coming so well and making the best of your so-deserved kisses.

And then his pants flop to the floor, his sweater—until the only things he’s wearing are his watch, his bracelet and his affection for you. You turn your body halfway so you can see him, the wholeness of his manliness that is aching for you, dripping for you like you’re dripping for him, and his cock is so hard that it points up to his abdomen. You’ve never seen anything like this before and you grow so savagely hungry for it that you begin to suck on your index finger.

Purposefully loudly, smacking your mouth.

Namjoon chuckles, darkly, and the warmth of that expression of his pulsates in you. “Oh, you’ll be sucking on this cock, too, don’t you worry, my beetle. I just need to feel your pussy around me.”

Oh, the slip-up. He feels this on the same wavelength as you—no Mr. Kim, no anonymity. Only Namjoon and you. If you were unsure of his feelings before, you can’t be unsure now. The universe he created palpitates around you and you’re so drunk on all of this new knowledge that when he buries himself inside your heat, you can’t let him in. Your walls are compressing so tightly with your still-yet growing arousal that you clamp down on him, but at the sound of his torturous moans, you suck him in.

And he doesn’t go easy on you.

With his hard, hard, and long shaft he begins to fuck you, violently. He rams into you without any mercy, lifting your leg onto the mat and entering you more deeply, curling his hips to kiss and kiss your cervix again and again. His strokes are reverberated throughout your whole body—your nipples rub against the leather, your head rocks against it in a way that turns you feral, you gag on your finger, your clit is teased with those relentless pounds. You’re helpless, but also boundless, being fucked like that, and you realize, with your dumb, blank and empty brain, that you’re extensively getting your best friend’s money’s worth.

And Namjoon elevates your experience.

He reaches through the hole and roughly captures your hair in his fist, popping your finger out of your mouth. Decides it’s not enough, decides you’ve had enough of the hole time and he pulls you out, all while still being inside of you. Straightens you against him, grasps your jaw while his other hand slips down to your clit.

And the side-to-side motions are brutal. Mean. So dominant in the way he keeps the contact light, barely stimulating you, but stimulating you, regardless.

“You think you can gag on your little finger and that it does nothing to me?” he scolds, pinching your clit, and your growl is scratchy, raspy, so fucked out. He’s reprimanding you, but his words don’t reflect his actions. Namjoon kisses you everywhere he can reach. Ear, cheek, jaw, neck. So frantically, so impatiently. “Have you learned nothing?”

You pant, your orgasm so awfully close from being bound but unbound at the same time, fucked slowly and torturously as Namjoon begins to move, grinding against you. But he has to stop—because if he doesn’t, you’re gonna come all over his cock, right in the center of this room. He’s teasing your build-up, just like you imagined he would, letting it rise and letting it fall in short intervals.

But he has pity on you, stemming from his affection. A cold, cold pity that you need for the heat rippling through you.

“Get on the bed. On your knees.”

He pulls himself out of you and urges you forward—towards the hanging bed. And you don’t care to ponder if it will move under your weight. All you can think about is his dick as you crawl onto that bed that does not wobble at all, but remains perfectly offset. You sit back on your folded legs and wait for him—watch him take those leisurely, effortless steps like he did at the start of this evening. Only this time, you get to see it with your eyes. His tall height, his swaying shoulders, flat abdomen and that hard cock, glistening with your slick. Carmine, aching.

You lick your lips. Prop yourself on your knuckles in front of you, back arched. Realize he kissed you everywhere, but on your mouth. And so you pout—and you make puppy eyes at him.

He smooths down a flyaway on your sweaty hairline, endeared. “What’s wrong?”

“You haven’t kissed me on the lips.”

Namjoon smiles down at you, dejectedly. Curls your hair behind your ear, grabs you by the back of your neck, calls to attention all the butterflies in your tummy. “I’m sorry.”

And he captures your mouth. As Namjoon, as a golden-hearted man that longs to give you the world, and you can vividly feel it. Mr. Kim doesn’t exist anymore and Namjoon seals that fact in when he prods his tongue inside, toying with yours before retreating back, moaning into the kiss.

A kiss that was more than a kiss.

And you have to kiss him again when he takes a moment to breathe. You have to devour him, clasp your hand around his wet cock as you do so—and Namjoon has to push your head down, fucking your mouth until your tears freely escape from all directions. He grips your hair tight, holds you to him from the side, plunging in and out of your throat however he pleases, your gagging noises encouraging him to possess every inch of you. Your mascara zigzags down your face in clumps—and once Namjoon’s pity flickers in him all over again, he lifts you and kisses you so nastily that you fade into nothingness.

Then, you’re on your back and he pounds that nothingness. Uses your thighs as leverage as you’re just laying there, a hole and nothing else. Perhaps the cubicle changed your life to such an extent that you’ve become it. You shall never forget it—even now it is scattered all across your vision as you’re fucked into oblivion, the skin-slapping sounds and your pussy squelching around him accompanying your memory of the dark wood, the fairy lights, the restraints you never used.

The sex was too personal, too intimate for you to do so. Even before you discovered that Mr. Kim was Namjoon. Your body recognized his, your mind too blind, too preoccupied with your anger that is now healed.

As if Namjoon could read your thoughts, he pumps into you with a hard thrust, eternalizing it.

“Focus on me,” he growls and you squeak, hiccuping into every movement. It feels as though he’s blocking your throat with how deeply he’s ravaging you and you can only nod.

You can only moan his name.

“Namjoon. Yes, yes, yes—oh, Namjoon.”

He laughs, that articulation of his joy abating in your mouth as he bends to kiss you, fully buried in you. And then he pulls out, presses his heavy cock on your cunt, lifts your head by grabbing your hair, consuming your mouth as if you were everything he ever lacked in his life.

“Grind your pussy on it, it’s yours, my little beetle.”

You whine, pucker your mouth against his, spinning your hips in circles, his cock so wet and so sticky from your happy juices.

“Joonie, Joonie bug.”

He closes his eyes, moaning all in your face, the principle of you softening and connecting his persona to yours absolutely ruining him. He tightens his grip on your hair, sinks himself inside you with his other hand and then sticks those soaked fingers inside your mouth. All four of them, gagging you.

“Little beetle and big Joonie bug, hm. How do we taste?” His tone is so low that it penetrates your skin, paralyzing your senses until only one remains. Until all you know is the bitter-sweetness of his precum and the tanginess of your slick. And he doesn’t draw his fingers back, he continues to control your gags until he paints your face in another set of pretty black tears. “Tell me. How do we taste?”

You growl around him, the sound he knows, and he pounds you for it, a thrust that hurts but feels good at the same time. You suck on his fingers, a trail of your drool trickling down from your connection, and Namjoon grunts. Slides his fingers out of your mouth and places them right on your clit.

