#not rereading this to see if it makes sense
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Text
Thank you for tagging me @kedsandtubesocks @schnarfer @almostfoxglove @guiltyasdave @chronically-ghosted & @arcanefox207 to post my favourites of my own work this year ❤️
FOR MY FAVOURITES FROM OTHER WRITERS/ARTISTS THIS YEAR CLICK HERE
I will be honest I wasn’t going to do this, but I suppose we can be nice to ourselves as a treat 😅 I think it’s a lovely idea and absolutely everyone should be allowed to feel proud of their creativity and expression. It’s not always easy, we really are our own worst critics aren’t we? But celebrating ourselves is important.
It’s been a very up and down year for me as a person and a creator. I want to write all the time, but most of the time my brain doesn’t allow that. I’ve thought about deleting. I’ve thought about giving up writing. But I haven’t, and I’m still here, and I thank my gorgeous friends and the absolutely incredible people in this fandom for that for being so loving and encouraging 💕
Anyway let me stop blathering on, here’s some of the things I’ve enjoyed making this year!
🩵The Dieter Bravo Brainrot club is without a doubt the best thing I’ve been involved in this year. Me and @chronically-ghosted launched our dedicated Dieter discord server in January and now I don’t know where I’d be without it. It was just a silly little idea me and Taylor both had separately at seemingly the same time, and now it’s a whole thing. I’ve run writing challenges, we’ve had numerous watch parties, silly games, and now a gift exchange! And it’s never felt like anything but joy. We are feral, we are fun, we are encouraging and we lift each other up. And did I mention feral? I love having a dedicated space to talk about That Man, I love the ideas that pop up in there, the art and thoughts that are shared. I love running that place and I love everyone who is part of that community - thank you all for making my year 🩷
🩵Lover boy - Joel Miller x transmasc reader - Lover boy is my pride and joy, and truly the thing I’ve written I think i personally connect with the most. I was scared of posting the first fic tbh, but I’m so glad I did. It’s a chance for me to explore things that mean a lot to me. And I just love how in love they are. It’s only a few short pieces for now, but I have so much more planned for these two.
🩵After - Dave York x Carol York x Reader - This little story came to me after rereading one of my favourite poems. I loved the ache of it, the sweetness of the melancholy and the warmth of the post-threesome glow. I really love this short piece, I find myself coming back to it a lot.
🩵lost, found - Dieter Bravo x reader - Dieter and angst just makes sense, and this was born of my own angst which I guess is why it’s stuck with me since writing it. I think Dieter is an easy character to project certain feelings on to, and I have a lot of headcanons about his early life and his queerness especially. Also this story features my favourite polycule and one day I’m gonna write all about them.
🩵inhale, exhale - Joel Miller x reader - I’ve written a lot of Joel this year, more than any other character. Can’t help it, he’s fantastic to write. This is a little angsty, a little smutty, with a slice of the horrors of the qz too. I remember it just flowing from me while I wrote it and I’m really happy with the finished piece.
🩵Closer to light - Javi P x reader - Idk I just think this is insanely hot if I do say so myself.
Tagging some others to share their own 2024 favourites and celebrate their work! @covetyou @seventeenpins @perotovar @qveerthe0ry @sin-djarin
@luxurychristmaspudding @for-a-longlongtime @strang3lov3 @missredherring @ozarkthedog (And if you’ve already done this, tag me in yours ❤️ I wanna see!)
32 notes
·
View notes
Note
I've been rereading your "Gabriel redemption/corruption/canon mess of ideas post", and I remembered an old idea of mine: Gabriel driven insane by the Butterfly miraculous.
This is an artifact that allows you to sense the negative emotions of All of Paris. And then mentally connect to the person in whom the negative emotions are currently strongest.
It's less about "can this power drive anyone insane" it's more about "is there a chance this power wouldn't drive anyone insane?"
Worse, Gabriel uses this power constantly. Gabriel uses this power for shady purposes. Gabriel uses this power when already in an unstable state after losing his wife.
From a storytelling point, this neatly explains:
1) why Gabriel could go worse and worse as time progresses
2) why Gabriel's behaviour may be inconsistent (consistent behaviour doesn't combine well with sensory-overload magical madness and he is saner when untransformed)
3) why Butterfly Miraculous is so powerful (because this power is balanced with the great risk of using it)
At the same time, it is a trope known well enough to work well even in children's shows. In fact, I thought this idea may be canon, but then season 5 happened.
What do you think of this idea?
P. S. As always, thank you for your analysis, you are a treasure for the fandom!
Thank you for the lovely words! I'm flattered that you enjoy the blog so much!
I'm on the record as saying that evil Kwamis are about the only way to fix canon, so of course I love you idea! That post was about fixing canon post season five, though, so let's focus more on the butterfly itself.
Canon doesn't really explain how the heck the butterfly works. We get moments like this one from Sandboy:
Hawk Moth: I feel an emotion of great intensity. So pure… (turns a butterfly into an akuma) Fly away my little akuma and evilize him!
But why this happens is confusing. The butterfly isn't the miraculous of Emotion. That's the peacock. The butterfly is Transformation. Which is silly, so we're ignoring that. The butterfly is absolutely written to be Emotion in terms of almost everything about how it functions, so as far as I'm concerned, it's Emotion. Gabriel senses emotions with it and is even implied to have to pick what powers he gives based on the person's emotions as we see in Risk:
Shadow Moth: I need a villain who will force Ladybug to take risks, and without even realizing it, (corrupts a butterfly into a Megakuma) she'll make a mistake! (Shadow Moth closes his eyes to search for any strong negative emotions.) Extra 1: Great, of course my keys disappear from my bag just when I have to go out. Xavier: Now even benches have empty pigeon spikes on them? Oh, my poor friends... Froggy's Dad: Froggy, come back! It's too dangerous! Froggy: Why are you always scared of everything? I want to ride my bike without a helmet, without training wheels! Shadow Moth: (Open his eyes.) Perfect! Fly away, my Megakuma, and plague that deceived heart!
You could absolutely take this setup and use it to craft a narrative where Gabriel's actions are at least partially driven by the effects of feeling everyone else's emotions weighing down on him. This is extra true when you remember that Gabriel is supposed to be grief stricken. We are rarely at our best when we are mourning profound loss and the show really failed to lean into that fact even though the writers clearly wanted Gabriel to be sympathetic.
In my own rewrite, I heavily rely on these elements to shape Gabriel and Nathalie's characters. She may not use the butterfly, but she's also supposed to be mourning Emilie (or, at least, she is as of season five. I'm pretty sure that's a retcon, but it's something I changed to make her character work, so I'm cool with it.) That is a much stronger basis for Nathalie supporting Gabriel than the tired old trope of women doing stupid things because of men. (Don't get me wrong, we do, I just find it boring in most situations. It would only work in canon if the love square was supposed to be positive romantic love and Nathalie was supposed to be toxic romantic love, but the love square is toxic as hell and even "ends the world" so bleh )
I will peel back the curtain a little bit and give you one of my favorite ideas for making something like this work: if you have Emilie in a coma and not dead, then her brain would still be active. She'd still be experiencing emotions. Doesn't it make perfect sense for Gabriel to stay transformed 24/7 so that he can sense what is left of his wife, assuring himself that she's still there? And if the magic needs to stay secret, then of course that would mean that he never comes out of his home office because that's the only safe place to transform. And if you add in Gabriel being weak to the emotions of others, well, I think that has potential for something interesting, don't you?
#alexunbroken#lore discussion#Gabriel deserves better#Sympathetic Gabe my darling tragic villain how I love you#Not enough to redeem you but the love is still there#I prefer him as a tragedy and contrast to Adrien#Healthy grief and love vs unhealthy grief and love#Not that canon gave us that but a girl can dream
23 notes
·
View notes
Text
thinking about how the (greek) big three swore to never sire any more demigod children because those children are just too powerful (dangerous) and also thinking about how the characters that, arguably, seem to have the greatest proclivity for cruelty in the name of justice or vengeance are also the (greek) big three children... there's something there, a connection to be made I'm sure of it
#and its not just cruelty...#its like this spiraling into... darkness? power?#for percy and nico at least#thalia we dont get to see as much and I need to reread ttc#but like... she's SO tempted by power#its like she has to actively fight against those base instincts to rule (like her father)#when she chooses the hunters#she removes her role (her power her agency) in the great prophecy#and idk I feel like there's subtext there that she's worried what she would have done had she been the prophecy child#but sincerely there's something about greek big three kids thats off kilter#and that aspect only gets more pronounced as time goes on and they get older#like not only are they scarily powerful#but their mental states are just... messy#almost like in comparison to other demigods#they're a little more god a little less mortal if that makes sense#and they have to fight to maintain that mortality (their humanity)
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
EXACTLY! And there’s examples of this happening throughout the entirety of the book, to; Where he may, at first, say something that might lead you to think he’s about to be sincere, before he flips the script. I constantly tell people who have read TBOB and either don’t believe his backstory or think he’s just manipulating the reader to reread the book. Really break down each line in there.
The frequency on which he accidentally tells on himself - both having to do with Ford and not - is INSANE to me.
I’ll also see billford deniers say things like - ‘well the relationship was toxic therefore Bill didn’t have any real feelings towards Ford, the torn out journal 3 pages are a lie’, etc etc.
First of all, no duh it’s toxic. But abusers are absolutely capable of loving or caring about somebody. It’s their actions that make them abusers or not. Bill quite literally admits that he had “misplaced sentimentality” for ford, and even ON THE BREAKUP PAGE he STILL calls him “fordsy”.
The journal 3 pages being fake? I don’t buy it. Someone else made a lengthy post about it and I don’t remember who, but I fully agree with their take - not only does it not make sense storytelling wise, but also, it would be FAR more obvious if they were fake.
Also, something else that stands out to me a LOT….
No jokes. No shit talk. Bill straight up quotes Ford - he uses him as source material for info on gravity falls to relay to the reader.
He quotes him sincerely. I cant get over it
i know i could’ve just rewritten this here but i didn’t feel like it, anyway
what the hell is even that you gaybo
Not to mention…..
I am. Losing It these aren’t things someone who’s “not attached” and “never had any exes” says and does bro
220 notes
·
View notes
Note
do you have any thoughts about mountains first time? doesnt have to be a whole ass prompt fill lol but who gets big boy?
(anon I regret to inform you that you sent this while i was disastrously high so you get a Weird One - warnings for terato/monsterfucking, mentions of blood (nonsexual), inhuman anatomy, scent kink, agendered character referred to as "it", use of cunt/clit to describe its anatomy, and some lore at the end)
I still have to finish that fic about his first time bottoming, that's with Omega. But his first time in general?
Well, technically...
Mountain was more feral than most when he was summoned, took a long time to settle into his vessel. He cost a number of siblings their lives before the higher ups decided it was a better idea to let him loose in a warded-off section of the forest. Let him work out the more animalistic traits in an environment better suited to his elemental nature.
He wanders the trees completely unglamoured, with furry, back-bent hooved legs and patches of moss, lichen and bark coating his limbs and torso. His antlers, still budding, grow faster like this and the trees in his path bear fresh gouges as a result. He hunts everything he can, tearing in with claws and elongated jaws alike. The scruffy mane of hair he sports lies matted with days worth of blood, sweat and grime, and it's the fourth night before Mountain finds his appetite sated.
Well, one of his appetites at least.
This new hunger is similar, but very different. He knows lust, of course - no being in Hell wouldn't - but ghouls don't have corporeal forms Downstairs. They feel things, sure, but in the way you "feel" and intense thought, or a specific fantasy. Like this, though, anchored to a physical being he's still learning the ins and outs of, the pressure sitting heavy between his thighs feels foreign. Foreign, but also hot and urgent and fuck he needs.
