#so poetic but they drive something to the point

[stingslikeabee]

@strongfuck

on light

euripides grief lesson: four plays by euripides (tr. anne carson) (via @weltenwellen​) \ virginina woolf the waves \ maggie nelson bluets

buy my daily chai latte

[rindreamery]

out of breath, got me going like...

some of the attractive things that the blue lock men do. featuring: itoshi rin, itoshi sae, nagi seishiro, michael kaiser, oliver aiku, yukimiya kenyu ─ content: fluff, suggestive

note. yukki debut on my acc ??? do we fw the casual, less poetic writing cuz there was really no way to make this poetic 👩‍🦯 just astronomically down bad writing all around

itoshi rin sends you gym pics without you having to ask.

it initially took a lot of convincing, at first, to get rin to send you a picture. in his eyes, it was embarrassing— the idea of pulling his phone out mid-workout, taking a picture, sending it to you, and then going back to whatever he was doing. his mind would drift off to the weird stares he would probably get from others, and the fact that he also wasn’t exactly known for knowing how to pose to begin with. as much as he loved making you happy, there were just some things he was not willing to do.

it took a lot of begging, and for the first few months, the answer was always, “no.”

the first picture came unexpectedly. your phone was thrown off to the side of the bed, not really anticipating any texts from rin for the next hour or so, given the fact that he was at the gym. so you were surprised when you heard a familiar tune come from your phone— one specifically assigned to his contact. you had no idea why he would be texting you. 

you’re absolutely floored at what you see; jaw left hanging and eyes practically bulging out of their sockets, almost dropping the phone.

it's a gym picture. he's doing a normal pose, nothing too special. he’s standing in front of the mirror, one hand shoved into the pocket of his shorts, and the other holding onto his phone. his face was partly covered by his phone, but you could see the blush spread across his cheeks and the tips of his ears. but it wasn’t that that got your attention— no, it was something entirely different.

he was wearing a sleeveless compression shirt, giving you a full view of his arms. they were glistening in sweat and perfectly toned. the arm that was propping his phone up was slightly flexed, from the position it was in, adding to the bulk and definition in his biceps. and you could see the veins traveling up the arm of his hand, the one that was shoved into his pocket, crawling up from the back of his hand to his forearm. the bright overhead lighting, with a combination of the dim background lighting, served to emphasize every line and crevice of his exposed skin. 

“this what you wanted?” came a message right after, “i know you’re reading this right now, respond.” you felt weak. he definitely researched how to do this.

words couldn't describe how you felt. so, your immediate response was to send him a flurry of incoherent texts; a mixture of randomly pressed keys and crying emojis. but that’s what feeds his ego— your reactions are what makes smile smugly to himself, covering his lips with his hands as he reads your texts over. he starts to send you gym pictures more consistently after that, patiently waiting for your response after each one. at this point, it’s become a part of his gym routine.

itoshi sae drapes his arm over the back of your seat while reversing.

driving with sae was a true test of control— specifically, yours. it had become increasingly hard to focus whenever he was driving, with every little motion of his body seeming to pull your attention away from the road. he was just so distracting, to the point that you had started offering to drive instead. yet to no avail, because he always insisted on being the driver, furthering your silent suffering in the passenger's seat. but, there was nothing more testing than whenever he was reversing the car.

it’s an internal battle; it takes everything in you not to ogle him so openly. and somehow, you’re losing a battle to yourself.

it’s as if your eyes instantly become magnetized to sae— the way he moves when he rests his arm so casually, yet so securely, on the back of your headrest’s frame. and it doesn’t help that this position gives such a perfect view of him. the way the muscles in his arm ripple and flex ever so slightly, but visibly, under his loose dress shirt. the way his folded sleeves ride up every time, and the exposed part of his forearm constantly taunts you to take a peek. you hate that you suddenly become hyperaware of everything he does in that moment. especially his fingers, and the way they tickle the back of your neck, almost touching you but not quite there.

you have to hold back the subtle shudder that sweeps over your body.

it feels like he’s taking up so much space, demanding you to notice him. the way the scent of his cologne wafts over to you, the bergamot and sandalwood notes of it slowly overwhelming your senses. the faint shift in his posture, emphasizing the subtle stretch of his neck, giving you a view of his collarbones and necklace. and the way his lips curve ever so slightly when he speaks, his voice in a low tone, with his eyes flitting over to you momentarily before they’re back on the road.

it has to be intentional, he has to be aware of what he’s doing. “you’re doing this on purpose,” you mutter under your breath, willing yourself to turn away and look out the window.

“doing what on purpose?” he asks, but the mirth in his tone is evident— you can practically hear the tiny smirk that’s splayed on his lips. you’ve concluded that he’s sick in the head, that he’s playing with you right in your face. “i’m just making sure we don’t get into a crash, you baby.” and you willingly fall for it, every time.

nagi seishiro becomes clingy when it's just the two of you.

laying in your lap, while you’re absorbed in your own hobby, is one of nagi’s favorite pastimes. it keeps him close to you, but allows you both to do your own thing. sometimes, he’d take a nap while you work, one hand loosely holding onto yours in his sleep. other times, he’d play video games on his phone, making sure his volume is turned all the way down to not distract you. but most of the time, he likes to just lay there and admire you, with a barely noticeable smile on his lips.

but he becomes somewhat miffed whenever your hair falls in front of your face, blocking his (initially) flawless view of you. and it annoys him more whenever you don’t push it out of the way.

so, he decided to take it upon himself to move it for you, arm lazily stretched up to reach for you. you barely noticed it at first, so absorbed in the book that you were reading. the sensation of his fingers ghosting over your cheeks doesn’t register in your mind, and his touch is barely there. and then you feel it. his fingers are in your hair, gathering the strands on the back of his hand before he’s brushing it out of the way. it’s so gentle, the way he locks your hair behind your ear, and the way his hand lingers a little longer on your skin after. his fingers then travel from your ear to your jawline, finger lightly tracing the side of your jaw, and it makes you curl in on yourself at the feeling. (it tickles, but also oddly comforting.) and then, he’s pulling his arm back down to reach for your wrist instead, fingers wrapping around it.

your skin is tingling, and the surface of your skin feels warm— taken aback by the sudden act of affection. you glance down at him with a curious look, only to see that he’s already staring attentively at you, and you feel his hold on you tighten. “you know,” you begin, “you could’ve just asked me to do it for you.”