Rapid, rapid rubs. And equally rapid strokes.

“Come,” he orders, and it’s like he flicked his fingers and made your body come. You didn’t have to do a thing. “Good. Finally. It feels so good, doesn’t it? Coming around my cock after all this time. Joonie bug is right there with you. Just a little bit more.”

He’s given life to your orgasm by his words. A storm erupts, clearing out everything negative that was ever seeped throughout your soul. Your body quakes, submitted to him through and through, at his disposal to make himself come—until your orgasm is so milky that you can’t see. Your vision is dotted with white, with tiny glazing stars that must be hung up in the sky just like this bed. And Namjoon brings you to him, lips to lips, needing you as he fucks you through your mutual release, and those stars splotch him with their dust.

You squirt all over him, for the second time around. And you don’t stop, the twitching of his cock, the warmth of his cum as he keeps stuffing you full of it, the unfaltering hardness of his thick shaft roll in your tiny orgasms, those little fountains of boundless pleasure that drench him, give him the likeness of those stars. He’s turned on your squirting ability and there’s no way back. No, no way back.

Namjoon is exhausted as he pulls out—and you already feel so empty, so lonely. His cum streams out of you, staining the bed, and it saddens you so much that you reach into your heat to collect it, plunging your fingers into your mouth, eating him. And you moan, at his male taste, for the last time.

“Fuck, don’t do that. I can’t go again.” He wipes down his face, a gleaming man that has your entire identity woven into his veins that run all across his arms, and you love him. You love him so drastically that you can’t get on your feet on your own, can’t make a decision of your own, can’t live without him.

He fucked you so well that he attached you to himself.

A wave of strange emotions engulf you.

“Namjoon,” you whimper, tears burning each corner of your eyes, and you don’t know what to do, you don’t know what is happening. He lifts his head, round eyes blinking, and he’s so quick to cradle you into his arms, letting you cling to him, letting you wrap your legs around his torso like a baby. And that’s precisely how you feel—like a baby.

“Talk to me,” he encourages, caressing your back in circles, and you moor your face in his neck, inhaling his individual bodily scent. So masculine, so heady, so intoxicating. You sob, running your fingers through his misty, blond-streaked hair, needing to be even closer to him than is physically possible.

Namjoon shushes you, kissing your shoulder, giving you the strength to speak, giving you the identification of what you’re feeling.

“This was so intense,” you croak out and Namjoon hums, halting his touch to focus on you wholly. “Emotionally. I feel much closer to you. Too close.”

And he’s not running out of things to give you. He gives you kisses on your neck that bear no sexual context—romantic, reassuring kisses that ease up your muscles, that part the raging thunder of your emotions. And he gives you such comfort that you feel as though you’re floating upon an open body of water, as free as a human being can be.

“What we did was intense but it was right. What you’re feeling is normal. I’m feeling it, too. We’ve been hiding our feelings for so long and we let them out just now, so it’s overwhelming. It’s okay. You’re good. Such a good girl, my good little lady beetle, tiniest girl beetle in the whole universe. I will protect you from the other bugs. Let’s get this make-up off, hm?”

You nod, sob and laugh softly at that solace. Namjoon carries you into the shower. Lets the cold water streak down on you while you shield yourself from it, nearly slipping off his grasp. Namjoon chuckles, hoisting you higher, taking a step back to wash you completely clean. You scream and his chuckle deepens, getting you away from the iciness by pressing you against the tiles.

He truly won’t stop teasing you.

The water turns warm by the time he fetches the make-up remover. Pouring some on a large cotton pad, he cleanses the remnant of your sex tears, the physical memory of how good he fucked you and how he bound your soul to his. He’s careful around your eyes, focusing so intently that his lip is caged between his teeth. Once he’s finished, he kisses you—with Mr. Kim’s gentleness.

Washes you clean, especially thoroughly between your legs. Embraces you in the shower and lets you feel—creates a safe space for your feelings.

And then he’s dressing you in the clothes you came here in. A dark green dress that ends at your ankles. He makes sure to kiss your butterfly tattoo as he smooths down the skirt and you think you’re ready to marry him.

You want to meet his mother. Not now, not after what you’ve done together. But someday soon. And you want your mother to meet his.

“I need a cigarette,” you comment as he’s scrunching your hair with a towel. He himself has changed into a pair of clean black dress pants and a plain white shirt, almost oversized. An outfit that made your mouth water. “Like right now. And at least two.”

He huffs out a laugh. “You can smoke on the balcony. I’ll have one with you. Do you want a drink?”

Your eyes light up. Your whole body, too.

Placing a bathrobe around your shoulder, he gently slaps your butt and guides you forward to the balcony. He grabs that bottle of red wine you had opened and joins you.

Two chairs, one small round table in the middle. The view of the entire Seoul city and a fucking statue in the corner of the balcony.

A beautiful girl, half dressed. The fabric of her forever garment falls off her chest and you’ve never seen a more spectacular sculpture in your life. You enkindle your cigarette and touch her cool face, feel yourself immersed in her seductive beauty. One day you shall be just like her—once Namjoon comes to collect you. Not a doll, but a girl.

“Take a picture of me,” you say, getting into position, only to realize that Namjoon has been snapping pictures of you while you were acknowledging yourself with the statue. With a cigarette hanging limply in the corner of his mouth.

You can’t love him any deeper.

You pose with her. Mirror her body language, even shake off your bathrobe and let your straps fall off your body like her. Private pictures just for him and for you—a reminder for what awaits you.

A future full of pure possibilities. And sex, lots of and lots of sex.

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild , @jjk7k , @parkinglot-nights , @bethvar , @Sexytholland , @yoongibaybee , @crystaleah ,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan , @euphoricmyth , @jungkoock , @cinmmongirl , @hoseokkie-caeks , @kam9404 , @fr0ggieth1nk .

BACK to masterlist

#namjoon smut #namjoon x reader #namjoon x y/n #namjoon x oc #namjoon x you #btscreatorscorner #bts smut #bts imagine #namjoon imagine #namjoon scenarios #namjoon fluff #kpop smut #knj x reader #knj #kim namjoon #namjoon

462 notes · View notes

honeylullaby · 2 months ago

Text

“Don’t think I’ll go easy on ‘ya.”

(Rivals) Declan O’Hara x Reader

Suggestion by my sweet @harveysgirl101 🩷 / A budding pop star already caught in controversy, you reluctantly accept an offer to appear on Declan…

18+ FANFIC / Smut mention, angsty, intense chemistry. Reader character aged at 21. 🫶🏽

“Marvellous. Thank you.” You beam towards the young Corinium producer, sporting the most impressive mullet. Graciously accepting a bubbling champagne flute, you took a large gulp and stared at yourself in the dressing room mirror. Golden tanned skin, peroxide blonde hair preened into tremendous hoops and the most terrifyingly intimidating outfit — a black latex dress that hugged your voluptuous figure, ruby red lipstick and hooped earrings so large they resembled satellite dishes. “An hour ‘till showtime. Take some time to relax.” The young man informed you, to which you took another painful swig of champagne and nodded in response.