Mountain paws at himself with rough, inexperienced hands until the sheath between his legs starts to swell. The ghoul watches as it grows, chest heaving when the flared head reveals itself. Already slick and throbbing, Mountain's stomach clenches when every inch is finally exposed and the length of it pulses.
It's then that a certain scent makes his nostrils flare, his eyes go wide, and something deep inside Mountain goes achingly tight. It's not the first time he's smelled it since he woke in the forest, naked and groggy, but it's the first time he's felt the urge to find its source. Now that he does, though?
He needs.
Mountain crashes through the trees on instinct alone, panting and drooling down his chin no matter how many times his hooves catch a root or a row of thorns tears at his flesh. The scent grows thicker the deeper he gets into the dense wood; it's something raw, something syrupy sweet yet intoxicatingly bitter. Like burning leaves on a hot autumn day, rich and earthen but undercut with a sharpness that could only mean desire.
The closer he gets, the more he recalls smelling it before. He remembers catching it when he was savoring the spoils of a hunt, one he'd spent melting into the trees to stalk a particularly jumpy buck. Remembers waking up once, in a small clearing he'd thoroughly marked, only to find a second scent joining his own. Not covering his, not a challenge - though Mountain took great pleasure in...reclaiming his territory anyway. More like an invitation, one Mountain had had no interest in following at the time. That wasn't what he had needed.
Now that he's close to drowning in that scent, though, his cock dripping as it wags between his thighs, Mountain has no idea how he's gone so long without it.
He crashes through the branches of an overgrown willow, blood pounding in his ears and groin in equal measure, and the shiver that wracks him is one shared with the source of this intoxicating scent.
It sits in a nest at the base of the willow, one tucked into its roots and flanked by flowering bushes. There are enough gaps in the tree's limbs to let patches of sunlight filter through, dappling the creature before him.
The one currently on all fours, presenting its flushed, swollen cunt and staring over its shoulder and directly into the center of his brain.
It must be another ghoul, something distant tells him. He only has flashes of the time before the forest, but he can faintly recall a pair of...humans, were they called? They shifted before his eyes, one into a being of black fur and unnatural smoke and the other into scales and fins. They spoke the language of the Pit, and that's the only reason Mountain remembers them.
This one, this creature, looks similar to him, he thinks. He only has a few interrupted reflections in brooks and streams to go by, but it's legs are like his. Back-bent, hooved, but the hair coating them is jet black instead of his own sun-stained auburn. Their torsos differ too - where Mountain could blend in with the bark of any tree, it is instead coated in a combination of thicker fur and sleek black feathers that rustle like the leaves above. No antlers atop it's head, but instead a pair of segmented horns that curl against its skull. It's smaller than he is, more angular, and the few facial features Mountain can see are just as sharp as the talons it has dug into the soft earth.
It makes a sound then, a rattling hiss of a thing, and Mountain growls in response. It's automatic, as is the way he drops to all fours for his final approach. It watches his every move, unnatural eyes wide and growing blacker by the second, and Mountain flinches when it tips it's head and a scratchy voice fills his skull.
New, it rasps in a familiar but broken dialect, forked tongue flicking between it's lips. Maybe a ghoul? It's speech is odd. You're new. New smell. Different.
Mountain watches it's cunt pulse, a thick trail of slick dripping from its hole straight down the fat nub of its clit. That shiny length flexes, and Mountain's cock responds in kind. He snarls as he crawls up to the creature, licking his jaws. That incredible scent, so thick he can taste it, would be enough to drive anyone mad.
Could feel you coming. Could...in the roots and stones...
Mountain barely registers the words floating through his head, but he really likes the way they fade into an audible sharp trill when he buries his nose into the source of his torment.
The taste of it is beyond compare, and Mountain can't help but drag his face through its copious slick while he wriggles his long, thick tongue inside. Desperate to coat himself in it, ears filled with the unearthly sounds of the creature offering itself to him on a silver platter. His hips work in useless, uncoordinated humps, cock jabbing at thin air as that tight hole clamps down around his tongue, and the overwhelming desire he feels to be inside the being before him hits him like a punch to the gut.
You....watching me...
Mountain manages the message as he moves to bracket that smaller figure. It nods, shudders when he settles against its back, snuffling at the crook of its neck. Using his snout to nudge its head, force it to expose its throat so he can feel it thrum under his tongue.
Watched...hunt. Watched me...kill...
It gives a chirrup, and Mountain feels its short, raised tail twitching against his stomach. His cock jumps, the broad head smacking against its clit, and Mountain's growl shakes the earth itself. Those same stupid humps take over, and Mountain stretches his jaws to wrap around the back of its neck to force it still. He uses the last of his brainpower to throw a final thought into its mind.
Why...bring me...to you?
Mountain sinks his fangs into its throat just enough to get a taste of what lives beneath its skin, and as his eyes roll back the creature moans.
Different, it whispers back, canting its hips when Mountain mindlessly tries to line himself up. So long...since something was different...
Mountain's grunting like a disobedient dog, every thrust bumping his cock against its thighs, its tail, it's mound. So focused on getting it inside without releasing the creature from the cage of his limbs that the frustration only builds, his snarls becoming more and more bestial until -
The body beneath him arches as best it can, and as Mountain's aching cock finally squeezes between swollen lips to pop inside there's no way to know which of them is louder.
Mountain doesn't remember much after that.
One day, though, he'll learn the story of the feral ghoul who haunts these woods. The product of a botched summoning, it was always destined to become a creature of instinct. Tied to the realm Above only because its summoner still lives, left to its own devices where it won't pose a threat.
One day Mountain will learn the story of what used to be Cowbell, and when he does nothing will keep him from going back to those woods.
#miasma's work#the band ghost ficlets#mountain ghoul#feral monster mountain my beloved#he lasted 14 seconds the first time fyi#i am putting these tags first to nest the reveal lmao#because this one is def Weird and probably doesnt make sense at the end#okay anyway#cowbell ghoul#mountain/cowbell#mountain x cowbell#i didnt just call cowbell “it” for the sake of this ficlet btw#it has it/they pronouns 2 me#and also a pussy but in a boy (gn) way#ANYWAY#lmk if i need to add tags#not rereading before posting so if you see mistakes#no you dont
171 notes
·
View notes
Text
“You made yourself a different person than the one I loved” – on Kit’s letter, his projections & idea of Ty
aka where i try to make sense of kit’s letter in the context of who ty was to him. basically i think that understanding that kit may not have had an accurate image of ty in his head helps to contextualise why kit believes the things he does, regardless of whether they’re fair to ty or not. it makes more sense reading lines like:
“in all the world, kit had never met anyone he believed to be so incapable of evil”
“all his energy had gone into ty, all his devotion and hopes for the future”
because you can see so clearly how much kit was projecting onto ty. ty, more than a friend—or whatever you might call it—was also the personification of this new world and all it meant for kit. kit saw him as this overwhelming force of good, beautiful as an angel, someone who not only wouldn’t do evil but was “incapable” of it.
so you can kind of see why everything was lost for kit once ty went through with the necromancy: because by doing so he was breaking the image kit had of him. of ty as a saviour of sorts from kit’s previous life, the person who convinced him to stay, who made kit feel like he was really a part of something, something magical and exclusive that not everyone got to be.
further evidenced by other lines:
“he had been too fixated on losing ty to tell him what he needed to hear” -> kit knows he should have told ty much sooner how he really felt about the situation. kit knows he deflected and in various ways lied to ty about trying to bring livvy back. but kit had wanted to stay by ty’s side, stay included in ty’s plans, more than his desire to tell ty the truth that he hated the idea.
“you made yourself a different person than the one i loved” -> ty as a person being shaped by kit’s projections of all his hopes and dreams, the face of this new world kit was drawn into, the first person he really got close to after he was pulled from one world to another, the person who convinced him to stay.
was the “person [kit] loved” an accurate reflection of who ty really was, flaws and all? unlikely. and the image of ty in kit’s head didn’t allow room for the real ty’s complicated, overwhelming grief, either, and the ways he would try to cope with it: and i believe this is part of why kit was so shocked by what happened and why he’s still so angry at ty. because ty proved to him that he wasn’t what kit believed him to be, and so all of kit’s hopes for his new life came crumbling down.
do i think it’s fair to ty? no, i don’t. but i think both can be true: that kit is upset and had gone through a traumatic situation, and has valid feelings about it while also understanding that he had a very skewed perception of ty that wasn’t fair to him.
mostly i think we need more room for understanding ty’s feelings*. how it must have felt to lose his twin sister in a horrifying way, devised a plan that (to him) seemed completely reasonable** only to have his best friend switch up on him last minute, tell ty he loved him mid-ritual, later say he wished he’d never met ty and basically tell ty that he was selfish and then on top of that leave without saying goodbye.
i also stand by my belief that “how long do you think it will take you to forgive me” is something both ty and kit could/should be asking each other, not just one way around. i honestly don’t understand why both kit and ty would think only kit needs to forgive ty and not both ways. mostly i just don’t think the narrative that ty’s the only one who needs forgiving is very fair, or makes much sense with their characterisation + the context + what actually happened.
in sum, when kit says “you made yourself a different person than the one i loved”, the person he’s referring to is an idealised version of ty whom he had projected all his hopes and dreams for the future onto, and by going through with the necromancy ty completely shattered kit’s understanding of him. this is consistent with other lines in his letter: “you wanted that more than you wanted me”, “when you brought livvy back, you changed yourself” (did ty really change? or did he just prove to be different from kit’s idea of him? genuine question), and perhaps most strongly evidenced by this line: “i don’t know the person you are now. you took yourself away from me. i can’t forgive that.” i don’t understand why he can’t forgive ty for not being the person kit thought he was, nor how on earth ty was supposed to know this, but i digress.
* i hope this is addressed in TWP because between TDA and now, we’ve had FAR more insight into kit’s thought processes than ty’s and as such we’re only really seeing one side of the situation.
** i also think part of the glaring misunderstanding between kit and ty can be understood from their respective backgrounds. obviously for kit, growing up away from the shadowhunter world, something like necromancy is completely out of the question. the way it would be for you or me. but ty grew up in a world where bringing people back to life was something that could and had actually happened. so it’s a far crazier, more impossible idea to kit than it would’ve been to ty.
#kit x ty#kitty#ty blackthorn#kit herondale#tbh – i could write a LOT more on this as it’s something i’ve been wrestling over in my mind since the letter came out#but i’ll stop there for now!#the more i go back and reread bits from tda coupled with kit’s letter and newer content#the more i think he wasn’t really seeing ty as Ty the Real Person with flaws etc. and more of#this dream and a personification of everything good about the shadowhunter world + majorly putting ty on a pedestal#so no wonder kit was so violently shocked by this not being true. but equally idk how it makes sense to be so angry at ty for that? but#maybe that's just me lol#the dark artifices#tda#twp#cassandra clare
90 notes
·
View notes
Text
I keep thinking about Lewis' review of The Hobbit, because he claimed that the main thing contemporary reviewers compared it to was Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. Was fantasy in that poor of a state that Alice was the closest thing they could think of? Comparing that chaotic fever dream to Tolkien's intricately crafted world? Lewis does specify that the comparison is that both books are by an "Oxford professor at play", but they're otherwise so different that putting the two in the same category baffles me.