"you always get so lost in whatever you're doing," he mumbles slowly, his voice sounding almost whiney at the fact. his hand, the one firmly holding onto your wrist, is traveling up until it’s wiggling the book out of your hand. (you don’t miss the small furrow of his brows when you jokingly grip onto the book, before giving in and letting it fall to the side.) he takes this chance to intertwine your fingers, his larger hands completely enveloping yours. "i don't mind it, but i hate when i can’t see you."

michael kaiser holds intense eye contact with you when you're talking.

at times, you found it hard to talk to kaiser. he's constantly exuding such an intense confidence, one that's often present in his gaze, that you could never truly hold face-to-face conversations with him. you're always shying away from it, crumbling under the intensity, and he finds twisted pleasure in how flustered it makes you. the way the words always die on the tip of your tongue whenever your eyes meet, when you see that his focus is locked on you

it makes you look away, because it's the only thing you can do to escape it. but kaiser doesn't like it when you're looking away from him— he wants your attention. he wants to see you when you talk excitedly about your day.

he’ll get that attention however way he can. from where you're seated on the couch gives him quick access to you. you can feel his tattooed hand crawling up the skin of your thighs, sliding up slowly, leaving a trail of goosebumps as he goes. he stops short of the hem of your shorts, planting his hand firmly on the spot. he gives it a firm squeeze, fingers digging into the plush of your thighs— trying to get you to cave into him. “why won’t you look at me when you talk?” he’s leaning into you, invading your personal space despite the spacious couch. you can feel his breath on the shell of your ear with each word, “mein liebling, i want to see you when you talk. look at me.”

“you can listen to me talk without needing me to look at you,” you swallow, and his grip tightens ever so slightly at your words.

you're shifting awkwardly, trying to ignore the way your heart beats a little faster at the proximity, at the fact that his voice has started to sound almost pleading. almost— because he would never admit to something as desperate as pleading. it’s hard to focus when he’s this close, when he’s right there. his fingers remain on your thigh, tracing deliberate lines over your skin, and despite the way you're trying to resist, you can feel your resolve crumbling.

it’s not every day that you see someone like kaiser be on the precipice of begging for your attention. 

“i promise, i’ll stop teasing you. look—” his other hand is hooking under your chin, coaxing you to look at him. and you do— his eyes, once intense and teasing, now holds a softer and almost guilty looking gaze. “keep talking, yeah?”

oliver aiku likes to loosen his necktie with one hand after a formal event.

neckties are the worst, an opinion oliver will stand by ‘til the end of time. he absolutely despises having to put one on for formal events, and he’ll do his best to charm his way out of having to wear one. it never works, so the second he puts it on, he’s already thinking of the moment he gets to pull it off of himself. he doesn’t think much of it when he does it— one finger looping in the space between his neck and necktie, and he’s pulling at it without care.

but recently, he’s started to notice how intently you’d been staring each time he did it.

oliver’s got a keen-eye; not even the smallest thing can get past him. he drinks in the sight of you when he does it, eyes fixed on you, and taking joy in the fact that you don’t even seem to notice. you’re too busy being fixated on his hand, and the way the vein on his hand becomes prominent when he flexes it to pull, or the way his fingers seem to play around with the fabric. your eyes are so sharp, but somehow so unfocused, all at the same time. he loves how it gets you worked up.

it’s entertaining, so he takes it up a notch.

he drags his fingers, slowly, down to the first button of his shirt. and then he’s unbuttoning it with one hand, putting in extra effort in exposing his collarbones. he can’t fight the grin that makes its way to his lips, at your reaction— your eyes are widening, and he can visibly see you gulp at the sight. and then your eyes are shooting up to meet his, and his grin becomes impossibly wider.

“like what you see?” the teasing and flirtatious lilt in his voice is unmistakable, and you can’t help but draw your eyes back down to where his hand is twirling the tie around his fingers. he makes you tick, but he’s also so attractive, and you hate that he can easily make you blush with his words.

“you wish.” you choose to look away with a scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. “it’s gonna take more than that.” that makes him oddly excited, brows raising in mild surprise, and you honestly should’ve known better. it’s like you’re offering up a new challenge to him, and he gladly accepts.

oliver still hates neckties; that’s an opinion that will never change. he still looks forward to the second he gets to pull it off. except now, he gets to play a little game with you while he does it.

yukimiya kenyu keeps a hand on your back at all times, in public.

it’s a habit formed purely from the fact that the streets of shibuya have the tendency to become really crowded, and yukimiya hates it when you get separated from him in such a crowd. he likes it when you’re right by his side— he can keep a close eye on you at all times and protect you from getting pushed around. and originally, it started off with holding your hands. it was fine during the colder seasons, providing the two of you with extra warmth. but you had both quickly realized that it could become quite uncomfortable during summer, making your hands all sweaty and sticky.

so he experimented. he let his arm drop from your shoulders to the small of your back, his palm hovering over your skin, initially unsure of how you would react.

“is this okay?” he would lean down to whisper in your ear, and his voice was so gentle and so concerned about you. even when he was the one getting shoved around by the crowd, with people constantly running into the sides of his shoulders, he was still only thinking about you. you and your comfort. “tell me if this is uncomfortable, and i’ll figure something else out. okay?”

it made you shiver— you felt a heat crawl up your spine, and your stomach was immediately fluttering with butterflies.

you nod, “no, this is okay.” more than okay, actually, but you keep that to yourself. “thank you for asking.” he flashes you one of his pretty smiles, and he leans up to look straight ahead in the crowd again. but this time, his touch is more present— his palm is now firmly planted onto your skin, and he’s actively weaving you through the crowded streets.

whenever someone would get too close to you, or if he anticipates that someone is about to crash into you, his hand would travel to the side of your waist. and yukimiya grips on it, pulling your body flush against his side, effectively pulling you out of the way. “sorry,” he’ll whisper an apology, not having intended to hold you so tightly. his hands will go right back to where they initially were, not without trailing his fingers on the way back, leaving sparks tingling across your skin where he touched. “did i hurt you?”

“no, i’m fine,” you can keep your hand there, you almost tell him. it drives you insane that everything he does is unintentional— but maybe, one day, you'll be able to tell him exactly what you’re thinking.

© rindreamery, 2024

tags. @choccorin @mininji

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

Hey. Hi. Hello. Today I learned about the existence of 15th century Welsh poet Gwerful Mechain and that she apparently has a surviving work of erotic poems.

Please. For Christmas. For Yule. Please tell me more because I can't read Welsh.

Heh heh. Oh, Gwerful Mechain is the absolute best.

(Quick housekeeping to keep the post manageable - I previously wrote about things like cynghanedd and cywydds and englyns and such here, so check that if you need an explanation.)