Confidently striding through Corinium’s orange-adorned hallways, the man that would be tearing you to shreds in approximately fifty-eight minutes turned a corner, completely indulged in his notes of preparation. “Oh Declan, hello.” You articulate, running a hand across the taut rubber of your dress. “My God, it’s not fancy dress, ya’ do know that?” The Irishman sniggered, his gaze not quite meeting yours. Unsurprising, you didn’t find his vitriolic criticism amusing. “I did hope, Mr O’Hara, that tonight’s interview would be one of personal gain, me to clear my name and boost my career and you to boost your… whatever you call this.” You quickly retorted, folding silken arms together across your chest. Declan raised a hazelnut eyebrow — more so in admiration at your counter-attack than vexation.

“My interviews aren’t to boost anyone’s careers, sweetheart. You can take one step out of line, look behind your shoulder and think no one’s watching. But I’ll have seen. And that’s when I strike.” He snapped, pointing a finger at you in an almost accusatory manner. You’re sure that any other individual being reprimanded by Declan in this way would’ve taken a rather harsh gulp of embarrassment, but you were too quick-witted to let it phase you. Instead, you take a hold of his finger, pushing it back towards him. “That’s the talk of a man that’s either not getting any at home, or has a very small penis.” Snickering heartily as you quip.

This one hit close to home — first remark, not second, he can assure you. It had been a few months now since Maud had packed her bags for London. Not that it made much difference. She was too busy pining after Rupert Campbell-Black to notice something as simple as the colour of his socks, let alone to have sex with him. “God, ‘ya are as fuckin’ insufferable as they say ‘ya are.” Declan tuts towards you, bringing his stack of documents to his face and flicking his eyes over a headline. “Excuse me, miss? Makeup are ready for you.” The mulleted producer softly mutters. Presenting him with a gentle nod, you begin to walk past Declan, but stop momentarily, whispering into his ear, “If you are sexually repressed, Mr O’Hara, you know where to find me. I wouldn’t mind giving you a ride.”

Nonchalantly peeling a strip of leather from the makeup artists decaying chair, you breathed in the cloying dust of the mattifying powder being swept across your nose. The makeup artist was a dowdy woman — sunflower-yellow skirt clashing with an emerald green jumper. Closing your eyes as she brushed a rather fetching violet eyeshadow across your lids, you heard the door open. A gentle voice exchanged with the artist, and the door promptly shut again. “Thought I’d better get her out of here before ‘ya lamped her. Are ‘ya actually allowed to be on ya’ own with makeup artists anymore?” The irritating Irishman spoke from behind you. Keeping your eyes closed and grunting out a deep exhale, you could only wish you’d have lit a cigarette before round two.

“Are you actually allowed to be on your own with me in here? Don’t think Lord Baddingham would be too pleased at you threatening his guests.” You mutter, opening your eyes only to very quickly light your much-desired cigarette, taking an elongated puff, and clamping your eyes shut again. “Closing ya’ eyes won’t make me go away. I won’t leave ya’ alone.” He speaks again, ignoring your pathetic jibe. “Like an irritating rash.” You retort, mumbling. Declan couldn’t help but smirk. Maud’s insults towards him were cruel — mean-spirited, intended to humiliate him. Yours, however, were different. You came back at him so quickly, and with such vigour, that he felt he had almost met his match.

Stretching his calloused hand toward the door handle, he spun on his heels and paused momentarily. “I don’t have a small cock, by the way.” Declan titters, prompting you to open your eyes and glare at him with huge, glimmering eyes. “Shame. I was hoping a man so intimidatingly sexy would have one downside, at least.” Raising your leg up as you speak, admiring your frighteningly tall stiletto and revealing to Declan your lack of underwear. “Don’t think I’ll go easy on ‘ya.” He huffed, focused entirely on the sight of your exposed cunt. “In the interview… or now?” You tease, standing from your chair and taking another puff of your cigarette. Without looking back, Declan reached behind him to lock the door.

#rivals #rivals fanfic #rivals fanfiction #rivals disney #rivals disney+#declan o’hara x reader #declan o hara #declan o’hara #aidan turner #my own dreadful writing

178 notes · View notes

thefusioncelestial · 3 months ago

Text

Mix 7: A Father's Gift

Mr. Jacobs was proud of his son. He was everything he wanted, if only his son, Derek would realize this.

But with the gift he was about to obtain, perhaps he would realize this.

Mr. Jacobs heard about a mysterious shop that was able to fix certain issues; of the bodily kind. Before he knew it, he was standing before its doors.

He scanned the surroundings before going in. It was wet and lightly raining, two tall walls of red brick, a reminder of the post WW2 era, flanking the doors on both sides. The door was wooden with no sign of paint or finish on them, and there was no sign save a strange symbol etched at the top of the door. Small enough to miss if you didn't notice. He couldn't make out the of the building, it seemed to never settle on a shape, style, or material. Mr. Jacobs soon put that out of his mind and walked through the door.

The room inside was darkly lit, but it had grayish carpet, dark green wall paper, and two Japanese style doors in the back. In front of them was a receptionist area that blocked access to them.

There was a man sitting behind it looking at him. His hair was concealed by a white turban, but his facial hair; medium sized eye brows & a carefully shaped mustache, revealed that his hair was jack black. He had striking green eyes. He was wearing a black shirt that had a galactic print on them. He could swear that he could see the stars twinkle & the galaxy itself slowly turn.

"Hello sir, I take you are here to take on a new look? You can be anything, or are you looking to heal some hurts that modern medicine has failed to heal so far," the receptionist asked in an confident tone.

"Not for me, but my son," Mr. Jacobs replied.

"How does this work? What do you charge?"

"What I charge depends on the reasons for the change, typically for men like you looking to change their sons, often for vanity reasons, I do not come cheap. I can't tell you how many "wimps" I changed into world class athletes," the receptionist replied.

He continued: "As for how, you go through the door to my left, pick the traits you want, and then get back to me & I'll handle the rest. Now give me your right palm, Mr. Jacobs." He came out of the receptionist desk & brought two chairs for both to sit.

He sat & so did the father.

He stretched out his hand.

As if instantly, Mr. Jacobs did as he was asked.

"How did you know my family name," he pondered.

"Oh forgive me, my name is Corsair, as for how, I would not make it as far as I did in my line of work if I didn't know who may prospective customers are," Corsair retorted.

Must be because my information is available online due to social media he thought.