#books#tolkien#the hobbit#c.s. lewis#alice's adventures in wonderland#(i just reread alice because the nicely-formatted bookbinding pdf made a nice ebook)#(thought i'd give it another chance after seeing how foundational it is (mentioned in so many other works))#i think there's an unbridgable cultural gap somewhere#i can't fathom how anyone can read this and become invested in wonderland as a world#it's so random and so chaotic and everyone's a pun and no one's a character#and yet somehow there are books upon books upon books that try to turn it into a dark fantasy world#it doesn't make sense! it's a world that's not supposed to make sense!#and yet they try to treat the government as legitimate and the queen as a real threat etc.#okay sorry for the digression#but my point is that it's odd that there was nothing else in that seventy-ish year gap for them to compare it to#the only thing coming to mind is peter pan#i suppose george macdonald and e nesbit both had their own brands of popular children's fantasy#maybe the real shocking thing about that comparison#is that i'm so used to seeing it compared to narnia that putting the hobbit in a category with any earlier fantasy work seems weird
117 notes
·
View notes
Text
oh my fucking god. i’m seriously at such a loss of words ur so cruel so evil such a genius i genuinely pulled at my hair at that ending because????? FUCK YOU UR SO EVIL FOR THIS UGGGGGGGGHHHH I LOVED THIS SM IM GOING FUCKING FERAL MY STOMACH HURTS IM SHAKING FUUUUUUUCKK 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭
the way that you managed to clock all the things that make me weak. mean dom gyu. perv gyu. obsessive gyu. the fact that u used one of my favorite photo shoots of him as the image for this fic. you are just so uuuggggggggggggggghhhhh i can’t even you’ve turned my brain to mush all i can do is keyboard smash. i wish u could see the physical effect this shit had on me because it’s genuinely concerning. (edit: my fucking roommate came to give me their stress ball bc they said and i quote “you’ve been rlly quiet for a while now, u okay?” ALDBSKFJDN)
i’ve read a concept kiiinda maybeeeee slightly reminiscent of this (if u squint) like. years ago. but it was literally one of my favorite things ever if it managed to survive the absolute warfare of my mind. so to see something that reminded me of it made me genuinely fucking FREAK OUT. LIKE WHAT THE FUCK. GYUS PHANTOM FINGERS AND LIPS AND MONSTER COCK FUCKING THE MC IN A PUBLIC AND FULL SUBWAY 😭😭😭 WHAT THE FUCK!!!!!
THIS WAS SO HOT BTW. IN CASE I DIDNT IMPLY THAT. but besides the absolute insanity that was the smut (that i’ll come back to) ur writing is so good LMAOOOO
like ur descriptions and moods are written so well it was so well executed as always… the descriptions of beomgyu’s day to day life… and how scary it was for him to grow up with his powers 💔💔💔 the fear of his dreams falling apart on him, there’s seriously a really interesting storyline buried beneath the yk. absolute filth that broke my mind apparently.
i could quite literally quote all of gyus “dialogue” with the mc and tell u why it fucked me up— but all i will say is that i read “that’s music to his ears, really— because he likes treating girls like that too” and gasped. out loud. he’s so hot i need him i want him so bad i don’t think u understand.
the whole scene where he begins to touch the mc…. then it all builds up to him finally fucking her with his huge… phantom? dick??? ur so fucking sick for that i fucking hate u. 😭😭😭 “he knows he’s big, but you take it like a champ, your hips grinding down into the seat…” i’ll start crying rn btw ‼️🤣🔥🔥🔥
this makes no sense. i feel the need to properly break this down and tell you why i loved it and show u all the stuff that just made me go crazy, but i’m mentally incapable of saying anything coherent!! so this is all you’ll get i’m sorry. i’ll probably end up coming back to this once i’m normal but in the mean time…. this is all you get.
telepathy (m) — cbg
pairing: choi beomgyu x fem!reader
genre: smut, strangers to ???, mind reader/telepathist!beomgyu, funeral home employee!beomgyu (it's for the plot ok???)
wc: 11.7k
synopsis: most people would abhor a packed subway car — but beomgyu, telepathist extraordinaire, relishes in it. with a career in the funeral business, he finds his morning commute to be the only thing that keeps him relatively sane. reading the mundane thoughts of mundane people maintains his tether to his humanity, but when he goes to read your mind...oh, things get a whole lot more interesting.
warnings: mdni!! 18+ only, ageless blogs dni!!!, mentions of dead bodies, embalming, and funerals (though not very descriptive — it's only bc of gyu's profession), reader is a freak that listens to nsfw audios on her way to work!, gyu is a perv so it's a match made in heaven (hell?), gyu's honestly a little strange + obsessive in this...anyways, dom!gyu, sub!mc, solo male masturbation, on my big cock beomgyu agenda, very brief mentions of daddy/sir/master kinks, explicit consent is given before anything happens bc consent is sexy <3, mind manipulation (he makes it feel like he's touching her), exhibitionism in a way (it will all make sense, trust 🙏), degradation, praise, pseudo-fingering (idk how to explain it, f receiving), gyu calls mc: pretty girl, sweetheart, slut, whore, princess, mc calls gyu sir like once...whew! that was a lot, lmk if i should add anything!
note: you know i have a terrible bout of brainrot when the warnings are all nsfw related...yeah. Yeah. *presses post and runs away*
☆ playlist ☆
masterlist
beomgyu’s commute to work is, by all means, uneventful.
the train is packed as per usual, filled to the brim with businessmen and office workers and other miscellaneous passengers on their way to whatever the hell their destination is. like most days, he finds himself towards the middle of the passenger car, snatching a rare open seat between a stone-faced man adorned in a suit — his head buried in a newspaper — and a slumped over college student nursing a cup of coffee. the poor kid almost looks like death itself, sporting dark under eyes, rumpled clothes, and a prominent slouch to his spine. not that beomgyu could really blame him; he remembers how easily college living (if you could call it living) can chip away at a person’s mental well-being.
people-watching like this is what keeps him sane, he thinks. being surrounded by corpses all day, every day is more than draining — it sucks the soul out of him, really, being the only person on shift most of the time that he’s working, having to embalm and clean and pretty up all those cold, gray bodies so that their loved ones can say one last goodbye. it’s quiet in their minds and it’s all too quiet in the funeral home, the only sounds being the clanking of the embalming tools he’s been trained to use, his footsteps echoing down the tiled halls, his sighs of contempt when something small goes wrong — yet the living, breathing, warm people on the train provide a sense of normalcy, something to look forward to every day. to hear their thoughts, as prosaic as they are, has become a sort of saving grace from the lifeless, cold building that he finds himself in five out of the seven days of the week. honestly, if he can maintain a little bit of his humanity via strangers among the subway, even if it’s just by hearing their thoughts, then he’ll take what he can get.
yeah, that’s the thing: beomgyu is a mind-reader, a pretty talented one at that. not that anyone knew, of course — he wouldn’t risk the government finding out. beomgyu is not usually one for promises, but he has promised himself one thing: there’s no way in hell that he will ever become one of the government’s sick little science experiments, even if his life ever hits rock bottom. he has no idea how his powers work — just that they do, and he would like to keep it that way. it’s bad enough that he doesn’t know where he got such abilities; his parents never mentioned anything about it and only ever grew worried whenever he read back their thoughts to them, so obviously the existence of his powers is some statistical anomaly in the universe. normal people can’t read others’ minds. he was forced to learn that at a very young age in order to keep himself safe.
“how do you know that?” he remembers his mother’s alarmed tone when he first did it unknowingly, repeating back her own thoughts to her without realizing that’s what he had done. he was maybe six at the time — innocent, curious, plagued by voices in his head that he didn’t quite understand. those voices weren’t his. rather, they were his friends’, his family’s, his dentist’s and his doctor’s and his soccer coach’s voices that ricocheted about his mind uncontrollably;it was overwhelming for the young boy’s mind. the day he first admitted that he could hear them was the first day he heard his parents argue, their yelling from downstairs colliding with their internal voices in beomgyu’s mind, their terribly poignant concern for him and this development louder than any of the venomous words that they spat at each other in the living room. all he remembers from that day was himself crying, unable to block out anything that they thought, let alone his own thoughts. too much for his young mind to handle.
he heard their fear when they took him to the doctor for the first time of many, their heartache when the doctor came back and said that he might have psychosis, but more testing was needed. he heard how they started to deny it — their little boy couldn’t have that, could he? no, no he couldn’t. there’s no way he could.
although beomgyu was young at the time, guilt ate at him. he was the one hurting his parents, he was the one making them worry. despite his official diagnosis when he was seven, something inside him knew that the doctors were wrong. those voices weren’t just the result of the machinations of his mind at work — they were voices of the people he knew, strangers who passed him on the street. what they said wasn’t evil, it wasn’t out of the ordinary. usually, it was quite mundane. at some point, he started to practice with it, trying focus on one certain voice out of the buzzing hive in his mind, blocking out the others, switching and focusing and blocking out until the action was as natural as breathing. it took him about five years before he reached that point, and after nearly two decades of living with his abilities, he’s gotten quite used to it. his mind is usually quiet — besides his own stream of consciousness — unless he allows others in. or, rather, they allow him in, which they always do. he sees it like a set of doors; open one, and you can hear that one person’s thoughts. close it, and he no longer hears them. and none of them are ever locked since no one expects to their thoughts to be read, which simply makes his life that much easier.
if he’s being honest, he didn’t used to read minds as often as he does now, but there isn’t much he can do about that now lest he go insane. beomgyu could admit that his habit was a little creepy…okay scratch that, extremely fucking creepy. these people had no idea that their minds were being infiltrated, their mental walls bypassed and their privacy violated like a computer infected with a malicious virus. it’s borderline depraved, how nonchalantly he robs these strangers of their utmost privacy, sometimes of their deepest, darkest secrets that they would never want anyone to find out about. he could sequester quite a bit of money out of some of these people, now that he thinks about it.
and sure, that may sound immoral, but beomgyu has never considered himself to be of particularly virtuous character.
without a second thought, beomgyu taps into the mind of the kid next to him. he’s thinking about how he’s failing his statistics class because he just bombed his midterm. no, now his mind is full of what he’s going to eat after his 8 a.m. class. he shifts his focus on the businessman to his right. stocks, his cheating wife, how he’s considering leaving with his mistress in the coming days…
”what a prick,” beomgyu thinks to himself, smirking a bit. just a few more stops until he gets off, now.
he pulls his phone from his jacket pocket, scrolling aimlessly just to keep his eyes busy. sitting on the opposite side of the college student, an elderly lady walks herself through the stew that she’s going to make for her grandchildren tonight, excitement coloring her words. it’s cute — he loves hearing things like that. wholesome thoughts are not easy to come by nowadays, given the state of the world. exhibit a: a teenager standing on the other side of the train car worries himself into a frenzy over whether the girl that he has a crush on likes him back. exhibit b: a middle aged man contemplates if he should quit his job. for a second, beomgyu thinks that he might be in the same boat as him, before realizing that he has nothing else to fall back on — exhibit c. he could keep going.
a clear, robotic voice overhead announces the subway’s arrival to the next station — his station. sighing, he sits up a little taller, slipping his phone into the pocket of his slacks. a vague sense of dread weighs down his shoulders, knowing that he has a service to set up for the moment he clocks in.
he’s not looking forward to today, and yet the train still slows to a stop, the doors still slide open, and he still grabs his work briefcase from the spot between his feet. like clockwork, beomgyu maneuvers through the crowd, out the doors, and climbs the stairs up to the chilly streets of seoul.
decompressing after a slow-moving shift can take beomgyu’s night in many directions. sometimes, he simply returns home and hops into bed after a long, scalding hot shower that removes the invisible layer of grime that lays heavy on his skin. other times — typically on fridays — he’ll stop by a bar and catch up with his friends, occasionally leaving with a woman hanging off of his arm if he drinks enough to lower his inhibitions. more often than not, however, his excursions at the underground bar that taehyun is partial to end in him stumbling home alone and waking up the next morning with a raging headache. nursing a hangover alone, eating breakfast alone, bathing alone…he has never really become acclimated to it. the monster that festers inside beomgyu’s chest craves for love, for connection, for somebody to hold when the nights are too dark and his thoughts match the shade of the sky. the lack of connection is slowly getting to him. is this what insanity feels like? he wouldn’t know, nor would he like to find out. he’s sane. he’s perfectly sane.
beomgyu understands that his profession can be off-putting to potential lovers, but it’s not as if he had much of a choice in the matter — not when his one shot at the career of his dreams crumbled below his feet when the company filed bankruptcy, sending him tumbling back down to earth, to the reality that his college degree meant little to nothing to the vast majority of employers nowadays. though he applied to dozens of jobs, the only one he ever heard back from was from the listing titled “mortuary assistant,” and in desperation, he accepted the position without much thought. maybe if he had tried a little harder to find a different company where he could apply his skills, maybe if he had pushed himself to make connections in the industry when he had the resources to do so, maybe if he had pursued music production a little harder, had not given up so readily when things grew difficult…maybe things would be different.
beomgyu often thinks about the maybes.
this particular night, he finds himself leaned over a bar counter, a glass of amber-hued beer in hand. he half-listens to yeonjun’s slurred account of his dance crew’s latest win while he stares down at the mahogany tabletop. some condensation has gathered on the wood, and he swipes a finger through it. a slap to his shoulder brings his focus back to his surroundings.