What's fun is that we don't know a ton about her, because not a lot got written down about people in her time. Her surviving work covers a 40ish year span at the end of the 1400s to just into the 1500s, but we don't know when she was born or died or anything like that. We know her parents' names? And that she was from Mechain, hence the bardic name. And that she married a guy and had a daughter, something which actually does mark out her body of work as different from her contemporaries; being a wife and mother, she couldn't do the usual bardic role of travelling the country to spread news and play at courts. This means she doesn't have any of the praise poetry that a lot of male bards produced about the lords that hosted them.

But, there's stuff we can piece together about her. For one thing, she was not just literate (not a universal skill for anyone at that point, but especially for women), but she was astonishingly well-read and had what appears to be a classical education, given her poetic references and traditional Welsh meters. For another, her work often had recurring themes of religion, sex, and women's rights, sometimes all at the same time.

At the point Gwerful was active, Welsh bardic culture heavily featured ymrysonau. An ymryson is like... well, I hesitate to say "sort of like a rap battle" after the way everyone and their dog now thinks that's what the Mari Lwyd does, but they were like a cross between a rap battle and the publication war between two rival academics. A bard would write an englyn and publish it in the local parish newsletter. Another bard would see this, and write their own englyn about how stupid the first bard's englyn was, and publish it in the same newsletter. The first bard would see this and retaliate. The second bard would retaliate to that. And on and on it would go, like a printed tennis match for all the parishioners to enjoy, until someone wrote a conclusive verse OR until someone went "Lol, you got me good there" and bowed out with dignity. Sometimes, these things were fucking vicious; but other times, they were just banter between two bards who knew each other and were enjoying the chance to keep their poetic skills in tip top condition.

Now, Gwerful was an active and enthusiastic participant in ymrysonau. We have many examples of her work from these. There are two of particular note that I'll list here, each against a different bard:

Dafydd Llwyd o Fathafarn. Mathafarn and Mechain are not so distant from one another, so no real surprise that these two locked horns a lot, but the impression I always got from their ymrysonau is that they were good mates, actually. These fell into the 'banter' category more often than not. Dafydd was a Welsh Nationalist who was hoping for a Welshman to rise up and throw off the yoke of English oppression, and most of his work is about that, but he turned up the filthy erotic shit for any ymryson with Gwerful because BOY HOWDY was that her specialty. IIRC she did occasionally poke fun at his Welsh Nash leanings, especially his obsession with Mab Darogan (OLD Welsh idea that translates to the Son of Prophesy - the Arthur-style figure that will one day drive out the English overlords), but mostly their ymrysonau were incredibly beautifully-written odes that could be summed up as "Dafydd, my man, my good friend, I mean this sincerely: suck my entire clit".

She often won.

Ieuan Dyfi. God, what a fucking asshole. This one was not banter. Gwerful played for blood with this prick.

We actually would know nothing about Ieuan Dyfi if not for Gwerful Mechain, because it was her poetic response to him that meant his only surviving poems made it to the modern day; that, and the record of him being brought before a church court where he admitted adultery with Anni Goch, a married woman. Oh, and the record of him being brought before the law courts at Liverpool, accused of domestic abuse and gambling? If I remember right?

Two things to know that set the scene for what came next:

One of Gwerful Mechain's surviving poems is an englyn considered to be possibly the oldest extant poem about domestic violence written by a woman: I’w gŵr am ei churo (To the husband who beats her)

Dager drwy goler dy galon - ar osgo I asgwrn dy ddwyfron; Dy lin a dyr, dy law’n don, A’th gleddau i’th goluddion.

There are a lot of translations for this one to try to keep its poeticness, but this one is pretty good:

Through your heart’s lining let there be pressed, slanting down, A dagger to the bone in your chest. Your knee smashed, your hand crushed, may the rest Be gutted by the sword you possessed.

She has others, too, that deal with sexual assault, and something scholars often note about Gwerful is her remarkable knowledge of the law as it pertained to women's issues. So she was not, you see, a woman with a high view of a man accused of domestic violence anyway.

But then Ieuan Dyfi wrote five poems about Anni Goch, the married woman he'd fucked, each more "Wow dude, she said no" than the last, culminating in I Anni Goch; a full cywydd of misogynistic Medieval-incel bullshit about how false and evil women are, which listed all the false and evil women of history including classical and mythological figures.

And. Well. Gwerful had some views.

Her responding cywydd - I ateb Ieuan Dyfi am gywydd Anni Goch - basically blasted the guy back into his own impact crater and disintegrated him. What she did with it, essentially, was to mirror his cywydd. Where he'd gone "Isn't it so true how great men throughout history have always been brought low by women, amirite lads? Here's examples", Gwerful went "Isn't it so true how 'great men' throughout history have behaved appallingly and fucked up through their own actions and then somehow managed to blame women, amirite lads? Here's examples." Where his examples had been historical figures, so were hers. Where his had been classical, so were hers. Where he went Biblical, so did she.

And what's so interesting about that last one is how pointed she was with it - for some reason, in his big list of evil women, Ieuan Dyfi did not go for the most obvious and low-hanging of fruit (no pun intended) - he doesn't cite Eve. In response, Gwerful also sidesteps the most obvious and low hanging of fruit - she doesn't cite Mary. In so doing, she makes it clear that she doesn't even need to.

There is no record of him responding to her. IIRC, there is a record of him doing three years in prison.

But! Outside of all of that, the big thing Gwerful was known for was her erotic poetry. You'll be unsurprised to hear that it wasn't written for shits and giggles - much like today, women of the time were told that most of their value was in their looks, and they had plentiful insecurities about their bodies. Gwerful wrote her erotic stuff to confront those insecurities and shine a light on the issue. There are so many examples of this, but far and away the most famous is definitely Cywydd y Cedor - roughly translated, 'Ode to the Vulva'. Though I have also seen it titled Cywydd y Gont - Ode to the Cunt. It's such a shame that the English language is literally, physically not capable of cynghanedd, because it means unless you learn Welsh you will never understand the beauty and the lyricism of the piece, and how it elevates and undercuts the content at the same time; but it's a joyful, masterful, irreverent work that uses the fancy language male poets were forever dedicating to the rest of a woman's body and applies it squarely to the vulva. In fact it basically opens with "Men are cowards, describe more cunts or gtfo" before launching into its main subject matter. The last line is pro-pubic hair, too, like I really must stress how much Gwerful Mechain would have to offer Tumblr if you could speak Welsh. This is probably her most widely translated piece, though, you can definitely find English versions. Although you can tell how blushing and reticent the translator is - and therefore how sanitised their translation is - by whether they've called it Ode to the Vulva/Cunt, or Ode to the Pubic Hair.