Corsair had Mr. Jacobs's hand grasped in an embrace of both of his hands. He then moved his forehead to touch this embrace and closed his eyes. His secret revealed, he could read minds!

He saw the real reason for the visit. He did in-fact come to help his son. It was not to make him a star or make him more palpable to the marriage market or for some desire to use him for social gain. His son had confidence issues.

He dug deeper. Ah, there he is:

I see, from their conversations, the son feels mixed matched. He worked on himself hard both academically & physically and achieved a great result. One more year at university, and quite the healthy body with the aesthetics to show it. But he hates his face. Nothing he has done has ever worked. He considering plastic surgery. Mr. Jacobs supports his son, but wants a more natural way than the scalpel. My way is...magical if not natural. He just needs a little bump to bring out his features.

Corsair moved his head back up to face Mr. Jacobs & unclasped his hands and rest his on his lap.

"He doesn't need much. One measure. $1000," he said in a deadpan manner.

"Deal," Mr. Jacobs said quickly.

Corsair smiled, "Through this door."

He handed Mr. Jacobs a cup.

"Pick one to fill in that cup. The turn knob & valve is located under the giant cylinders. Keep walking forwards after you are done,' he said.

"Just like that," Mr. Jacobs replied.

"Just like that," Corsair replied with a big smile.

He opened the receptionist area to let Mr. Jacobs in, and he went through the door. It closed behind him.

The area was pitch black, but soon a green light, no a series of green lights sprang up. They were next to each other with some distance, but orderly. They were lined up on both sides of the room, forming a hallway.

He walked up to the first pair. They were giant green clear glass canisters. There was a glowing green liquid inside and to his shock; unconscious men with their eyes closed floating inside of them.

They seemed to be sleeping. They had a calm expression about them. Each canister had a distinct person in each. No matter the size, face, ect, they were all good looking & fit. It was a hallway of models.

Pick me. No me. No over here!

The men inside were mentally communicating with Mr. Jacobs.

"Wait you can speak without moving your mouths? Wait, are you being held against your will," he asked out loud.

In unison: NO!

Do not worry for us, for a part of us gets to live on in others. We get to live through others in more lives than what has been recorded in history. Choose.

Telepathy he realized. Fine, he would choose.

"I don't need much, I just want my son to be more confident himself. Realize his potential," Mr. Jacobs said loudly.

Far off in the back a canister glowed very brightly while the others dimmed.

After 10 minutes he approached the canister. For some reason he put his hand on it, and then a flash of the memories of the person on the canister flooded him.

A young soldier, living life. He was always positive no matter the situation. On track to a long distinguished career. About to go home. And then a large explosion occurred. A terrorist attack, killed his most of his platoon, and he layed on the ground suffering about to meet his maker.

Corsair appeared. He healed the soldier's body, but the soul was too detached to keep him going.

He was given an offer:" work through him to help others in need of help. You would live on by merging yourself with others to change their life trajectory in positive ways. You would still be considered dead to the public."

The solider, named Caleb agreed without hesitation, not caring for the life in the canister.

On the bright side, the canister men were given a new purpose & would join their new mental powers thanks to the green liquid that also anchored their souls to their bodies & gave them eternal youth. They created a gesalt mind palace where they could get to know of each other & live new lives in their perfect worlds.

Mr. Jacobs chose him. After he wiped a tear from his eyes, he looked down and found a water jug like hatch, the kind you find in barrel shaped drink dispensers, and pressed the release valve down. Green liquid filled the cup & he was done.

"Thank you for your service," said Mr. Jacobs. He bowed.

The serene body cocked a smile.

Mr. Jacobs wanted to take him home, but he knew he would die outside that canister and promptly left. He kept walking forward, not backwards as instructed, and came across a door.

He walked through it. He came out to the same receptionist area he used to come in. He turned and saw it was the first door he used to get into the hall way of perfect, to him, men.

Space time shenanigans.

He walked past the receptionist desk, turned towards Corsair.

"I take it you will keep the secret," he wondered.

"If this works, my life is yours," the father replied.

"The money has already been deducted, hand me the cup. The final step is near," Corsair said & then took the cup from the father.

He could not see what he was doing, but he heard shaking & swirling noises. They stopped. He pulled out a bag & In the bag was a green pill.

Corsair handed Mr. Jacobs the bag.

"Have him swallow it over night, right before he goes to bed," he said.

"Thank you so much, how do you take payment," Mr. Jacobs pondered.

"Payment is automatically deducted as I said before," Corsair replied.

They both wished them a great day & Mr. Jacobs went home.

His son was home the weekend before spring break, determined to do nothing. Maybe some extra studying.

His father gave him a bag with a green pill in it. Told him to take it before bed. Maybe an anti-anxiety pill? Some supplements?

He pondered. His dad has never given him anything bad. He did as he was told. He went to sleep.

His body began to float. He wanted to wake up and see what was going on, but he couldn't open his eyes, move his limbs, or get out of his dream. Did the pill he took induce sleep paralysis?

He had a mouth, but he could not scream.

He was floating about 3 feet above the bed, and then the bed sheets slid off, exposing him to the air from all sides.

Above him was a specter or ghost. It was Caleb. He was floating even higher than Derek was. Situated above Derek in the same resting position, he started to descend. Derek didn't move, couldn't move. Soon Caleb was occupying the same space as Derek.

Swoosh. A burst of wind flowed out from Derek's body.

Caleb faded away into Derek, and Derek soon glowed green.

In Derek's dream space, he met Caleb. Derek was scared at first, but he was able to be calmed down. He explained the situation. Derek was mad at his dad at first, but understood his good intentions.

"How much of me will change," Derek asked.

"I don't know, but you will still be driving the wheel of whatever it is we turn into," Caleb said.

Derek let out a sigh. It was probably too late to go back. He swallowed the pill after all.

"You will ride passenger seat no matter what," Derek said in confidence. Some of Caleb's mental aspects where seeping in.

Caleb smiled. Both of the men turned into tornadoes that then merged into one twister. It settled into a new person.

The green glow went away.

For Caleb's physical body, it began to change. During the mind meld, Caleb's DNA transfused into every part of Derek's body.

He grew more hair, eyebrows got thinner, his lips a more flush with blood getting pinker. His eyes reshaped themselves, while his ears changed angle a little to move towards the skull.

His chin and cheek bones thickening gave him a much stronger jawline. His skeletal changes generated new sensations, like the feeling of pops and pressures. From this moment forward, Caleb grunted. Not in defiance, but in acceptance of the new changes. You could hear "mmm" come from him.

With a suddenness & popping sound, his neck, shoulder, chest, arms, & legs exploded with new muscle at the same time as if he was hulking out. His fingers changing to meet the new proportions. His legs lengthened.

He let out an sharp "ahh" at the sudden changes. His body from his waist jerking up to make a weak triangle before settling flat.