“gyu, dude, y’should totally try out,’’ yeonjun pitches as he sloppily swings an arm over beomgyu’s shoulders. “get out of that. that—” he stumbles over his words for a moment, expression warping into a confused grimace. “that gross ass dead people building.”
beomgyu exhales a laugh as yeonjun’s head lolls against his shoulder, quietly whining about how his head hurts. while yeonjun is substantially gone already, beomgyu is only on his second beer. scanning the spacious, dim-lit room, he shakes his head. it’s times like these where he does not feel the need to slip into people’s minds — being surrounded by his friends is enough. “nah, man. i don’t think i could keep up. it’s been a while.”
“sure y’could! you’re like th’second best dancer here!” yeonjun says as his torso slumps down against the table. the bartender eyes him from further down the bar top with concern, but beomgyu sates the employee with an apologetic smile, ensuring that he turns away before setting his attention back on his friend.
beomgyu scoffs. “and i’m assuming you’re the first best?”
“uh, obviously. i literally run th’thing,” yeonjun retorts as he glares at him with a single eye open, an ear now resting on top of his crossed arms on the counter.
“yeonjun’s right,” taehyun butts in from the other side of yeonjun’s collapsed body. though his glazed over eyes give away his inebriated state, taehyun’s tolerance tends to lean much higher than yeonjun’s; this fact is confirmed by the crystal clear enunciation of his words as he continues, “you’ve been acting differently ever since you started working there. it wouldn’t hurt to try something new.”
great, even his friends have noticed. exhaling deeply, beomgyu nods.
“yeah, i’ll think about it.”
as the conversation meanders off into other topics, beomgyu sinks back into his own little world. curse taehyun and his acute perceptiveness. he knows that he’s been acting off, but maybe his friends are right; he once dreamed of being a choreographer, back when he was a teen, before he discovered his love for music production. perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to try.
unintentionally, he meets the gaze of a girl sitting at a booth with her friends. he quickly averts his gaze, and by the time he looks back up, she has been roped into what seems like a shot-taking contest. six other girls circle the table, one joining the first girl in taking rapid-fire shots, four others egging them on, and one laser-focused on her phone, occasionally sipping water through a straw. from what he can gather, she’s likely the group’s designated driver — though it seems her role has morphed into more of a babysitter. she’s pretty, he’ll admit. just his type. if he was on his third or fourth beer, he’d probably be over there trying to strike up a conversation with her, rather than any of her drunk friends.
as she looks up and throws a cursory glance around the bar, she catches him staring, her kohl-lined eyes meeting his own. an eyebrow raises as her gloss-coated lips twist, as if to say “don’t even try it.”
oh, how terribly he wishes to slip into her mind and let her know that he has no intention to.
the ear-piercing screech of yeonjun’s barstool to his right tears his gaze away from her. yeonjun now stands, one arm around taehyun and the other around soobin, the latter sporting a borderline disgusted grimace directed at the older boy hanging off of him while kai simply stands behind the trio of men. yeonjun’s head hangs low below his shoulders, chin nearly touching his chest, as he emits a pathetic groan. at least he’s not puking this time.
“we’re about to go grab some food. this one,” taehyun’s head nods to yeonjun’s sagging frame. “definitely needs it. you coming?”
unwilling to allow the night to end quite yet, beomgyu hums, quickly pays his tab, and allows the brief, silent encounter with the woman to fade away into the back of his mind.
the rest of the weekend passes without fanfare, and monday returns to rear its ugly head once again. monday is beomgyu’s least favorite day of the week; it brings a raging headache from his 5 a.m. alarm, a bone-deep fatigue that lingers for the rest of the day. it brings grumpy commuters whose knees and elbows uncomfortably bump against his own. it brings people who think that he should give up his seat, and silently tell him so with narrowed eyes and furrowed eyebrows. how selfish, they all think whenever he actually bothers to read their thoughts. what a fucking dick, some of them even snarl within the so-called impenetrable walls of their minds, walls he so easily breaks down. he levels those ones with a half-awake glare, pupils gloomy and lifeless. internally, their uneasy reactions make him want to laugh, hysterically cackle in their faces because wow, is he really that scary? he shouldn’t be, but maybe the dark under eyes are doing something for him.
surprisingly, the subway car he frequents is less crowded than usual. not as many people stand in front of him, and he’s actually able to see directly across the car for the first time in a while. doors shut, and he’s left to look around at the regulars and the new patrons that often don’t show up again. they’re easily less interesting than the regulars. really, what can he say? the daily life updates satisfy his nosy tendencies.
still, he hates mondays. mondays suck. mondays make him want to crawl into a hole and eventually join the bodies at his workplace. they bring out the worst in his mind. all they do is remind him of the neverending cycle that he has trapped himself in — wake up, work, go to sleep, and do it all over again the next day.
mondays bring a lot of things he fundamentally dislikes, but this particular monday also brings you.
it’s split-second eye contact. nothing more, nothing less. your eyes grow wide, your lips parting just the slightest bit in surprise. though he has not invaded your mind (yet), he can already tell what you are thinking. fuck, he isn’t blind — he knows that he is handsome.
your eyes shoot downward, your head hanging low with your phone clenched between your fingers. one of his eyebrows raises while a small smirk plays on his lips — you’re new, and even better, you’re cute. his dark, seemingly bored gaze trails over to the earbuds nestled in your ears, then to your crossed legs. you glance up at him again, eyes blowing wide again as your thighs press together just enough for him to notice the movement. his own eyes narrow slightly, evaluating the sight.
you seem...interesting. prim, proper, sitting in a modest-length skirt and a plain blouse and coat that paint you as an unassuming character, just another random person in this sardine can of a train car. yet there’s this glint in your eyes that tells him there is so, so much more to you than what meets the eye — that the innocent, put-together little front that you display to the world is a complete and utter lie. it’s intriguing. new patrons come and go from this particular subway car every day, but you and your fresh face have caught his interest — and so has your odd behavior.
then, without warning, realization punches him square in the gut.
you were there the other night, with those girls at the bar. the one sitting at the end of the table with the small glass of water as you scrolled through your phone. the one who shot a piercing glare at him as you looked out for your inebriated friends. your current behavior is a far cry from the strong front he first encountered that night, small and oh-so meek and lacking the sharp, piercing edge to your gaze that initially piqued his interest in you. the change, for some reason, intrigues him more. what happened to that feisty glare, that confident air to your posture? he wants to know why you seem so meek, so he taps in to your mind and—
“you’re my dumb little slut, aren’t you? fuckin’ say it—”
beomgyu flinches in his seat, the door to your mind slamming shut as he sits there in shock. did he really just hear that? are you listening to fucking porn on the subway? what the fuck?
he’s never had this happen to him before. he’s accidentally stumbled upon the occasional horny thought before, sure, but listening to porn on the subway? that’s a new one. he decides to give you another glance; your lips are pressed together now, eyes pointed towards the floor as you further shrink into yourself. fuck, you’re so cute, but now he knows you’re also awfully perverted — and for some reason, he feels himself getting hard in his trousers at the thought of entering your mind again.
he should do something about this little development, shouldn’t he?
yeah, he thinks that he should. a sick sort of curiosity wins over the more logical side of his brain, the side that tells him that he should feel guilty for even thinking about what he’s about to do. he can’t, can he? no, he can — he wants to, he really fucking wants to. opportunities like this don’t just present themselves on a silver platter like this on the regular. if he doesn’t take this chance, then he’d be an absolute fool.
the subway slows to a stop, the weirdly cheery, robotic voice calling out another stop. not his, thank god. he takes this opportunity to open that pesky little door to your mind again, now fully expecting the depravity echoing in your brain — and rather than do anything drastic too quickly, he simply sits there and listens. he listens through an entire audio alongside you, ignoring the twitch of his cock as he listens to the woman be degraded and praised, in missionary and in doggy, her moans mixing with the man's in a cacophony of pleasure — he loves the way you jump when the sound of a hand striking flesh sounds through your mind. your fleeting sigh of “god, i wish that were me,” causes him to bite his lip. you like being treated like a slut, huh? like a stupid little whore only made to take cock? that’s music to his ears, really — because he likes treating girls like that too.
as sick and disgusting as it is, he continues to listen as if mindlessly tuning in to a podcast, subtly adjusting himself in his pants as he fights off a raging boner. he wants to be the one to do those things to you. he wants to make you scream and sob and beg for mercy as he completely ravages your body, fuck you until you’re brainless, perfect little slut for him. you’d love that, according to the audios you consume for the remainder of his commute — to be fucked so hard you legs give out from under you, to be owned, fully and completely. he likes that sound of that as well.
a few minutes into the second audio, you take another glance at him, eyes squeezing shut right away once you catch his gaze — and suddenly, your thoughts are full of him. he’s encountered countless strangers who can perfectly visualize their streams of consciousness, and you seem to be yet another one of them. images of you on your knees between his thighs and sucking his cock in the middle of this subway car flood his own mind, switching to one of him fucking you from behind against the wall while everyone else watches, then to him finger fucking you with a hand around your throat…what the fuck. what the fuck? how do you just do that? how do you think of such terribly shameless things while looking so pretty and demure, as if you’re a shy little thing rather than some fucking whore? he shifts his briefcase over his lap again. fuck, he’s so hard it’s starting to hurt. shit, fuck.
he should be appalled by you, but fiery, ardent lust is the sole emotion that floods his veins. would it be a bad idea to talk to you? no, you want it. you want it so fucking bad. just look at your mind — and he can make all your dirty little fantasies come true, if you would let him.
just as he’s about to actually do something about you, the subway slows to a stop once again, the same cheery voice announcing his stop. god dammit. pushing himself up to his feet, he finds that you’re doing the same, wide eyes flitting around nervously as you move towards the door and stop nearly right next to him, those earbuds that hide your biggest secret in plain sight still stuck in your ears. he can still hear those degrading words and moans and slapping sounds that still echo through your mind, loud and clear as if those white earbuds are sitting snug in his own ears.
the doors slide open, and soon enough, he loses sight of you in the surging crowd. stepping out of the subway, he looks around once, twice. you have completely disappeared; nowhere to be found, your mind has grown too far from his own for him to locate nor access, the tether between the two of you frayed to the point of snapping in half. with a brief purse of his lips, he sets off up the stairs. it’s fine, there’s always another day. it’s fine, he tells himself over and over again. there’s nothing he could have done in such a short time, anyway.
the sun sits high in the sky today, but the bone-chilling air cuts through his puffy coat like tiny needles puncturing his skin, or millions of scalpels slicing open flesh nearly to the bone, cold and sterile and far from comforting. autumn shouldn’t be this cold, and his slightly soured mood isn’t helping his case right now. he should have done something back there, he should’ve opened up the channel between the two of you and taken the plunge. it wouldn’t have hurt to try, but no. no, he let that opportunity go like every other one he’s had in his life. with his jaw set, he promises himself that it won’t happen again. it won’t, because if he keeps living like this — allowing all these opportunities slip through his fingers like grains of sand — he’ll never be able to forgive himself.
and honestly, beomgyu is no clairvoyant, and he should brush off the tickle in his brain as a stupid, naive hunch…but he has a compelling feeling that he’ll be seeing you again tomorrow.
when beomgyu returns home, the sun slowly sinking towards the horizon, he doesn’t unwind like he usually does. today’s shift was a slow one, with no bodies to preen and primp and no services to set up for, so most of his time was taken up with cleaning, filing documents, and sitting around aimlessly. no matter how much he tried to fend them off, thoughts of you bounced around in his brain for the entire eight hours he was on shift. fuck, he doesn’t even know your name, much less anything else about you, yet he wishes he could travel back in time and redo this morning all over again. he’s not sure how it would have panned out, exactly, but he has a few tricks up his sleeve that would’ve made it exciting.
he shakes his head. the current moment presents much more pressing matters than ruminating on this morning’s terrible decisions; the strain in his trousers proves to be a pertinent issue, a tent formed in the black fabric and aching to be touched. now that the public eye no longer holds his gaze, his apartment door locked shut behind him, he allows himself to give in to his most base instincts. a hand comes down to cup his hardness as he imagines his fingers as yours, you on your knees below him, those adorably wide eyes staring up at him in desperation. you’d wait for permission, right? you’d beg so prettily like a good little slut should? fuck yeah, you would. you’d be good, you’d take what he would give you — and you would love it.
groaning, he crashes onto his couch, head throwing back against the back cushion as he gropes his cock harder. he’s forgone slipping off his dress shoes and has barely even slipped his coat off before he’s giving in to the pulsing ache in his groin that’s nearly unbearable, the white hot need swirling in his stomach that demands his immediate attention. his belt quickly unbuckled and his trousers pulled halfway down his thighs, he slips his cock from his boxers, gasping at how sensitive he has become.