Needless to say, the original is not sanitised.

(Actually, I should also say - this one is also a response piece, probably, but in this case to a bard who lived a century earlier - Dafydd ap Gwilym, the absolutely legendary and uncontested king of Welsh romance poetry. He wrote a poem called Cywydd y Gal - Ode to the Penis. I have only just put two and two together on that.)

As a final note, I should say that my personal favourite Gwerful Mechain poem on this subject, mind, is actually I'w morwyn wrth gachu - to the maiden who is shitting. It's an englyn written in Gwerful's customary high poetic form, but it is what it says - it describes a woman taking a shit, and farting as she does. Beautiful and magical and disgusting and banal, all in one go:

Crwciodd lle dihangodd ei dŵr - ’n grychiast O grochan ei llawdwr; Ei deudwll oedd yn dadwr’, Baw a ddaeth, a bwa o ddŵr

Funnily enough, it's hard to find a good translation for this one lol.

My attempt:

She crouched where her water escaped - creased From the cauldron of her heat; Her two holes were arguing, Shit came, and a bow of water

Eh. It's so bland in English. Honestly, if you could read Welsh...

Anyway, if anyone reading this can read Welsh and wants to read some of Gwerful Mechain's stuff - including some of the pieces she was responding to in the ymrysonau - you can find a load here. Otherwise, I hope you enjoyed!

[100vern]

while he's gone | ksy & hvc

𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒉𝒆'𝒔 𝒈𝒐𝒏𝒆 // 𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒚, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒈𝒐𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒏𝒖𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓.

★ pairing: vernon x f. reader; established hoshi x f. reader ★ genre: open relationship, fwb to lovers au; smut, fluff, lite angst ★ summary: your boyfriend's on tour, but vernon's still in town. ★ rating: explicit. minors do not interact with this or any of my work. ★ warnings: i am reiterating that this is an open relationship so there is NO CHEATING!! i don't wanna hear it!! soloist hoshi, producer vernon, i wax way too poetic about music and interior design, swearing, alcohol, use of pet names, one miscommunication, one tiny argument that gets resolved, discussions about polyamory. everyone being in love and down bad for one another. ★ smut warnings: mentions of threesomes, voyeurism (over the phone), dirty talk, oral sex, dry humping??, protected vaginal sex, marking/biting, multiple orgasms, sex toys, cuckolding, recording (photos/videos), masturbation, teasing, cum play/eating, lingerie. please tell me if i forgot anything! ★ wordcount: 12.6k ★ credits: cam (@highvern) for spreading the "hoshi holding vernon's head down" agenda far and wide. bee (@imnotshua) for telling me when my words don't make sense and fixing them. jess (@starlightkyeom) for reading this over. ★ author's note: more cursed thoughts thanks to a conversation about monsta x with @aeristudios. i've been wanting to write a fic based off "got my number" for ages, so here we are! a lil treat dedicated to @sailorsoons for girlbossing her ass off these last few weeks (and pulverizing her knee). i would also like to apologize to all the hansol truthers. i typed it out once and had a visceral reaction, much like i did using hoshi's government name, so he's just vernon.

Your boyfriend’s flight departed from Incheon just shy of four p.m., though he’d left the apartment long before that.

Needed time to make the hour and a half drive. Fix his hair and makeup before he hopped out and posed for Dispatch. Push his way through the horde of fans and to security, get his face scanned and passport checked. Needed time to make it to the privacy of his terminal lounge where he could catch his breath and lock himself in the bathroom. Needed time to send you a mirror selfie: hoodie unzipped to the middle of his bare sternum, hat pulled low to cover his eyes, tongue just barely peeking out from between his lips.

Made it 😘, it said.

Beneath that, even though the two of you have been through this exact scenario more times than you can count—even though it’s the same every time and he said all the same things as he was fucking you into the mattress last night and again this morning, as he was kissing you goodbye at the door hours ago:

Soonyoung: Love u babe. Gonna miss u sooo much~ I’ll text u every chance I can !! Soonyoung: Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do ㅋㅋㅋ just kidding don’t u dare behave Soonyoung: Send me pictures tho. What if I get lonely 😔

There was a thought: your boyfriend on tour, all alone between the cold, crisp sheets of his hotel bed, no one to occupy all that extra space. You’d snorted at that. Replied with the eye-roll emoji and wondered, privately, if he was going to meet up with the same old flames; if he was going to send you pictures with faces and bodies you recognized. Anticipation clawed its way up your spine and settled in your gut, left behind an insurmountable want.

Saying goodbye was always hard, but this part? It felt like Soonyoung held the forbidden fruit in his hand, sliced and fed to you on the point of a paring knife.

Delicious, in other words.

Whatever you and Vernon have fallen into can best be described as a foregone conclusion: Soonyoung leaves, Vernon arrives, and there’s no need for the discretion or the habit, but you can’t deny there’s a certain allure to it. It feels scandalous, dirty—something that only happens in a dark corner away from prying, garrulous eyes—even though it isn’t. Not really.

Soonyoung will be in Japan, Indonesia, Malaysia, Thailand; he’ll be in Berlin, Paris and London; he’ll go across North and South America. In every one of those places, someone will keep him company until he comes home to you. And, after every single time, you’ll have something in your inbox to mark the occasion—a text, some pictures, a video—because your boyfriend is nothing if not a pervert.

So no, the discretion isn’t necessary. You and Soonyoung are free to do as you please, both separately and together, which is how all of this started, anyway: his album release party, prod. by VERNON in the credits, you safely sequestered on the other side of a velvet rope. Not a secret, just… not out in the open, either, which was both a little embarrassing and difficult to explain to Vernon over the deafening, teeth-shattering background noise as he unabashedly hit on you.

He’d known, of course, that Soonyoung had been writing love songs about someone, but he hadn’t known it was you he’d helped him write about.

Not that it mattered much in the end. Soonyoung had slunk over, drunk on the spotlight and the status it afforded him, the most important man in the room, and looked Vernon dead in the eye. Pushed his tongue into the fat of his cheek, looked like a real sleazy piece of shit, and said, “You wanna fuck my girl?”

He did, admittedly, and Soonyoung had rewarded him for his honesty. Took both of you home and held Vernon’s head down as he told him how to eat you out, wet and messy and filthy. You came in record time, and a man that made you come in record time was not one you were itching to get rid of.