His abs changed as well. He began to groan. He had a cross between his own and Caleb's. He could feel his abdominal muscles merge into one. The skin then constricted and reshaped them, giving form to each of his stones.

His nether regions were a 1 to 1 copy of Caleb's. Bigger & longer. Harrier too. As the changes came in, he could be heard breathing hard through his nose.

The changes were done. His transformation complete. He slept the rest of the night.

He got up before his father & went to the local gym: he needed space & a different environment from his father's home. No one saw him as a different person to his shock. He went to the locker room to get a full look of his changes:

He was bewildered. He was like a new man. Did he have to change this much? He loved the muscles, the power,....the confidence? He remember that Caleb was inside him now. Caleb was a soldier. A flood of memories hit Derek. Caleb's training & missions as a soldier, his buddies in the air force.

He returned home. His father was also shocked by his son's changes. They talked and found a happy medium. He wanted to know where this clinic was located, but his father forgot. No third chances.

He decided to go travel for this spring break. A visit to Caleb's platoon. The ones who survived. To the graves of the ones who didn't. They all deserved respect.

#male merge #body merging #merging tf #male fusion #fusion #thefusioncelestial #male body transformation #male transformation #merge #musclegrowth #muscle #muscular #assimilation #assimilate #male body merge

191 notes · View notes

alesbianperson · 1 month ago

Text

loser!ellie williams x loser!reader

summary: You're down bad for intelligent people (Ellie yapping about smart things)

warnings: both reader and Ellie are huge simps for each other tbh, like one swearword, my writing probs

authors note: here I am again after half a fucking year woah idk i got this idea randomly in the middle of class cause I'm such a sucker for people who say smart things also idk if the facts that are stated in this oneshot are 100% true I've done research but I have legit no clue how the universe works so heres that lmao

also here daily click for everyone

--☆--

"I hope everyone did their homework. We'll need it for the following group project."

"Shit!" You heard your best friend hiss at todays greeting of Mrs Thomson, your english teacher. She then leaned over her desk towards you. "Did you, by any chance, do the homework?"

"Yeah, I did. Just hope we get sorted into the same group." You chuckled, looking back at your teacher as she kept talking. "Everyone will find a card with a certain symbol on it on their desk," she further explained the group project. You looked at the card on the right side of your table, wondering how you didn't notice it sooner. "Everyone with the same symbol then gets together and works with the sheets I'll hand out."

Right as she finished her introduction, you took the card on your desk and turned it around. A big, self drawn, blue star was on the other side. Quickly, you turned to your left, where your best friend sat and held up your card. She suddenly smiled and proudly held up her own card, a blue star drawn on it as well, and quickly made her way over to you. "The luck is on my side!" She squealed, stretching the last i. You just laughed off her dramatic character.

A tap on your shoulder made you turn around, locking eyes with beautiful green ones. You smiled at the girl in front of you, and she returned it, which brought out her cute dimples. A few strands of her auburn hair, which she had tucked back in a lower bun, framed her face perfectly and contrasted those beautifully drawn freckles on and all around her nose.

Ellie Williams.

The girl you've shared the same class with since elementary school. A talented guitar player with straight a's in all science subjects. You never really had anything to do with her, though. Except maybe some small school projects or homework comparison. Therefore, you two also weren't friends.

She held up her arm, exposing various little doodles and drawn symbols on her hand and arm by her fallen down sleeve. From little stars and planets over to abstract patterns, everything scribbled with a black pen. Too focused on that: you didn't even wonder why she held up her arm until your best friend slid a third chair to your desk. Only then did you see the card in her hand with the same star drawn on it as on yours.

The very same moment, Mrs. Thompson came around, handing out the worksheet that was needed. You took it from her, smiling as a 'thank you' and read the first few instructions. "Why are we always doing such unnecessary tasks? We don't even have to be in groups for that." You rolled your eyes annoyed as you told your best friend, handing her the sheet. She skipped over it as well, then handed it over to Ellie. "Fuckin' stupid." She added.

"It won't take that long, though." Ellie started participating in the conversation, "if we hurry, we'll have a longer break." You both nodded, agreeing with her statement. But as you looked over the tasks again, a sigh left your lungs, and with as little motivation as possible, you pulled out your block for notes. A pen already in her hand, your friend copied your move, but making no effort to do any of it.

You just turned towards her, trying to hold the conversation unnoticed by Mrs. Thompson. "Oh my God, yesterday my dad was searching for some key he had lost, but instead found a few old photos from him and his friends when they went stargazing as teenagers!" You loved space, and the photos that were shown to you yesterday by your dad were breathtaking. The original plan was to take them to school, but you unfortunately left them at home, lying on your desk. Of course, you had to promise your friend to at least send a photo of the pictures this evening so she could see them as well.

With a new topic to talk about, the task was long forgotten. Ellie instead decided to blend out your conversation and began working on the few questions regarding the previous homework. They were easy, to say the least, probably again some excuse for Mrs Thompson to see who did something at home and who did nothing, just to grade the homework higher than she could. Ellie didn't really mind, though, because even though English has never really been her strength in school, Mrs Thompson made it really easy to get acceptable grades with just a bit of diligence.

"Ellie?" Your voice made her eyes look up from her work, looking at you expectingly. "We need a third opinion," you continued, as you gave your best friend a triumphant look. "You do know a lot about planets, right?" Ellies nod answered your question, so you went ahead. "If you could rank the planets in our solar system, which categories would you compare to decide on the coolest planet?" Ellie smiled slightly at the question you just threw in the room. With the summary of Shakespeares 'Romeo and Juliet', which they had as homework, still half in mind, she needed a few seconds before actually thinking about a possible answer she could give.

Always when admiring those planets, the first thing that came to her mind were the different characteristics that made each planet so individual. All the different sizes, colours, and features, and none of them would be able to exist without the Sun.

As you noticed, she wasn't gonna answer right away, you just began elaborating on your idea that your best friend declined to Ellie. "If I'd have to rank the coolest planets, I'd definitely rank the ones high that have cool features such as many moons or something. What should not be a main category," you jokingly glared at your best friend as you emphasised the negation,"is the colour of a planet." She just rolled her eyes at your comment.

"Actually," Ellie cut in, "I think the colours are just as interesting as the rest. It resembles the structure and material of the planet, which gives it such cool features in the first place." Her answer impressed you. How could her words make so much sense? A slight warmth in your belly caught your attention, which you just swallowed further down. "But I get your point." She added afterwards.

The confident smirk you sent towards your best friend because of Ellies approval brought up the corners of her mouth slightly.

"It still is soo much cooler to say 'did you know, jupiter was supposed to be a star' instead of, I don't know, 'neptun is blue woah'" You explained your argument again. This time, Ellies eyebrows wrinkled slightly before she voiced her objection.