“oh fuck,” he breathes out into the quiet air, a shuddered sigh following when his thumb swipes over the angry red head, the bead of precum that has gathered there spreading across his skin. he brings his hand up to his lips, gathering some spit beneath his tongue before letting in loll into his palm. bringing it back down, he drags his hand up and down his shaft, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as pleasure rushes through his veins. he pumps his cock steadily, hips rolling up into his hand as if fucking your throat. eyes fluttering closed, his free hand grips the couch, fingernails digging into the worn leather and leaving half-moon indents in their wake. “fuck. god, fuck.”
would you be able to take him? he’s been told he’s big, most women barely able to take him even after extensive prep. he imagines how you’d keen as he enters you, your back arching so prettily and your walls stretching to their limits to accommodate his size. how you’d choke and gag on his cock if he decided to use your throat, tears streaming down your cheeks as you peer up at him pathetically, fingers digging into your thighs as you resist the urge to touch yourself. would you like to be slapped around a little, punished with spankings and little taps to your cheek?
“focus,” he mumbles to no one. to you. “focus, slut. be good for me.”
he’s delirious at this point, has dived so deep into his fantasies that he barely registers that he’s fucking his fist and not your mouth or sweet little cunt. that doesn’t stop his fingers from tightening their grip, squeezing the head before gliding back down again, then back up, the rhythm of his hips growing frenzied as his high inches closer. his free hand smooths up his stomach, taking his button-up with it as he clenches it with desperate fingers. he bites down on the fabric, pumping himself once, twice, three times before his high hits him, his cum spurting out in staccato ribbons. he’s making a mess, but he can’t bring himself to care when this is the best orgasm he’s had in months. the shirt falls from his mouth as he moans unabashedly.
“take it,” he groans, his hips canting upward. “fuckin’— fuckin’ take it. shit. such a perfect little whore for me.”
he cums and he cums, spilling all over himself until he’s milked dry. eyes closed, his contracted muscles melt into the couch, hot pants replacing his moans and groans. a few minutes pass before he fully comes down from his headspace and returns back to earth, only for him to realize just how much he came, staining his clothes and coating his skin in creamy white. he blinks.
reality crashes down on his head.
he just…jerked off to you. he just came so hard he saw stars just from the mere thought of you. oh, he’s in deeper than he first thought. too deep, too quickly, he can barely breathe.
“fuck,” beomgyu murmurs as he stares down at his cum-covered abdomen, his sticky hand. “fuck.”
beomgyu was right: you do come back the next day. and the next. and the next.
over the remainder of the work week, he watches you — well, more so listens to you, but he can’t deny himself the little glimpses he allows himself to take, drinking in how you worry your bottom lip, how the muscles in your throat contract each time you gulp. the poker face that you don crumbles oh so easily whenever he meets your stray gaze. it’s exhilarating, knowing the power he, a complete stranger, has over you. your microscopic slips in expression remain undetected to the rest of the passengers, but he sees every single one. they’re a perfectly entertaining backdrop for your explicit musings.
he knows he could approach you like a normal human being would, but where’s the fun in that? he’s not quite a normal person in his own right, anyway. instead, he’s decided to keep you in his sights, learning what exactly you enjoy, what you like to hear, preparing for the day where he again gathers the courage to toy with you within the walls of your mind. he’s in deep, and at this point, he’s accepted it if only to justify his sadistic obsession with you. actually, on second thought, he wouldn’t quite call it an obsession, perhaps a morbid curiosity more than anything. yeah, that’s all it can be.
it’s almost as if the universe has sent him a little present in the form of you, an apology for the trials and tribulations that whatever is above has rained down on him this past year or so. of course he’s going to savor it. who wouldn’t? so he sticks to his plan, and keeps watching you, listening to you, observing you, identifying your little quirks and deepest, darkest desires. they’ll be quite useful later, he’s sure.
over his…research period, he’s found out a lot about you. you like to be bullied, to be called a slut, a whore, but you also enjoy a little praise mixed in: good slut, good whore, pretty girl is so obedient for sir, for daddy, for master. you’re also not too picky in what you listen to, as long as it contains a male dominant in some capacity. couple’s content, threesomes, gangbangs are all on the table, as are solo audios that usually have some sort of plot to them — coworkers to lovers' first date that ends in sex? check. hot librarian who fucks over a table you after closing? that too. he could go on about what he’s heard in just the solo audios you consume, but even that list would be exhaustive.
by the time friday rolls around, he doesn’t even have to try to search for your mind; call him crazy, but it’s almost as if you, on some subconscious level, know that he wants in and are more than willing to let him. as if you keep the door cracked open just for him.
at least, he likes to think that you do.
staying close, but not too close, to you proves to be difficult today. fridays bring with them a surge of new faces that crowd the subway car, which is generally quite annoying, but at the moment, he also finds it to be frustrating. no seats are open when he boards, he can’t even see you through the dense crowd, but you’re there. your mind is there, open and waiting for him to enter.
though he won’t be able to see your cute little reactions, he steps through that mental threshold.
“it’s okay, baby. shh, don’t cry, you can cum. cum for me, just let go,” a gentle voice coos. aw, you must be having a rough morning, how sad. the only other day you listened to these kinds of audios, you looked absolutely miserable, the corners of your lips pulled down and a deep, pathetic furrow to your brows — it was wednesday, that’s right. two days ago, when you seemed frazzled and completely out of it. a little digging resulted in him learning that you had spilled your coffee all over the concrete on the way here, you thought your hair didn’t look right (even though, to him, it did, it looked perfect — he wished he could’ve told you that), and worst of all, your boss emailed you late the previous night to admonish you for your performance, demanding a meeting first thing that morning.
still, he wishes he could take care of your boss, eliminate that weight off of your shoulders. if it were up to him, your boss would be sitting in the morgue at his place of work, gray and comatose and unable to admonish you for things that beomgyu is sure you had no control over. because that’s how offices work, right? sink or swim, big fish eat the little ones, blaming those below them for everything they should be taking responsibility for. your boss has to be one of those. he was pig-nosed and donning a constant sneer when you pictured the verbal berating you’d be getting once you got to your workplace.
that day, he found himself thinking about how he’s become pretty talented with a scalpel.
“good girl. doing so well for me, pretty girl,” the same voice soothes, soft cries and sniffles from the submissive mixing with the gentle words. he could treat you all sweet too. he could be anything you want, if only you knew him.
he wants you to know him — needs you to, really.
there’s no clear cut reason for your current sour mood, your thoughts too jumbled together for him to properly decipher. are you picking apart your appearance? did you wake up late? is this all because of your boss again? he might just kill the bastard if that’s the case…if only he could approach you, tell you that everything will be okay, but he doesn’t want to knock down the house of cards he’s spent such precious time building over the course of the week. you’re too special for that. it’s the very reason why he tries to blend into the crowd, why he tries to keep eye contact to a minimum. the last thing he needs is for you to run away from him when you’re one of the only things holding him together.
when the car slows to his and your stop, disappointment nips at the space between his eyebrows. he didn’t even get to see you today, and the end of the work week means that he won’t be seeing you for two entire days. sighing, he falls into his typical routine: move towards the doors, wait for them to open, and follow the other exiting passengers out. where could you be? you’re still here, he knows that much since he’s still connected to you, still hears those soft words and moans, but where the fuck are you? you, as in your body. that you.
with a single cursory glance around, he swears he catches a glimpse of your figure before the crowd swallows you whole. as he’s shoved towards the stairs by the crowd, his chest grows heavy.
friday has just begun, but monday couldn’t come any faster.
“so, are you gonna try out?”
yeonjun is far more sober compared to last friday night, his eyes lacking that fatigued droop they always get whenever he’s had too much. beomgyu tears his glazed-over gaze away from the television screen to look at the yeonjun, sinking further into the couch below him. he points to himself. “me?”
yeonjun rolls his eyes, a knee swinging over the arm of the armchair he sits in. “who the fuck else would i be talking to?”
scoffing, beomgyu shoots him a glare. “i don’t know, man. y’don’t have to be a dick about it.”
the open bottle of beer in beomgyu’s hand chills his fingertips, so he switches it to his other hand before taking another sip. meanwhile, soobin plops down next to him with an already open bag of chips, offering some to him. he shakes his head, and soobin shrugs, beginning to munch on them by himself.
“i’m serious though,” yeonjun continues. “you should really try out. there’s not much to it, just dance to one song and you’re done. i’d probably pass you even if you sucked.”
“that’s nepotism,” taehyun chimes in from the floor, eyes trained on the screen as he shoots a player down in the game him and kai are currently obsessed with. the sound of gunfire fills the living room of soobin and yeonjun’s apartment, the murmurs of the two boys a low drone beneath it as they figure out their best strategy to win.
he almost wishes he lived here with soobin and yeonjun, or with the other two. yeonjun and soobin, taehyun and kai — only beomgyu lives alone. alone doesn’t necessarily mean lonely, but in beomgyu’s case, it does. maybe that’s why he’s latched onto you so hard: to cure his loneliness. he swats that thought away like one would a pesky mosquito. he hasn’t latched onto you, he admonishes himself, he’s simply curious. yeah, curious.
just a little innocent curiosity.
disregarding taehyun’s comment, yeonjun raises an eyebrow towards beomgyu. “i know i was drunk when i said that shit last week, but you really have been acting weird since you started at that job. we’ve all noticed.”
“yeah, it’s like you’ve gotten more reserved, or something,” soobin says, words muffled by his chewing. beomgyu grimaces, shifting closer to the arm of the couch.
“you’re the most introverted one here, you can’t say shit,” kai snorts. soobin throws a chip at his head.
“anyway,” yeonjun butts in with a scalding glare before an argument can begin. soobin and kai blanch, mouths closing. “we’re just…concerned about you.”
“is this some kind of intervention?” beomgyu laughs, disbelief apparent in his tone. he’s fine. he has you now.
“no, we just want you to know that there’s other things you could do that would make you happier than work at a fucking funeral home,” taehyun says, eyes still not straying from the tv.