Vernon fucks you right and doesn’t ask a lot of questions you don’t have answers to. Doesn’t mind your unconventional relationship and definitely doesn’t mind recording the way you suck his cock: the way spit pools in the corners of your mouth and glistens under the flash; the way you moan around him as he rasps out husky praise; the way he says shit—fuck, baby, just like that, cock’s so far down your fuckin’ throat, huh; how wet your eyelashes are and the tears tracking down your cheeks.

Vernon fucks you right and doesn’t ask a lot of questions and calls Soonyoung hyung even though they’re colleagues, but that’s the sort of relationship you naturally fall into after you have a threesome and fuck said colleague’s girlfriend, you suppose, and Soonyoung doesn’t mind it. Because he’ll go away for whatever it is he gets called away for and Vernon will come over and tell you to ride him as he pulls out his phone and says shit like, “God, hyung, she’s about to come all over my cock. I don’t think she’s thinking about you at all. You aren’t, are you, baby? You’re not thinking about Soonyoung-hyung at all, are you? Only me,” between gasping, fractured moans.

And Soonyoung knows how that feels, is the thing. Knows the feeling of being suffocated in your tight, wet heat and how it can drive a man nearly to madness, and all he feels is pride. That’s his girl, bringing another man to his knees.

Hence the routine.

Normally you’d go out—a swanky new rooftop bar, a nightclub owned by a friend of a friend. Your drinks would glow neon blue under the blacklights, skinny red straw stuck in a plastic cup that matched the cherry at the bottom. Your skin would glisten with sweat as one of your friends twirled you around, kaleidoscope shapes behind your eyelids, both of you laughing breezy and sweet.

At some point throughout the night, Vernon would text you. You’d send him your location. He’d show up in an outfit contradicting the exclusivity of wherever you were, shower-soft, Sauvage on his wrists and neck, and he’d lean in close, ask if you wanted to stay or get out of there. Discarded on your bedroom floor, pooling at his feet in the club bathroom—it no longer mattered what he was wearing, because it never stayed on very long.

So here you are. While Soonyoung’s 800 kilometers away, undoubtedly trying to charm someone into his bed, you’re at home biding your time until the inevitable, no urge to go out. Instead, you indulge in yourself, work yourself up. Soonyoung, Vernon, both of them together—regardless of who you think about, the results are the same: you pinpoint the anticipation in your stomach and press, let your body sink beneath the weight of it.

Your boyfriend has only been in Osaka a handful of hours when the inevitable happens.

Vernon’s name lights up your screen. Transforms the slow simmer of expectation into full-blown wildfire. Has you squeezing your thighs together, bottom lip tugged between your teeth, when you open the text thread. Before tonight, the last time he’d texted you was three months ago: two o’clock in the morning, a video with a completely innocent thumbnail belying its content, already sent this to hyung but figured u might want it too written underneath.

Vernon: heard soonyoung hyung’s out of town for a while Vernon: what are u doing tonite

You exhale a soft laugh. As if Vernon just happened to stumble upon this information. As if he doesn’t already know what you’ll be getting up to tonight. As if he also isn’t falling victim to the desire. As if his lowercase letters and disregard for his ego with a double-text aren’t feigned nonchalance.

But just because you both know exactly where this is heading doesn’t mean you can’t have a little fun.

So you pull your shirt over your head and toss it aside. Open up your camera and angle your body the way you like: glossed lips parted, the bruise Soonyoung sucked into your skin this morning just beneath your collarbone, cleavage framed perfectly, curve of your ass center frame, both covered in cheeky forest green lace. You snap a photo and another one with a painted-on pout; snap a third as the tips of your fingers delve beneath the waistline of your panties.

You: [Attachment: 3 Images] You: Hopefully you?

At the receiving end, Vernon swears, drops his phone. Of course you’re bathed in his favorite color. Of course you’re wrapped in sheets he’s lucky enough to know the feel of. Dizzy, his breath catches in his throat; tries to stave off feeling like he’s in free-fall. He’s no stranger to this kind of insatiable hunger—becomes reacquainted with it every few months, in fact—but it always catches him unaware. Always comes back with such a vengeance, as if all the times before had simply been the prefix.

He grabs his jacket.

Vernon’s barely been at your place twenty minutes when your phone rings.

You groan as he rolls his cock against you, jeans undone but still sitting low on his hips, zipper biting into your skin every time he presses you further into the mattress. The next sound you make he swallows with his mouth. Moves his lips to the column of your throat, the underside of your jaw, the spot just beneath your ear. Takes your lobe between his teeth, asks, “Is it him?” and lets you feel the way he smirks.

Blindly, you reach toward the sound, that horrible scattering across your nightstand that makes your teeth ache. It must be Soonyoung because it’s relentless, another call just as the first one ends, and you’re trying, you really are, but Vernon’s relentless, too. Abandons your space, takes your common sense and all his heat with him as he sits back on his haunches and moves his hands beneath your ass; drags you closer until your cunt—still covered in that dark lace and growing darker the wetter you become—is back against his cock and ruts.

You’re speechless, head thrown back against the pillows, the synapses of your brain misfiring and coming up empty. Both of you are still clothed and Vernon’s still having his way with you; still smirking dirty and arrogant out of the side of his mouth. Almost looks like he’s sneering a little as he asks again, “What’s the matter, baby? Not gonna answer him?” At your continued silence, he amends, “Oh, or maybe you can’t?”

You want to roll your eyes, shut him up with some sharp retort, but he’s got you exactly where he wants you. It’s a place you don’t mind being, either, because whether it’s the way his thick cock feels rubbing against your clit or the result of months of waiting, it doesn’t matter, it all feels divine. Has your breathing labored and heavy, has sweat pricking at your skin, has Vernon staring down at you with a gaze so pointed it cuts through the haze.

So he makes the decision for you. Reaches over and grabs your phone, tucks it between his ear and his shoulder. Keeps his hands free so he can keep moving you against him and greets your boyfriend with a, “Sorry, hyung, she’s a little busy right now.”

You can hear Soonyoung’s bark of laughter from where you’re laying, and then more muted chattering. He must give Vernon instructions, because Vernon puts the phone on speaker and tosses it somewhere on the bed. “Hello, princess. Are you having fun?” All you can manage is an uh-huh that’s fractured in the middle, punctuated with another roll of Vernon’s hips. “Mm, you sound so good, baby. Miss hearing you like that already. Can I see you, too?”

Vernon catches your eye as he reaches for your phone again. Waits for your nod before he points the camera at you and switches it to FaceTime. You hear Soonyoung suck in a breath. Wonder what he looks like. If the low light of his hotel room casts amber shadows across his face that intensify his stare, sharpen it to a point. If he’s got his arm tucked behind his head, laissez-faire in that way that drives you crazy, sensual without having to try. You almost ask Vernon to see, but then Soonyoung clicks his tongue and says, “That set is your favorite, isn’t it?”