"Actually, jupiter isn't a failed star. It falsely has the name because it was born from the same cloud of molecular gas that gave birth to the Sun. But without the Sun, Jupiter wouldn't even be able to exist. It was never even close to growing massive enough to become a star as well. It would need about 16 times the mass it already has to even be rightfully considered a failed star.."

As Ellie realized what she said, blush slightly reddened her cheeks. "Sorry, that was not the point you were making.." she added and then quickly looked down at her finished task and pretended to read it over again. You didn't know why, but something about her answer made your stomach flutter, so you just stared at her starstruck, not having any intention of stopping soon. If your eyes could turn into blinking hearts, they would've done so already.

You knew that girl was a nerd and knew a lot. Especially about astronomy (she may or may not have held a presentation about the milkyway, because she thought your teacher didn't do that topic enough justice) but what you didn't know is how such an answer could have such an effect on you. You looked down at your poorly written notes to distract yourself from your current thoughts.

God, you were fucked.

#ellie williams #ellie williams x reader #the last of us #the last of us 2 #ellie the last of us #ellie williams x female reader #ellie williams x you #ellie williams x f!reader #ellie x reader #ellie x you #wlw #sapphic #loser!ellie #loser!ellie williams

118 notes · View notes

gilverrwrites · 14 days ago

Note

hopefully you're still doing these umm <<3 love you, hope you're feeling better soon totally feel you on the period stuff rn...😔

but emoji prompts for brucie, hal and/or jason (1 or all if you want)

❤️, ⏰, 😴, 🚨, 👄

i hope that's not too many!!

Hal and Jason are under the cut!

Bruce

❤️ making love headcanon

Bruce doesn't make love to you nearly enough for his liking. It's his favourite form of sex, every night he wants nothing more than to come home and show you how much he loves and appreciates you. Every morning he watches you climb out of the bed to prepare for the day and he thinks about kissing every inch of your skin until you agree to get back under the sheets with him. But rarely does he have the time to make good on his desires, or the energy, or the headspace. So he settles for quick romps in the shower, or lazy screwing when he gets home from patrol at 5AM when you're still half asleep and remains ever grateful that you never demand more for him.

⏰ fave time of day to have sex

Sunrise. Not always, often times he is exhausted and beat up and he just wants to sleep in your arms, but other times when he comes home from Batman duties, he's high on the adrenaline and desperate to let off some steam.

Any other night he hates when you wait up for him, but not those nights.

😴 falling asleep after sex

Bruce rarely falls asleep before you do, even when you're retiring at the same time. It's ingrained in him, not to let his guard down around others, even the people he trusts most. So usually he lets you rest your head on his chest, and watches you fall asleep first, no matter how weary he is, and once you're safe and sound and fast asleep he’ll doze off.

🚨 sex that sent me to the ER headcanon

[Repeated] The one time you managed to convince him to fuck you in the batcave. It had been a long night, he’d been craving your touch, he just wanted to get lost in your body. He’d been letting his mind drift, picturing it when you appeared to him, just like a mirage, in the sleek black nightwear he’d bought just for you.

“Bruce, please, I’ve missed you. I need you.”

The moment you were in reach he grabbed you, pressing you to the desk of the bat-computer, absentmindedly forgetting about the freeze gun he’s apprehended from Mr Freeze hours earlier. You managed to accidentally push in the trigger, freezing your thigh in the process. Fortunately, you came out the other side with all your limbs and minimal skin damage.

👄 making out headcanon

Bruce can make out really sloppy. He's got the movie-style, breathtaking, paparazzi-ready kisses down to a T. But in the privacy of your shared home, Bruce isn't really one for making out. Even when things are getting heated and the kisses are coming hot and heavy, tongues stay in your own mouths.

Hal

❤️ making love headcanon

It was a picnic under the stars, your face lit with the green glow of the candles he'd constructed, as you rolled around together on the gingham blanket. There was grass in your hair and starlight in your eyes as you smiled at him, ecstasy on your face.

That was the first time he considered the sex with you to be love making, that was the moment he knew he loved you.

⏰ fave time of day to have sex

Hal’s favourite sex is celebratory sex. He likes to be the big hero, likes it when you slide around his dick, kiss his neck, caress his hair, and sing his praises to reward him for a job well done. This can happen at any time of day really, the universe could come under threat at any time, and Hal will cum under you shortly after.

😴 falling asleep after sex

Hal is cuddly after sex. It’s a frequent occurrence for him to fall asleep with his face nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his hands cradling you close. It’s also a frequent occurrence for him to snore right into your ear and drool straight onto your chest, especially if you’ve really tired him out that night.

🚨 sex that sent me to the ER headcanon

Despite what people may think, despite the fact that Hal risks his life every single day, Hal is actually very on it with safety. Not that he doesn't take risks or enjoy the thrill of doing something dangerous and exciting with you, he’s just very on top of making sure it's done right. Any injuries that may occur in the bedroom department are far more likely to be caused on your end. Be you getting cocking and asking him to give more than you can take, tearing your internal walls or asking him to carry you high into the atmosphere only to trigger some kind of panic attack.

Whatever it is, Hal will get you the right treatment and tease you mercilessly afterwards.

👄 making out headcanon

Hal’s handsy when he makes out with you. At first, it was just about learning your body, in and out; finding the spots and the pressure that makes sense you want more. Nowadays he knows exactly where to touch to goad a reaction out of you and he likes to let his fingers linger just inches away.

He has such an endearing laugh, it's hard to stay annoyed at him when he laughs at you for grabbing his wrists and putting his mischievous hands exactly where you want them.

Jason

❤️ making love headcanon

Jason considers all forms of sex with you to be love making. Because he loves you. He wouldn't ever want to have sex with anyone else, no matter how soft or how kinky. Every time he gets you off in the bathroom with just his hands, whenever you get on your knees for him and take his cock to the back of your throat, all the role-play, the dry humping, the phone sex, all of it is love making to him and you can tell it by the look in his eye.

⏰ fave time of day to have sex

The evenings. Specifically, before he goes off to do his Red Hood thing. It's when he's at his best stamina wise, and he likes to give you a proper farewell, something to remember him by should things go sideways, or just something to think about while you're alone at night, a memory to keep your bed warm until he gets home.

😴 falling asleep after sex

Jason isn't much of a sleep cuddler, but he likes to be touching you in some way. It puts him at ease to feel you, to know you're safe and sound beside him. So he likes to rest his hand on the small of your back, or your thigh, or to hold your hand through the night.

🚨 sex that sent me to the ER headcanon

[Repeated] Jay was getting a little too excited, a little bit rough with the foreplay as he carried you to your bedroom, in stints, pressing you to the walls, the stairs, the doors to kiss and grind on on you. To strip each other of your clothes. It was a short-sighted accident when he whipped you from the wall, planning on carrying you through your bedroom door frame only to slam your head into the jam.