“like joining my dance crew,” yeonjun tacks on.
beomgyu sighs. they’re kind of right, if he’s being honest with himself, but is he ready to put himself out there again? is he ready to face the potential of rejection, of failure? he’s had his life fall apart in front of his eyes once already, what if it happens again?
“...i guess.”
“c’mon.” yeonjun shifts around until he’s leaning on his elbows, focus solely on beomgyu. “tryouts are next saturday. i know how fast you can learn choreography. hell, you could probably learn something in a couple hours and be fine.”
“honestly, you’ll never know if you don’t try,” soobin chimes in. “it might end in something good.”
“yeah,” beomgyu says before taking another large swig of beer. “yeah, i know.”
and so another weekend passes, and monday returns once again.
soobin’s brief, sage advice plays through his mind again and again. although he understands that soobin meant for it to apply to his current career situation, beomgyu has adopted it for his situation with you instead. he should try, he’s going to try, eventually.
it might end in something good, he tells himself over and over again. he has to try.
mondays are a bit less excruciating now that you’re around. he has only known you for a week, but it’s been long enough to know that you make his day-to-day routine bearable — hell, he’ll stay at his terrible job as long as you keep showing up each morning. the day that you don’t will be the nail in his coffin — he chuckles at his stupid joke. yeonjun is rubbing off on him too much.
the sky is overcast today, and endless expanse of gray that contrasts the warmth of the changing leaves that line the sidewalk. it might rain soon, he surmises, but he hopes that it won’t. he’s forgone an umbrella today. digging his hands further into his coat pockets, he ducks into the subway station, descending the stairs and weaving through the crowd until he finds his usual platform. when he gets there, you’ve already arrived, ears vacant of those white earbuds, but it’s not a foreign sight to him. you typically put them in once you sit down. the fact that you get on and get off at the same stop as him…he almost likes to think of all of this as fate.
maybe the universe really is trying to apologize.
the subway arrives at the platform a few minutes later — minutes in which he tries not to stare at you. he’s not a creep, he swears that he’s not. he’s not a creep, he’s not a creep — he repeats this to himself as he follows behind you into the subway car the two of you frequent, he finds a seat across from you a few feet to your left. he can’t be too obvious.
and most importantly, he’s not a creep.
you dig around in your bag. ah, here come those infamous earbuds, he’s sure of it — but then they don’t, and then the digging through your bag grows a degree more frantic, your lips parting as you continue shoving whatever is in there aside in search of your most precious possession.
you feel like crying as panic surges through your veins. oh god, you forgot them. how could you have forgotten them? what are you going to do now?
beomgyu decides to tap into your mind in that moment, finding you in an unbelievably frazzled state. his heart clenches in his chest, he wishes he could help somehow…
wait. he could…oh my god, he could. no, that’s sick, he’s not a creep — well, no, he could. he definitely fucking could, and you’d probably end up liking it…
he could be your temporary replacement for today — no, he could become your constant source, the one you need to get through the day. he could become your audios. he wants to. they’d be far more…interactive, if he did, after all. you’d love what he could do to your pretty fucking body just with access to your mind. reading thoughts isn’t the only thing he can do — and soobin’s right: he’ll never know if he doesn’t try. how could he sit here any longer and not give in to his burning desire to ravage you? you know what? fuck it. this is the perfect opportunity, served up once again on a silver platter, waiting for him to take. he’s not going to let it slip away again — and oh, you just look so devastated right now, how terrible would he be if he didn’t help you?
in a split-second moment, beomgyu decides that today is the day. deep breath. focus. okay, he can do this. one, two, three…
“hello, pretty girl.”
you flinch before you look up and around, only to find no one is looking at you — well, he is, but through his peripherals. wouldn’t want to get caught, would he? suppressing a smirk at your reaction, he shifts in his seat.
“was someone just talking to me?” you ask yourself, brows furrowing as your eyes continue to dart around. your hand comes up to your ear to see if you accidentally remembered your earbuds, your frown deepening when you register that they are, indeed, not in your ears. glancing around again, your eyes skirt over his form. he shivers at the thought of what’s to come, biting his lip as he avoids your gaze. “is this some sort of prank?”
“calm down, sweetheart, this isn’t a prank. now, stop looking around, you’re the only one who heard me.”
your brain flits from thought to thought so quick he can barely keep up, the volume of them rising as you panic. your fingers clench the strap of your purse as if to ground yourself. “am i hallucinating right now? what the fuck? this has to be a prank. should i go to the doctor’s? no, my boss would kill me if i called out, but fuck, i should really go if i’m hearing things—”
beomgyu chuckles, the sound echoing through your mind as well. freezing, your muscles lock up as you look around again. your distressed stream of consciousness stops for a moment, before resuming at a much more rapid pace. “what the fuck, i need to call out right now, where’s my phone—”
sighing, he leans back into his seat and closes his eyes. so cute, how easily you spiral. “quiet that pretty little head of yours, pretty girl. you’re not hallucinating, this is all real. very real.”
a few moments pass before your internal freakout quiets down. for once, silence fills your mind…and rather than him break it, it’s you: “someone’s…talking to me through my mind? this is real?”
“such a smart girl. you figured it out so quickly,” beomgyu taunts, resisting the urge to coo again. adrenaline rushes through his veins, urging him to continue. you need him. he can make you happy. he just needs to hear you say it.
your thighs press together at the praise, fingers digging into the trousers you had chosen to wear. you shouldn’t be feeling like this. this is strange, terribly strange, and even a little frightening, now that you are aware that someone — that a complete stranger, at that — has full reign over your conscious. yet, at the same time, you’re curious to see how this will play out.
“and you can speak to me, too, if you focus hard enough…” his voice trails off. okay, you can do that. allowing your eyelids to flutter shut, you begin to breathe deeply until even the mechanical noises of the subway and the murmurs of passengers vacate your senses. mind empty, you exhale a shaky breath. focus. stay focused.
“hmm, impressive. you’re a natural at this.” god, he needs to quit praising you like that with his deep voice. by the way he laughs, you know he heard that too. fuck.
“who are you and why the fuck are you in my brain?” you decide to ask. straight to the point, no fluff to it, it’s reminiscent of your attitude at the bar where he first laid eyes upon you. this is the wall you put up towards strangers and any other threat to your life, but little do you know, beomgyu’s breached that wall already. this is just a little front. “answer me, you fucking asshole—”
“woah, woah, watch the language. why would i tell you who i am? it’s much more exciting this way, don’t you think?” the smile in his voice is unmistakable, but he purses his lips to keep them from curling upward.
you start to gnaw on your bottom lip, biting hard enough for pain to bloom across your nerve endings. this is stranger you’re talking to right now, a stranger who you’re talking to through your fucking thoughts. this is weird. you never signed up for this. “get the hell out of my mind before— before i—”
“before you what? can’t kick me out, you don’t know how to do that, pretty girl.”
fuck, he’s right — wait, if he’s in your mind right now, can he also control it? is he going to hurt you? is he going to make you his puppet and go on a murder spree? is he in this car with you, or somewhere else? what if…what if…
beomgyu can almost feel your panic swelling in his own chest. fuck, he needs to put a stop to your spiraling before it gets out of control. if you freak out now, then all of his work over the past week will be for naught. after all, he’s not going to do anything without your permission. the last thing he wishes to do is scare you off completely before he can have his fun. with great urgency, he cuts off your ramblings, “hey, now, relax for me, princess. i’m not going to hurt you. i’m as human as you are, just a bit…different, i guess. and i am in the same car as you right now.”
rather than respond, you look around again, eyeing every single man around you with suspicion, even him. he stares at the floor, maintaining what he hopes to be a neutral, borderline bored, expression. he needs to keep it together. he’s gotten this far, he can’t ruin this. “looking around again, huh? if i were that easy to spot, then this game wouldn’t be very fun, would it?”
“game? fucking with my mind is a game to you?”
the corners of his lips twitch up before he’s forcing them back down. this is it, the moment he has been waiting oh so patiently for. keep it together.
“well, not really — i actually have a proposition for you, if you’d hear me out.”
scoffing, you urge him along. “just get on with it.”
“so impatient. that’s okay. i can work with that,” he smirks. “i know what you listen to every morning, you know.”
your heart drops to your stomach. he what? oh god, you think you’re going to be sick. your arms wrap around your stomach, squeezing hard. this is bad, this is really fucking bad. “do you want money, or something? are— are you trying to blackmail me right now? i’ll have you know, i’m actually kinda broke right now. i really don’t wanna end up homeless, can you just. pick someone else to fuck with? there’s like twelve different businessmen in this car, i’m sure they’re rich and corrupt—”
beomgyu’s brows raise imperceptibly. jesus, are you always this flighty? “woah, chill. i’m not here to judge you — or blackmail you, for that matter. i’m not evil. aw, don’t look all shameful now. i told you i’m not here to judge — i actually wanna help you, if you’d let me.”
“help me?” you dumbly echo. “help me how?”
“well,” he starts. “i noticed you forgot your earbuds today, and you just looked so sad and lost without them. how else are you going to get through your commute? and then i thought maybe i could do something about that. y’know, help you out, get you through the morning.”
“so you invaded my privacy just to tell me that you wanna dirty talk to me for the rest of my commute? is that what you mean? ‘cause if so, that’s pretty weird,” you reply, though your stray thoughts that dart around tell him that you’re actually considering his offer — it’s tempting, isn’t it? to give in, to let his deep voice get you all squirmy and needy, knowing he could be anyone in this subway car. still, your words make him laugh, because of course you’re deflecting right now. it’s okay, he hasn’t given you the full story quite yet.
“that’s only part of my offer, princess,” he starts. “i can read minds, yes, but i can also do…other things.”
oh, you’re really considering it now. maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to let him. his voice is nice, and maybe, just maybe, it’s kind of making you horny. after a deep, long breath, you gulp once, then, with curiosity dripping from your tone, you ask, “...like what?”
jackpot.
beomgyu’s high on a mix of adrenaline and dopamine, utterly giddy because he’s got you right where he wants you, where he needs you. he’s played his cards just right, shoved your worries to the side and drew out your curiosity enough that you’ve taken his bait. perfect, oh, this is perfect. he knew you’d be good for him.
“it would be much easier for me to show you.”
“then show me,” you immediately reply, heat flooding your cheeks at the sheer desperation in your voice. god, calm down. he hasn’t even done anything yet.
chuckling at your internal conflict, he decides not to comment. “tell me if you don’t like something. i’ll stop.” he watches as you slightly nod to yourself, a soft “okay,” echoing through your head and into his — thus, he sets his plan into action.
something warm caresses your calf, but when you look down, there’s nothing there. your eyes widen — was that a hand? it definitely felt like one, the way it creeped up the back of your leg, calloused fingertips pressing into your skin. a shiver races down your spine. that had to have been him.
“it was,” he confirms, then his voice is growing impossibly deeper, adopting that gruff edge that you love so much. “you want more, princess? i can give you more.”
another phantom hand skirts over your waist, dragging down over your hips to your right thigh, just to stop there. biting your bottom lip, you nod, hoping that whoever is in your head right now sees it, wherever he is. the hand moves to your inner thigh; despite how tightly pressed together they are, it skirts over your skin with ease, seemingly beneath your trousers. “i need words, pretty girl, or i might just stop right now. and we wouldn’t want that, would we?”
no, you wouldn’t, not at this point. the unbearable ache currently building in your core makes you want to cry; you haven’t felt this level of desperation in a while, and you need to be touched. you need it so fucking bad.