The man he’s addressing looks down at you, eyes full of stars. “Yeah, hyung,” Vernon says, and it’s breathy, barely counts as separate words. Through the camera, Soonyoung watches as Vernon runs his fingertips over the hickey he’d left, over the swell of your breast and the space between each rib. Watches as Vernon grips at the meat of your thigh; as his hands flex before he grabs at you again.

“You want to touch her, don’t you? Properly.” He watches as Vernon nods, the camera wobbling with the intensity of it. “Put your mouth on her, Vernon-ah—she loves that so much.”

You can hear the shit-eating lilt to his tone and you know he’s enjoying this. That he loves watching you. Loves that Vernon’s always so fucked up over you and that he gets to direct these scenes. Loves what he gets to experience with you: something enduring and impenetrable, something that grants him freedom and indulgence. Loves you, most of all, but there will be time for that later.

Right now, he wants to watch Vernon make a mess of you. Wants to watch him pull those little lace panties to the side and eat you out, fervent and messy. Wants to hear it when he starts sucking at your clit and you keen high in your throat. Wants to watch the way you grab at his hair and force him closer as you roll your hips and seek out your own undoing.

Right now, Vernon hands the phone to you. “There’s my pretty girl,” Soonyoung says, and your face grows hot—as hot as the hands that skim over your skin and move to take off your panties. Soonyoung loves this part—loves watching someone unwrap you like a present; loves the tension even when isn’t there for it—so you flip the camera so he can see. “Leave them on,” your boyfriend instructs. Vernon’s brows pinch together. “You know she wore that set just for you, so leave it on when you fuck her. Make a mess of it. Cum all over it and ruin it, and then maybe I’ll let you take my card to buy her a new one.”

Vernon’s eyes flutter closed, long lashes fanning across his ruddy cheeks, so fucking pretty.

Anticipation sinks its claws into you again. Feels like an eternity passes before Vernon’s hands start moving again. Before he presses the pads of his thumbs into your hips and the contact makes both of you gasp. Before he leans in closer and kisses all the places he’d left fingerprints. Kisses your stomach, hips, the tops of your thighs and down, down, down until he’s where you want him—until you can feel his breath against your cunt, goosebumps rising from the warmth.

You only tear your eyes away from him to look at Soonyoung. Even through the screen you can tell he’s growing restless: pupils blown wide, teeth worrying at his bottom lip, breathing unsteady. You reach for Vernon, thread your fingers through his hair and tug, and at his resulting whine Soonyoung flips his own camera. What greets you is an expanse of familiar tan skin, his defined abs, legs spread wide, cock curved and hard.

There isn’t an ounce of shame to be found as he palms at himself. Just a ghost of a touch before he squeezes at the base and groans. All the times you’ve watched him do this… you can imagine the way his head rolls back, lips parted, muscles tensing.

“You look so good,” you murmur, and there’s no telling who it’s directed at—because Soonyoung looks good, just as he always does, but Vernon is a vision.

Especially when he’s between your legs.

There’s a glimpse of a half-cocked smile before he flattens his tongue and delves between your folds, stealing the breath from your lungs. One stripe and then another, all parallel lines as he works you over. Wraps his arms around your hips and pulls you closer to his mouth, doubles his efforts, doesn’t pay any mind to the mess he’s making, both of the sheets and of you.

You tug harder at Vernon’s hair. Roll your hips in time with his tongue, both of you endlessly noisy. Vernon groans as he sucks at your clit and you feel the sparks like lightning. Feels like he’s making a mockery of you. Feels like all he knows is your pleasure. Feels like an eternity has passed since he’s worked you over like this, and Soonyoung must agree because he almost sounds whiny as he says, “God, I missed this. Missed seeing you two together.”

You dare a look. Soonyoung jerks himself slowly with a loose fist, drags it out, savors every second and shiver that dances up his spine. Hisses through his teeth when he gathers the precum at the tip and spreads it along the length of his shaft. You want to see his face. Want to see the way his dark hair falls into his eyes when he shudders and curves into himself, the crease that forms between his brows, his eyes when they’re glassy and unfocused.

But then Vernon does something with his mouth that has you crying out—a strangled sound halfway between shock and gratification. Has you mirroring the exact image you expected to see on Soonyoung’s face. There’s poetry in that, you think, and that’s the last thought you have before Vernon drags your orgasm from you and your world tilts on its axis.

When you come to, vision still out of focus and fuzzy around the edges, you’re covered in a thin sheen of sweat, your phone is lost somewhere in the duvet, and Vernon’s still between your legs.

You choke. Feel around desperately for your phone and can barely hold onto it, weak and trembling, all your energy drained. Try to clamp your thighs around Vernon’s head for some reprieve but he knows you too well, knows you can take it, so he forces them back open.

Bliss spreads like wildfire. Starts in your toes and works its way into your bloodstream. Feels like you’ve been carved out of kerosene and matchsticks. It’ll be Vernon, you know—he’ll be the catalyst, light the spark that consumes and overwhelms you.

Especially when he’s like this.

When you’re the only thing that exists to him. When he’d forego pleasure for the rest of his life if it meant drowning in your pussy and getting you off. When he pays no mind to your boyfriend’s obscene goading—“Can you taste me, Vernon-ah? Did she tell you I filled her up this morning? That it was so much it was leaking out of her?”—and stays focused on you. When he runs two fingers through your mess and presses them inside, right against the spot that nearly folds you in half, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, pressure mounting.

“Oh my god. Vernon, please, it’s too much, I’m gonna—”

You feel him smile against your cunt. Pulls back only far enough to bite at the juncture of your thigh and say, “I know you can take it,” in his hoarse voice. With lips that are covered in you. “You’re gonna come again, aren’t you, baby? And you’re gonna be a good girl and soak through these fucking sheets while your boyfriend has to jerk himself off.”

That’s exactly what happens.

The cord inside you snaps. Soonyoung swears as he watches you come again, body pulling taut, Vernon’s name spilling from your lips like a mantra. Vernon’s on you immediately, setting the phone on your nightstand and kissing you senseless. Lets you taste yourself and the way you claimed him. Slots his body between your legs, careful as he presses against you because he knows how oversensitive you get. Waits until the tremors subside and he can feel you tracing shapes against his back before he murmurs a quiet okay? into your ear.

It takes a second for you to nod, but you do.