You were fine of course, just a bump, but he wasn’t taking the risk of leaving you with an untreated concussion or anything like that.

👄 making out headcanon

Jay likes it when you're on top. He likes it when you straddle him, wrap your arms around his shoulders and kiss him like you've been starved of affection. He's messy too, it's like he's trying to eat out your mouth, with his tongue down your throat. All that spit making salacious, wet echoes. He holds onto your hips, so tight, like you might abandon him any second, guiding you to grind on his tree trunk thighs as he practically devours you.

Smut Emoji Prompts

131 notes · View notes

jacquitries · 12 days ago

Text

Through the Threads of Fate | H.P.

You've always kept your ability to read the future a secret, but when Harry Potter starts suspecting you're involved with the dark side, everything becomes dangerous. His growing mistrust of you only fuels the tension, and as your hidden talent remains shrouded in mystery, you find yourself caught between protecting your secret and surviving the storm brewing around you.

𓆘𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘

The dungeons were your sanctuary. Cloaked in Slytherin green and silver, you moved through Hogwarts like a shadow—silent, unseen, always just one step ahead. The weight of knowledge settled on your shoulders, a burden and a gift intertwined. You saw the threads of fate twist and pull, shaping lives without mercy. But you knew better than to interfere too boldly. No one could ever understand what you saw. Least of all Harry Potter.

From the moment your eyes met his, there was an unspoken war—a silent reckoning. His emerald gaze flickered with suspicion, always following you, never trusting, as though you were the embodiment of the mysteries he couldn’t untangle. And yet, your path seemed to cross his at every turn. Every twist of fate, every dark secret, always brought you into his orbit. A slow-burning tension hung in the air, a game of cat and mouse. You, the elusive enigma. He, the determined hero.

The castle had its secrets, and it whispered them to you. The ancient stones hummed with echoes of both the past and the future. You listened, weaving yourself into the delicate strands of time. You saw the shadows of the Forbidden Forest, felt the cold wind atop the Astronomy Tower, and watched the Black Lake shimmer with memories only you could comprehend. You didn’t want this power. It was a curse more than a gift, revealing fractured glimpses of what was to come, yet leaving you powerless to change it.

Every warning, every quiet intervention, every seemingly innocent suggestion was a part of a greater plan. But none of them could prepare you for the choices you’d soon have to make.

𓆘𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘

You’d always known about the Philosopher’s Stone, long before Harry stumbled across the truth. When the troll rampaged through the dungeons, you stood calm, your voice steady as you guided a pair of terrified first-years to safety. When the whispers of Nicholas Flamel reached you, you carefully placed books open on the library tables, knowing Hermione would find them. And when the final confrontation loomed, you were far away, ensuring the corridors were clear for Harry, unknowingly steering him toward his destiny.

But it was the Chamber of Secrets that truly tested you. The mystery unfolded around you in subtle pieces, fear creeping through the walls like an invisible fog. You never spoke of what you’d heard or seen, not even when Mrs. Norris lay petrified in the hall. The whispers came to you, but you stayed silent, only nudging others in the right direction. When Ginny was taken, you held your breath, knowing Harry would be the one to find her. But as the events unraveled, Harry began to grow suspicious. He had seen you talking to Ginny not long before she disappeared, and his mind began to connect the dots. Though you kept your role hidden, a part of you braced for the moment he would confront you. You had done your part, quietly ensuring the balance tipped in the right direction, but now you would have to face the consequences of your actions—especially when Harry, driven by his suspicions, began watching you more closely.

𓆘𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘

Harry couldn’t escape you, no matter how hard he tried. You appeared everywhere—always just beyond his reach. In the library, your eyes lost in ancient tomes. In the corridors, slipping away just as chaos erupted. By the Great Hall, your gaze lingering on the enchanted ceiling, as if you could see beyond the stars themselves.

It infuriated him.

"She knows something," Harry muttered one evening, pacing in the Gryffindor common room, frustration evident in his voice. "She’s always there, slipping away before I can ask anything. There’s more to her, I’m sure of it."

"Maybe she’s just… clever?" Ron offered, though even he wasn’t convinced.

Harry’s gaze darkened. "No. There’s something else, something she’s hiding."

𓆘𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘

Your path and Harry’s truly collided during the Triwizard Tournament. You had seen it all—the chaos, the danger, the unexpected twists. You watched from the shadows as Harry’s name was drawn from the Goblet of Fire, his shock palpable in the air. You remained distant, a constant, enigmatic presence, your calm unshaken as he faced the dragons, the maze, and the deadly trials.

It was the dragons that first set everything in motion. You whispered to Neville about gillyweed—just a casual remark, but one that changed everything. And when Cedric Diggory died, when the tournament turned from a test of courage into a nightmare, your heart twisted. You had seen it all—had tried in your own way to adjust the timeline, to alter fate just enough to give Harry a fighting chance. But the outcome was inevitable. Fate, in its cruel simplicity, would not be swayed.

𓆘𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘

The darkness deepened in your seventh year, and the weight of fate pressed against your chest like a looming storm. When Harry, Ron, and Hermione were captured and taken to Malfoy Manor, you were already there, a silent force, woven into the very fabric of danger. Your presence was like a shadow, unseen but ever-present, watching as the threads of destiny pulled tight around your friends.

Bellatrix’s shrill voice pierced the air, a maddened cackle as she tortured Hermione, her wand poised like a dagger aimed at the heart of your very soul. You stood in the shadows, every muscle tense, your heart a drumbeat in your chest, yet your face was a mask of icy indifference. The visions you had seen, the threads of fate you had tried to piece together, were unfolding in front of you—but this moment, this confrontation, had always been unclear, a haze of pain and suffering that left you uncertain of where to stand.

And then, when the Snatchers dragged Harry before the Malfoys, your eyes met his—briefly, almost imperceptibly. The shock that flooded his expression was unmistakable, his disbelief evident as he saw you standing there, a ghost in the midst of the chaos. But you gave nothing away. Your gaze was sharp, unreadable, a carefully constructed wall that no one could breach. Not even him. You had to keep the illusion intact, no matter how much it tore at you to see him like this.

As the room erupted into chaos, time seemed to stretch, every moment suffocating with tension. You moved like a phantom, a blur in the dark, slipping through the chaos with the precision of someone who had already seen it all. Each step was deliberate, calculated, as if the very air around you bent to your will. Your wand flicked silently, and a whispered incantation loosened the bonds on Harry’s wrists, the ropes falling away like brittle threads. Without hesitation, you sent another silent spell, deflecting a curse meant for Ron, your magic swift and lethal.