“please.” the single word comes out meek, quiet. shame flushes your face, a fiery heat that spreads up to your ears and down your neck.
you hear the way his breath shudders, causing your own hitch. “fuck, you’re so cute, but i need more than that. beg. beg for me to touch you.”
his voice — fuck, his voice is so deep, so dark and wanton. you wonder what he sounds like when he’s moaning, how he would sound if he fucked you, pounded you into the mattress so hard you saw stars. the image of a faceless stranger fucking you from behind, your back arched behind you and your face buried in the sheets, as he holds your wrists behind your back flits across the big screen of your mind. you shake it away, but the man in your head is already tutting. “use your words, sweetheart, not pictures — though i’d love to do that to you too. you’ve got quite the imagination on you.”
beomgyu’s cock twitches in his boxers as you whine, frantic pleas bubbling up from the deepest, darkest recesses of your mind once he takes the sensation of his hand away from your thigh. you sound halfway dumb already, begging for his hands, his cock, his tongue — anything. you’ll take anything just, “please, sir. please touch me. need you to touch me so bad.”
you don’t even know who he is, yet you’re being so obedient, calling him sir, begging so sweetly for him — it’s like you’re begging straight into his ear. his heart swells at the thought, as does his cock. you sound so pretty, but he finds himself wishing he could hear these words come from your lips instead.
“yeah? my little slut needs more?” he prods, laughing meanly when you whimper out a yes. “aw, ‘course she does. desperate whores always need more, don’t they? so greedy.”
you have to swallow down a whimper at that, focusing so intently on keeping quiet that your nails have dug into your palms deep enough to almost break skin. the pain seems to help keep you grounded — that is, until you feel the sting of a palm against your backside. you flinch in your seat, gasping sharply. the man sitting next to you glances over, but you only hang your head and shrink into yourself. he looks away.
“focus, whore. you’re drawing too much attention to yourself.”
two hands are touching you now. one cupping your pussy, the other wrapped around your throat, pressing into the sides of your neck so you start to grow dizzy. the hand on your throat releases its grip to slide down to your chest, circling around one of your nipples before a thumb swipes over the pebbled flesh. your back arches off of your seat when the sensation morphs into that of lips, plush warmth enveloping your tit before the sharp bite of teeth interrupts. you inhale a shaky breath from your nose as lips return to soothe the sting. despite the hard press of your thighs, the hand on your pussy drags up and down your folds, dipping down to your entrance before dragging up to your clit. a tiny squeak sneaks up your throat before you’re masking it with a cough.
“aren’t you just a sensitive little thing? so wet too,” he coos, shifting his briefcase over his lap to gain some semblance of friction. his fingertips tingle as if your wetness coats them right now. fuck, he’s hard. if it were up to him, you’d be taking his cock right now, moaning so prettily as he presses you up against the wall and fucks up into you, your legs giving out from under you because he’s just making you feel so good, isn’t he? never mind that, he has a job to do. “how about i just…”
two lithe fingers breach your walls while a thumb continues to slowly circle your clit, barely brushing over the sensitive bundle of nerves. you feel like you’re going insane, trying your best to hold still as his fingers begin to move inside you, curling up into your walls. searching, he’s searching for that spot inside you that will get you crying—
then he finds it.
your knee jerks up, your legs falling open slightly before you’re pressing them closed again as he abuses it over and over again, crooking his fingers just right to find it with each thrust. your hips roll up into the sensation, stilling as soon as you realize that you’re squirming too much, being too obvious. people are starting to stare, calm down. calm the fuck down.
god, you don’t think you can. it’s too difficult to keep still with the way he’s finger-fucking you right now. with the way there’s lips suddenly circling your clit, sucking the pearl in so that his tongue can play with it. little kitten licks that make you want to scream and cry and beg for mercy because you don’t know if you can keep up this front of normalcy with the way he’s touching you.
it’s like he’s speaking directly into your ear right now, warm breath fanning over your earlobe, your cheek. “wanna see you fall apart, wanna see you lose it in front of all of these people, baby. bet you wanna cum right now, yeah? just wanna feel good, don’t even care if you quake and cry in public? you’re that fucking desperate for it?”
you nod to yourself, eyes squeezing shut. you’re so close. oh god, you’re going to cum. you’re going to cum like a brainless whore in the middle of a fucking subway car. you’re sick. you’re fucking sick for enjoying this.
you’re just as bad as him, beomgyu decides. he knew you’d like what he could give you, he knew you needed him. it was just a matter of time before you realized that fact. that’s okay, because he needs you just as badly. it’s a carnal need, white hot in the center of his stomach — fuck, he’s obsessed with you. he wants you to be his forever.
and beomgyu knows you’re close, but he’s not quite ready to give you what you want.
“please, oh god. please let me cum. fuckfuckfuck— no, please don’t stop!” you cry as he slows the pace of his fingers. “please no, ‘m so close! no no no—”
“you drive me crazy, it’s only fair if i return the favor. makes it more fun.” ripping the sensation away from you completely, he watches you bottom lip tremble as you blink back tears, your body melting into your seat as the pleasure fades away. “now, now, don’t cry, sweetheart. i have something even better for you.”
a few seconds pass before something breaches your entrance, your walls stretching to their limit, yet the sting of pain never arrives. filled to the brim, you throw your head back against the window behind you. to others, you seem to just be resting your eyes, but the way your mouth falls open is not lost on beomgyu. he knows you can feel him everywhere, knows you can feel the way the head of his cock nearly touches your cervix, how it presses into every single sensitive spot inside you. he knows he’s big, but you take it like a champ, your hips grinding down into the seat, as if to bring him deeper inside you. what a little whore, his little whore.
“y’feel that, pretty girl? feel my big fucking cock inside you?” he asks as your chest heaves, a feeble attempt in holding yourself together. “calm down, now. i’m gonna start moving, okay?”
he doesn’t wait for your response before he’s spoon-feeding you the sensation of his cock pulling out until nothing but his cockhead remains within your walls. a few seconds pass, then your begging returns. tearful, this time, fucking pathetic. he basks in the power that rushes through his entire being. you need him. you need him in order to feel good, and he loves that you do. he brings a hand down to adjust himself in his pants, hissing quietly at the ache that the action brings. he needs to fuck you right now. physically fuck you, none of this thought manipulation bullshit — but no, he has to be patient. he can be patient as long as it’s you.
the subway is slowing down again, and he comes to the gross realization that he only has a few minutes before both of you must depart. dammit, he has to make this quick.
meanwhile, you’re already halfway to your high just at the mere feeling of him inside you. as soon as his cock begins to move again, you’re choking back moans, head hanging low as your muscles tense and your hands press into your lap. you can feel him in your throat each time he thrusts back in, his thrusts growing faster and faster until he’s pounding into you.
“fuck fuck fuckkkkk!” you wail, encouraging him to continue. in reality, your walls clench around nothing, but your mind paints a different picture. you almost beg for him to cum inside, but you cant find the words, too fucked out to think about anything else but the knot in your stomach that grows tighter with each passing second. “fuck, please. please, fuck i’m, nghh—”
imaginary fingers swipe across your clit, and you’re a goner.
thighs quaking, your release coats your panties, walls fluttering, but the movement of his cock doesn’t stop until you’re begging for mercy. beomgyu almost cums in his pants at the depraved wails you emit, half-baked sentences pleading for him to “s-slow down, please. i can’t, no, i can’t — shit!”
finally — finally — he grants you reprieve from the onslaught of pleasure. your body slumps into your seat, your eyes shut as you begin to float back down to earth. the clack-clack-clack of the subway slows until it stops completely. the usual robotic voice announces his stop, but you seem so out of it that you don’t even register that you need to get off.
“good job, baby. you put on quite the show for me,” he praises as he rises to his feet. luckily, he decided on wearing a longer coat today which he uses to cover up his raging hard-on. this has to be fate.
no response. with an excited gleam in his eye, he disconnects from your mind and moves towards you. looming above you, he drinks in the beads of sweat that have formed along your hairline, the wrinkles in your trousers where you gripped the fabric a wee bit too hard, your dreamy eyes and how they blink down at his black loafers before raising to meet his own. concern has painted itself across his features, his head tilting as he holds your bleary gaze.
“are you alright, miss? you look a bit ill.”
you blink once. twice. god, how are you so cute even after getting fucked so hard? he can barely control himself from blurting out who he is.
“what—what stop is this?” you ask him, eyes wide and red-rimmed from your earlier tears. he tells you, and he watches those same eyes widen. “oh shit, this is my stop!”
attempting to stand, you stumble straight into his chest. he catches you with gentle hands before he’s helping you steady yourself. your legs tremble like those of a newborn fawn, sexy yet terribly adorable. he gulps at the image of you unable to walk, legs so sore that you’re forced to let him dote on you, that forms inside his mind. later. that can come later, don’t get too hasty.
“oh, you’re a bit shaky there,” he murmurs, a hand curling around you elbow when you stumble again. “are you sure you’re alright?”
“i’m f-fine, sorry for the trouble,” you reply with a polite, yet jittery, smile, stepping away from him. he wants to tell you to come closer again, he wants to smell your sweet perfume again, feel your warm skin beneath his fingertips.
but good things come to those who wait.
“no worries.” with a charming smile, he shuffles beside you, until the two of you have exited with the rest of the crowd. he catches your wrist before you can get too far, and you turn to face him once more. afterglow looks wonderful on you. “it looks like we’re getting off at the same stop today, so would you like me to walk with you until you’re feeling a bit better? i’m sure some fresh air will do you good.”
you pause for a moment, hesitating. have you seen him somewhere before? you feel like you have. “i…that would be great, actually. thank you.”
“of course,” he nods, holding back a smirk. he can’t help the words that escape him next.
“lead the way, then…pretty girl.”
the way you look back at him with alarmed realization — even a hint of fear — causes a grin to split open his lips. you begin to sputter as you back away, but he merely follows with light, casual steps. “w-what, who—who are you—”
his smile grows knife-sharp. the door opens — it always does.
“aw, c’mon, sweetheart,” he coos inside your mind, biting his lip as he watches your knees buckle. “who else could it be?”
© to agustdiv1ne. do not copy, repost, steal, and/or translate.
#not rereading this to see if it makes sense#cause i feel like i need to get my insanity across properly#yk what. forget the assassination attempts.#this was straight up cruel and unsual punishment#(deletes ur request for my 2k event)#KIDDING. JUST YOU WAIT.#i’m gonna go fucking cry bye ash#[ღ]— fic recs#txt smut#beomgyu smut#txt x reader#beomgyu x reader#txt imagines#beomgyu imagines#txt x you#txt x y/n#beomgyu x y/n#beomgyu x you
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
The Husbands of River Song is not and has never been about the Eleventh Doctor being a deadbeat, distant husband (gross mischaracterization by the way) and the Twelfth Doctor being the "better, more mature, affectionate" husband.
It was about River Song. It was about River and how the events in Manhattan took such a toll on her. It was about letting us see River dealing with grief the way The Snowmen showed us how the Doctor coped after losing believing he had used up all his time with River.
Looking at THORS now with The Ruby's Curse in mind, I get the instinct (for lack of a word that I cannot remember) that the Manhattan incident Blue Roach read from River's diary was not the Manhattan episode that we saw in series 7.
On that note, I'd also like to bring up the fact that the Doctor grounds River and River grounds the Doctor. As Tree talked about in one of her tags, River's empathy is more cognitive than emotional and after musing on it for a bit – considering that the Doctor can no longer go to Manhattan (which may have changed in later series but I wouldn't know at the moment because I have yet to overcome series 7b) and that River does spend time with her parents in Manhattan post-TATM, would the latest Manhattan incident in River's diary be the funeral for Amy? Amy's death? Perhaps even Anthony's? I mean, we already know Rory died five years earlier than Amy. So, knowing how deep River's love for her mother is, it's not too farfetched to say that River spent that time with them. River was by their bedsides as they drew their last breath.
Then Rory's gone, Amy's gone, Anthony's gone. Where does that leave River? Where is the Doctor? (sulking on a cloud on top of Victorian London? trying to figure out the mystery of his newest companion? all while constantly mentioning a certain Professor Song who actually turns out to be his dearly sort of departed absolutely beloved wife?)