Vernon looks to his right at your phone. “Still want her fully dressed, hyung? She’s made a pretty big mess already.”

Soonyoung laughs, breathy and a little disbelieving. He loves this part, too, when Vernon dishes back as good as he gets. Both of them know it’s not a competition and would never treat it as one, but Soonyoung can’t help himself sometimes. Loves to stir shit just because he can—because Vernon is younger and looks up to him, but also because you like Vernon and he enjoys teasing you just as much.

So Soonyoung laughs. Asks, “How are you feeling, pretty girl? You want him to fuck you?” and continues stroking himself, pace leisurely, cock glistening with spit and precum, balls tight.

He’s always affected.

And so are you. You nod. Readjust your body beneath Vernon’s so he can press in tighter, so you can wrap your legs around his waist and delight in the sounds he makes—first like the breath’s been punched out of him, then more intentional as the electricity ebbs away and settles into his bones. His fingers grip at your thigh, movements fluid as he rocks his hips, unconcerned with the stickiness seeping through the fabric of his briefs.

Vernon wants you every second of every single day, and he doesn’t care who knows it.

You move your hands to his face. Let your thumbs rest on the high points of his cheekbones and settle into the contours there. Press your lips to his and lick into his mouth, all teeth and tongue and no savoir-faire. Vernon responds in kind. Starts moving frenetic and mindless, vehemence making up for his lack of composure, swallowing everything you give him.

Fucks you up a little that he still tastes like you—that you’re not all that easy to rinse out.

“Shit,” he swears, slurring the word against your mouth, lips bitten red and swollen. “Need you so bad, baby, please.”

Your vision swims, the raw urgency in Vernon’s tone making everything look like television static. All you can do is nod, spread your legs wider, press your body into him and hope he knows what to do with it, but he needs you to say it. “Tell me,” he says, settling a hand around your throat. Not tight—just so he can feel your words, just so he knows they’re there. “Tell me you want me. Tell me how you want me to give it to you.”

“Want you. Wanna ride you,” you answer. “Wanna be able to look at you. So pretty, Nonie—you look so pretty when you cum, I wanna see it.”

Vernon swears again. Sits back and has his jeans and underwear pulled off before you can process what’s happening, rolls on a condom, and that’s where you meet him, in the center of the bed. You move into the space between his spread legs, drape your arms over his shoulders as your knees bracket his hips, spit into your hand and work it over his cock, thumbing at the head just to make him whine.

“Babe—”

And then you’re pulling your panties to the side and sinking down on it.

The stretch is overwhelming. Steals the air from your lungs. Has Vernon pressing his forehead to yours, sharing your breath, dimpling your hips with bruising fingerprints. “Slow,” he pleads, and you’d give him anything, so you kiss the spot just beneath his eye, say okay, okay, and turn your attention to Soonyoung.

Not far off from how you’d left him: touching himself with reverence, not an ounce of shame to be found; sounds spilling from his lips that sound like home. He doesn’t notice you watching, but it doesn’t matter, he’s a performer in every aspect of his life. Thrives when he’s under the spotlight, demanding everyone’s attention, all eyes on him. Sex is no different. Always goes into it with eyes wide open, so you’re not surprised when he feels yours on him. When he says, “What’s the matter, princess?”

Beneath you, Vernon’s starting to gather his bearings. Thrusts slow and shallow and groans. “Did you bring it?” you ask Soonyoung, trying to keep your voice steady as Vernon fucks into you.

“The—”

“Yes,” you interject, already knowing what he was going to ask. Shit, Vernon feels so good. “Get it out. Use it. Wanna see you cum that way.”

Soonyoung swears. Says, “Fuck—god, yeah, I’ll get it,” and disappears from the screen. Vernon’s lips move to your chest, your neck, your mouth. He’s moving in earnest, now—doesn’t care what he sounds like, that he’s devolved into staccato whines and half-syllables. Doesn’t care about the mess between your legs.

Doesn’t care that when Soonyoung comes back onto the screen, you’re wholly focused on him, grinning pleased and wicked. If you want him to work for it, he will. If you want him to give it to you so good you’re not even thinking about your boyfriend, that’s what he’s going to do. If you want him to fuck you so hard you can’t even speak, well, that’s the goal.

So he doubles his efforts. Plants his feet on the bed and uses the leverage to bury himself as deep in you as he can. He’s done this enough to know his angles, know how to have you dripping and shaking, but he wants to savor this. Wants to drag it out for you. Some sick, selfish part of him wants this to be the fuck you’re thinking about later as you’re about to drift to sleep even though you aren’t his to claim. Not like that, anyway. He can still paint you in bruises that match Soonyoung’s, undecipherable from one another. No telling what’s his work and what’s Vernon’s.

“Tell me what to do.”

Vernon glances sideways. Watches as his hyung dribbles lube all over his cock, slicks himself up. Glances at you and sees you watching. Sees the way your jaw ticks, your eyes darken. Can feel how endless your love is for Soonyoung and he wants to burn up.

But then you say, “Fuck yourself the way Vernonie’s fucking me,” and the words soothe over him like a balm. Even more so when Soonyoung listens; when he grabs the pocket pussy and works it slowly down his shaft, moaning long and drawn out the entire way.

“God, I’m about to fucking bust.” Soonyoung laughs. “Tell me how he’s fucking you, pretty girl. Bet it feels even better than this, huh? Bet he’s making you feel so good.”

Everyone’s about to make an early exit at this rate. Vernon tells (begs) him to shut up in so many words. Tries to focus on himself, thinks about every terrible thing in the world to stave it off, but the way you’re nodding along with Soonyoung’s words are hurtling him towards the end at record speed. The way you look at Vernon with constellations in your eyes. The way you’re reduced to mindless babbling, all your words slurring together as you say, “It’s so good. So good, Soonyoungie, he’s so deep, fucks me so good, god I’m gonna come again—”

Vernon panics, bites at your collar bone, knows he wouldn’t survive feeling you clench around his cock. Tells you, “Not yet,” even though he’s barely able to choke out the words; even though he can barely endure you now, cunt spasming, walls fluttering around him. The unbelievable white-hot heat, the vice grip. Fuck, he wants to do this every day. Wants to do this for the rest of his life.

And you must be able to tell. Must see how spaced out he looks, because you move your hands to the center of his chest and dig your nails in, urge him backwards until he’s propped up on one elbow. This is what Vernon sees when he closes his eyes, when it’s been months since he’s seen you and he’s cumming all over his fist: the lines of his own body, the coarse strip of hair that leads from his stomach to where your bodies connect; you on top of him, hips sinuous and sinful as you circle them.