You lingered just long enough to ensure their escape, your pulse thundering in your ears as the last of the danger dissolved into the air. The room seemed to hold its breath as you turned on your heel, vanishing into the shadows like smoke. When Harry, Ron, and Hermione dared to glance back, you were already gone—nothing more than a fleeting whisper in the night.

𓆘𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘

The final battle came, and with it, the revelation that had been a long time in the making. The skies were suffocating with smoke, the ground shaking as the forces of darkness and the defenders of Hogwarts clashed with a fury that could not be contained. Through it all, you moved like a shadow—graceful, lethal, and precise. The chaos around you was a dance you knew well, every step and strike calculated with a cool precision that only someone who had seen this moment unfold could master.

Harry caught glimpses of you throughout the battle. At first, it was just a fleeting shadow, a figure who seemed too composed for the madness swirling around him. But then, his eyes started to linger longer. The way you moved, the way your magic flowed, it all clicked for him. You weren’t just another face in the fight. You knew this battle—the exact moments when to strike, when to fall back, how to make every move count. His suspicions grew, the pieces falling into place, but a part of him refused to fully accept it. Could he trust you? Could he even trust himself?

Then, it happened. In the thick of the battle, when the world was reduced to chaos, a Death Eater lunged at Harry. He barely had time to react, his own wand raised, but before he could defend himself, you were there. A flash of movement, a wordless spell, and the Death Eater was thrown back, crashing to the ground with a force that rattled the air itself. Harry froze, watching as you didn’t just save him—you fought with a fury and skill that was terrifying in its intensity. The shock flooded him. This was no longer just the girl he'd suspected; this was something else. You weren’t just playing a part in this war. You were at its heart, shaping its outcome.

He barely had time to process. The fight raged on, louder, fiercer, but through it all, his mind kept returning to you. Every spell you cast, every life you saved, seemed to carry a weight he couldn’t ignore. He tried to focus on the battle, to finish what he had started, but it was too late. The doubt had already taken root. What did this mean? What had he gotten wrong?

When Voldemort finally fell, the world seemed to inhale a collective breath, but the Great Hall was left in ruins. The echoes of battle lingered in the air like an aftershock. Harry stumbled through the debris, searching for something, someone—when his eyes found you.

There you stood, amidst the wreckage, the first light of dawn breaking through the shattered windows to cast a pale glow on your face. You were silent, watching the aftermath with an expression that betrayed no joy, no satisfaction. Only the heavy weight of everything that had passed. There was no triumph in your gaze, just a deep, quiet burden that only someone who had seen the future—and fought to change it—could understand.

Harry approached cautiously, the tension of the battle still thick in his voice. “You were never against us,” he said, more to himself than to you, the words spilling from him like the release of a long-held breath. It wasn’t a question; it was a statement—a truth he had been blind to for far too long.

But you didn’t offer him the comfort of an easy answer. You simply met his gaze, your eyes cold but not cruel, a subtle edge of something deeper, something far more complex. “Took you long enough to figure that out.”

Harry flinched, the sharp sting of guilt cutting through him. The weight of all his mistakes pressed down on him, heavier than anything the battle had left behind. He had accused you, doubted you, turned his back on someone who had been fighting for the same cause all along.

“I… I’m sorry,” Harry said, the words thick with emotion, every ounce of regret spilling out. “For everything. For doubting you.”

You didn’t move, your gaze unwavering. You studied him for a long moment, the years of suspicion, of distance, crashing together into the silence between you. “Apologies won’t change the past, Potter,” you said quietly, the words biting with the weight of everything that had been left unspoken. “But they’re a start.”

The air was charged with the unspoken tension of everything unsaid. Harry stepped forward, searching your eyes as though he could finally understand the woman behind the mask. “You saved so many lives. All this time, I thought you were working against us.” His voice cracked, regret lacing every syllable. “I was wrong.”

You didn’t answer with words. There was no need to. His regret was all over his face, written in the lines of guilt that creased his brow. You had always known he’d get there eventually, but it didn’t make the journey any easier. You didn’t expect forgiveness. You never had.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of your lips, a fleeting thing, barely there. “And now?”

Harry’s voice softened, raw with sincerity. “Now I see how wrong I was.” He took another step, his presence steady, unwavering. “You… you’re incredible.”

For a moment, your eyes softened—just a fraction. You tilted your head, acknowledging the truth of his words, but you didn’t give him the satisfaction of an easy answer. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere.”

“It’s not flattery,” Harry insisted, his voice steady but full of something deeper. “It’s the truth.”

A silence stretched between you both, thick and heavy with everything that had been left unsaid. But for the first time, you truly saw him—not as the reckless boy who had thrown himself into danger at every turn, but as the man who had borne the weight of a war, who had fought through the impossible, even when it meant facing his own demons.

“Maybe you’re not as hopeless as I thought,” you said softly, your voice carrying a weight neither of you had expected.

Harry smiled—a faint, almost apologetic curve of his lips. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

But the battle hadn’t ended yet. You both knew that. There was more to be done, more healing to be had. Harry still had much to learn, much to undo. In the days that followed, as the Wizarding World began its slow process of rebuilding, Harry came to you, again and again, seeking your trust. He wanted to know you—not just the seer who had saved him, but the person you had kept hidden for so long. Slowly, carefully, you allowed him in, but it was never easy. You had learned to guard your heart—especially from someone who had been so quick to judge.

One evening, after an unspoken stretch of silence, you both stood at the edge of the Black Lake. The moonlight glinted off the water, casting the world in a soft, otherworldly glow. Harry turned to you, determination clear in his expression. “Let me make it up to you,” he said, his voice heavy with the weight of all the doubts, the accusations, the distance that had passed between you. “For all the times I doubted you, for everything I got wrong.”

You turned to him, the cool night air brushing your face. You didn’t respond right away. The past wasn’t something you could simply forget, but as you looked at him, something in your chest shifted—something neither of you had anticipated.

With a faint nod, you said, “You’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Harry smiled, the sincerity in his eyes breaking through the years of tension and regret. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

For the first time, you believed him. You believed in the possibility of trust, of something more.

And with that, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe—just maybe—you could trust him, too.

𓆘𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘

Years later, your name would be etched into the halls of history as one of the greatest seers the Wizarding World had ever known. You became a legend, revered for your foresight and for shaping the very course of events, all while remaining a mystery to those around you. By your side, always, was Harry Potter—your equal, your ally, the man who had finally understood you.

One quiet evening, as you sat together beneath the stars, Harry asked with a teasing smirk, “Still think I’m hopeless?”

You glanced at him, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips, your eyes soft with the weight of all that had passed between you. “Always.”

But deep in your heart, you knew—you wouldn’t have it any other way.

#harry potter x reader #harry potter imagine #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter x you

80 notes · View notes