Without her parents (and her husband) to ground her, she goes on this maddened, grieving space Robin Hood spree. She seeks fun to fill in the void and takes up marriage as a hobby/side quest. Does she look for the Doctor? Perhaps. Yes, actually. Considering she crashed her latest sort-of-husband's ship onto a planet where she purported the TARDIS to be.
But... she's stealing the TARDIS. She could have just called the Doctor, yeah? So, she doesn't want the Doctor to know then. Well... yeah, considering she has two sort-of-husbands in hand.
So, River would just have gone on from one space Robin Hood spree to the next had the TARDIS not sort-of-stranded herself on Mendorax Dellora to make sure her Water stopped being stubborn and reconcile(?) with her Thief?
Also taking note of how River has read stories about them and knows that Darillium is purported to be their last night together (I could also bring up the fact that this is why I find it easy to digest the "River meeting regenerations of the Doctor younger than the Tenth Doctor makes sense and doesn't break cannon nor ruin SITL/FOTD" but that would take a whole other post). Does this River believe her time with the Eleventh Doctor has ended? The same way series 7b Eleven believed his time with older versions of River has ended? Is this all part of some grand fuckup in communication all thanks to their tangled timelines?
Maybe. Maybe not.
But has River not just been running from her family's death? Has River been running from her supposed last night with the Doctor?
"But River doesn't run." Oh yes. Yes, she does. She knows when to stand her ground. She knows when to charge. And she knows when to run.
"That's out of character for her." No, it's not. She's not invincible. She's this well trained assassin, yes. But invincible? No.
Invincible from the tendency to be blinded by their emotions? Obviously not.
River lies. And River runs.
She is not afraid of her death. She is afraid of the day when her husband, her Doctor, looks into her eyes and looks right through her. And it shouldn't kill her but it does. It did.
So she ran and ran until her bigger-on-the-inside Mum gently reached out and put her back together with the only person left who could ground her. Who she didn't recognize at first but still fell in love with (and would have loved even if he hadn't been revealed to be her actual, long missing husband). Who finally found out their last night wasn't just any night – it was a twenty-four year long last night. Who finally gave her a breather from all the running she'd been doing.
And oh what a night that was (it was the talk of the universe).
#tia talks tish#dw musings#i should be studying but look! i'm yapping away about fictional characters that nobody in my (offline) life knows about#and to whoever wants to yap accordingly or in the opposite manner please be kind to my remaining brain cell i'm just trying to make sense of#my own brain 👍🏻#laying all this out made me feel like that one meme with the guy about to burst his vein trying to explain the wall of stuff behind him#does all this make sense? most likely not. i refuse to reread it because it would just end up in the drafts if i do so and would not see the#light of day until - oh maybe six months from now#doctor who#river song#doctor x river#eleventh doctor#yowzah#twelfth doctor#the doctor#amy pond#rory williams#doctorriver musings#THORS has serious plot holes i'd like to banish forever but it still gave my gal River and her husband that much needed breather#so for that it's sort of forgiven (but never really forgotten)
116 notes
·
View notes
Note
Weird question, but you're the only Erik expert I know, and I can't be asked to go through my comics, so what kind of shoes does he wear when he's in civilian clothes?
Because I feel like he's too posh for trainers and not posh enough for captoes.
(I'm drawing a chibi of him and regrets are being had about not having put him in his suit T.T)
Erik Expert is a high honor im no where near close to having as of right now BUT i can still answer this question 😌 i think 😌
if you talkin Civilian Clothes as in Everyday Going Out clothes he's pretty 'formal' and neat about his style i'm pretty sure: think polos, dress shirts, turtlenecks, and the like, so it probably would be fitting he wears dress shoes (if not at least sleek leather ankle boots) more times than not actually
#snap chats#i mean im no fashion expert so i cant scale the formality of captoe shoes versus any other business shoe#but lbr erik would be posh for Extra Fancy Shoes on a typical tuesday#we really dont see erik dress down a lot and when we do he's usually in a suit#in Magneto (2023) he has this really cute turtlenekc + coat combo im obsessed with and i have to draw at some point#i love the art in that run in general tbh ..... its so good i love rereading it for the art among everything else UGH anyways#in the same run he has this cute at-home outfit that's just like. a t-shirt and sweats but he also got these like grandpa slippers lol#i think theyre slippers anyway but moving on#hope this answers your question ! idk if it did vjelvkjelavj#eriks pretty prim and proper and while i dont think he is SUPER fashion conscious i think he has SOME taste#so i guess shoot for business casual: keep it classy but not refined if that makes sense <- it does not#or maybe he IS that posh ................ much to consider ...#i know i have at least ONE erik expert following me (tho im sure there are many more) so if anyone wants to submit their two cents..#the floor is absolutely yours ..
23 notes
·
View notes
Text
Suzanne wrote “Haymitch…passes the bag [of sweets] to a giggling Prim” and this is basically their most positive interaction but it hasn’t stopped me headcanoning that she is one of the few people he’s unreservedly sweet to, that he tells her raunchy jokes when her mother isn’t around, that after he went through withdrawal when the liquor ran out he tried to remind her that he wasn’t always like that.
Haymitch had his brother and mother ripped from him after the Games, so I like to think that he relates to how much she adores Prim and low-key wants to make sure her innocence is protected.
(You know, before Snow announces that he’s going to have them all murdered in the QQ)
#I don’t know if this makes sense#but that line made me so emotional on my latest reread#I can see Haymitch deciding he’s Prim’s bad influence gruncle as a way to protect the sibling of a Victor when he couldn’t#katniss everdeen#haymitch abernathy#primrose Everdeen#the hunger games
357 notes
·
View notes
Text
if i'm being entirely honest i find the term "spiritual psychosis" annoying at best. it makes me feel as though i, as someone with schizoaffective disorder, need to work extra hard to "prove" my spiritual beliefs are valid.
here's the thing. my spirituality has always been and will always be flavored and colored by being schizoaffective. even when i was an atheist i could not untangle the two. there's never going to be a way for me to know where the line is drawn between my spiritualism and my psychosis. for example i will probably never shake the idea that i died and was resurrected, and that event holds SIGNIFICANT spiritual meaning for me, even on antipsychotics, even when i can recognize that yes, it's probably the remains of a delusion.
so please tell me, why is it anyone else's business if i incorporate that into my religious practices? it harms no one and gives me one more reason to rejoice. if it started causing actual problems, putting me in danger, causing me distress, bringing along disorganized thinking or anything of the sort, that's when it would be time for me to get help. but really and truly i would not want random people im not close with to tell me to get that help, especially if their only clues into my mental state come from my spiritual practices. i am not a dog to be taken to the vet. sometimes people are psychotic and we exist in your communities and we have religious beliefs and you have GOT to suck it up and allow space for us, however our conditions affect us and our practices.
it's also just. buries my face in my hands. you can just say psychosis, you don't need a special term for it. again it just makes me feel like i'm being singled out and not being taken seriously because there's a long LONG history of psychotic/schizospec people having our mental illnesses used as reason to disregard us. please just mind your business.
#cadaver speaks#mostly prompted by me looking into godspousing after a very interesting experience#and seeing someone basically say most godspouses are experiencing spiritual psychosis#which read more to me as a complaint about how other people practice than actual concern for people's mental health#do i know whether i was visited by dionysus or just have silly silly brain chemicals? NOPE#and it's entirely fucking futile to try to figure it out because you can't prove any gods exist and i'm an unreliable narrator!#so i have to ask myself: what will make me happy?#should i deny myself the joy of worship just because i drew the short straw and got saddled with schizoaffective?#or should i say fuck it and do what will make me happy?#i want to live! i beg to live!! i am wrenching the fullness of my feeble human life from nonpsychotics' hands!!!#obligatory disclaimer that if you're psychotic/schizospec and you find the term spiritual psychosis useful that's fine#anyway. society will not be free until the lunatics are free from our chains and shackles. or something#mad pride#schizophrenia#schizoaffective#actually schizophrenic#actually schizoaffective#actually schizospec#spirituality#paganism#witchcraft#mental health#if anyone willfully misinterprets what i'm saying you owe me one thousand usd#if it doesn't make sense reread the post or move on. good Bye
31 notes
·
View notes
Text
- Yuma... Someday, once again, we will... -
Rank 55: Yuma Jet!!
#This is the last time we see Astral in the manga#and the first time I saw this scene I felt a terrible sense of void#and even after having reread this ending so many times I can still feel that feeling of hollowness in my heart#seeing him like this makes my heart weep#At first I didn't even notice that Astral's body was slowly becoming stone#when I then noticed it I became even more despaired about him than before#Astral's fate is a tragedy with a promise of hope#the hope of Yuma living a wonderful life and of being able to see him again#And the fact that he smiles#he keeps thinking about Yuma even in his last moments#thinking about a future where they will meet again#I also can't stop thinking about how Astral is holding Yuma's tears close to him#the tears that Yuma had shed for him during their goodbye#Yuma is Astral's last thought before he became stone#I think I already said that millions of time but I will say this again: I really need to hug Astral#I want him to be safe and happy#I just can't watch his expression of peace and don't be heartbroken about him#I care about him so much#astral zexal#astral yugioh#zexal#yugioh zexal#yu gi oh zexal#ygo zexal#zexal manga#zexal manga spoiler#(I think this is the scene with more editing)#(I basically deleted the entire background and then put the frames to make this post coherent with the other)#(It was a little difficult and it's not perfect but I'm happy with the result!)#(If you've come this far: hi! Thank you for looking at my post!)
20 notes
·
View notes
Text
hehehe technically the outsiders musical is set in early november bc cool hand luke didnt come out until november 1st but in the book ponyboy had been 14 for a month which would make it late august but they mention being cold at night which in oklahoma does nawt happen until at least November 🤷♀️🤷♀️🤷♀️🤷♀️
#personally i see it at late august even though when i read it as a kid it was in october & thats always when i reread anx when makes#most sense to me#broadway#the outsiders#outsiders#ponyboy curtis#johnny cade#jason schmidt#sodapop curtis#darry curtis
29 notes
·
View notes
Text
I'm so mad that so far the only good robin!jason content i've ever found is his original run. Everything i've seen since has just been making him out to be the Angry Bad Problem Child and victim blaming him for dying. How is it that the only fucking good characterization of him is 20 issues from the 1980s
#my dc posting#jason todd#dc#jaybin#robin jason todd#i love jaybin so much but by god there is no fucking content#ppl are just obsessed w making him out to be Bad and Angry to make him becoming red hood make more sense in their heads#look thats what he was always going to be. that what he was always on the track for. look at how angry and unstable he was#SHUT UPPP#from comics anything told to me abt his time as robin after his death means nothing to me#everyone has a different version of canon in their mind and mine will never include a single bit of info abt jaybin said after his death#i have the most horrible brainrotting ''he would not fucking say that'' abt jaybin. nobody gets him like i dooo#<- said as someone who has been angry and problematic and difficult since a young age bc of trauma and mental illness and shit#AND JASON WASNT EVEN HALF AS BAD AS ME#im gonna go reread his og robin run. my safe space#sorry im being soooo annoying abt jaybin rn i just. i love him#i feel like most people only see jaybin as the precursor to red hood#jaybin is only worth something as the backstory of red hood#which like. its fine to like the red hood version of him most#but i like jaybin :( he's my robin. like if there's a robin in a story i'd want it to be jason#so many fics would be sooo good to me if they did not unnecessarily have jason arguing with bruce abt the no-kill thing while STILL ROBIN??#like what are we doing thereeee#ok sorry im done being annoying and venty and whiny now
42 notes
·
View notes
Text
camilla reminds me of a girl written by a man
#The secret history#tsh donna tartt#camilla macaulay#richard papen#It makes sense#Becuz Richard is the narrator and he's male#There's a distinction between girl written by a man and#Woman written by a man#Go reread tsh#And u'll see what I mean#Richard had chapters dedicated to her#And yet she's still a mystery
26 notes
·
View notes