You put on a show of your own. Move your hands to his knees and spread your legs wider. Vernon’s cock looks obscene inside of you, trapped beneath your lace panties, so he grabs your phone, makes sure Soonyoung can see what he’s seeing. Makes sure Soonyoung can see the sheen your wetness leaves on his skin as you grind back and forth on him. Makes sure Soonyoung can hear the slapping of your and Vernon’s skin, the way your pussy squelches, how lewd everything sounds in the still air of the bedroom the two of you share.

“Jesus—fuck,” Soonyoung says down the line, voice metallic and fucked out. “You two are so goddamn hot together. Make her come, Vernon-ah, and then I wanna see her covered in you. Wanna see you ruin my pretty girl.”

Vernon shudders and nearly folds in on himself. Grabs your hip to slow your movements, refusing to get off before you, but you’re determined. Your grin is devilish as you move his hand to your clit and tell him to get to work. As you lean forward briefly to kiss him before you’re moving in earnest again, more intentional than before, and it’s all Vernon can do to stay conscious. All of it’s too much: the way you look above him, head thrown back, the marks he’d left on your throat; the way you’re able to handle both of them at once, riding Vernon into the mattress while you talk Soonyoung over the edge, the most filthy words spilling out of your mouth.

The way you gasp as Vernon thumbs circles against your clit and reach for his hand, trying to ground yourself as your pussy clenches, as you barely have time to stammer out the words before you’re coming on his cock.

“Shit, shit, shit.” Vernon pulls out, almost cries at no longer being enveloped in your heat, pulls off the condom and fists his cock once, twice, and then watches, entranced, as he does what his hyung said and covers you in cum.

Your tits, your stomach, the fabric of your panties.

For a moment, everything is quiet, everyone still coming down and trying to catch their breath. You’re spent, exhausted and satiated in ways you haven’t been in months. Every muscle in your body feels overworked. Your throat feels raw. Every inch of skin that’s bruised feels like a branding iron, and it is, you suppose.  Soonyoung’s, Vernon’s, it doesn’t matter—you wear them both.

“Don’t wash those,” comes Soonyoung’s voice.

It takes you a second to realize what he means. “My panties?” you ask, shock apparent. You’d known he was a freak, of course, but the depths of his perversion continue to surprise you. “Soonyoung…”

“Don’t kink shame me, princess, I’m covered in my own jizz and I need another shower. I came so hard I think I had religious visions. How’re you feeling, Vernon-ah?”

The man in question doesn’t answer. You’d think he was asleep with his eyes open if you knew he was capable of it, but that’s not what’s going on. Vernon’s fixated on you. Can’t tear his eyes off of you and the cum that’s drying into your skin, and you know you shouldn’t, that you should give him a break, but there’s no fun in that, so you trail your fingers through the mess on your stomach and suck them into your mouth.

“Yeah, don’t need to ask after that. Goddamn. I’m gonna go shower before you get me hard again. Good luck with her.”

The call disconnects. In the aftermath, the silence is almost stifling, almost makes you feel a sense of guilt that’s entirely undeserved, but then Vernon’s sitting up and crowding your space, hands behind your back as he works at the knots he finds there. Pulls you in closer. Presses a spun-sugar kiss to your forehead that makes your heart skip a beat.

The thing is, though: he doesn’t stay.

It’s not a rule. It’s not something Soonyoung requested to keep some semblance of boundaries in your relationship. He doesn’t care, and neither do you, but Vernon does. Doesn’t want to overstep and muddy the lines. Doesn’t want to make it seem like more than it is, and you’ve always been fine with that, but something about this time feels different. Strikes you someplace deep, hidden away, tucked behind your ribs. Vernon runs you a bath and changes the sheets while you’re soaking your aching muscles and when you’re tucked into bed, he presses another kiss to your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose, the corner of your mouth. Promises to text you later in the week.

And then he lets himself out.

You’re still awake an hour later when your phone lights up with a string of texts, and you force yourself not to think about what it means that you’re disappointed it isn’t Vernon.

Soonyoung: Going to sleep. The two of u wore me out ㅋㅋㅋ Soonyoung: I’ll text u in the morning. Got an early day tomorrow 😭 Soonyoung: Love u baby. Sleep tight ❤️

With Soonyoung in Paris, it’s hard to make the time difference work.

Seven hours usually isn’t a problem—it’s worse when he goes to the Americas, for example—but it’s been weeks since your technological ménage à trois and you aren’t feeling any less unsettled. All you want to do is talk to him. Ask him what the hell is going on with you, why you can’t seem to shake this, what it all means, but it just never works out.

Not the right time. Not enough time. Soonyoung often has his own plans that keep him occupied until the early hours of the morning wherever he is, and by then he’s too exhausted and you’ve been awake for hours, already well into the monotony of your day.

Still, it eats at you. Makes you feel guilty in ways you can’t rationalize. You know you haven’t done anything wrong. Haven’t done anything you haven’t done plenty of times before; haven’t done anything Soonyoung isn’t also doing when he’s not around to answer your calls. And that’s fine—even though it’s unconventional to most, you love the dynamic the two of you have. Wouldn’t change it for anything except Soonyoung himself, so you know he’s not the point of contention.

No, it’s you—you’re the problem here.

Something’s changed, but whatever it is isn’t all that keen to let you in on the secret yet.

So you do your best to push it down and swallow it. You go to work. You meet your friends for dinner and drinks. You suffer through your gym sessions just to give the anxiety and jitters someplace to go. You clean your and Soonyoung’s apartment top to bottom until there’s not a speck of dust to be found and all the countertops start to squeak. You go shopping and charge whatever you want to Soonyoung’s credit card because he’d want you to.

None of it works.

It’s no wonder, then, that you break by the time Soonyoung gets to Paris. That you’re sending up flares and paying little attention to the time difference. That you text him—

You: Can you make some time to call me today? You: I don’t care about the time. You: It’s nothing bad, I promise. Just need/want to talk to you.

—and expect something, anything, in return: the familiarity of his tone, his overuse of emojis, the way he always calls on FaceTime and always greets you barefaced and with a relieved smile, like you’re the only thing he wants to see at the end of a long day. You expect him to say anything for my girl—or, at the very least, can’t today baby 🙁 I’m so sorry, but I’ll have time tomorrow and I’ll call first thing, ok ??

You don’t get any of that.

What you get is silence.

Your texts go unanswered. He doesn’t call. You double-check your calendar just to confirm you hadn’t gotten the date confused, but he doesn’t have a show tonight. Rehearsal and a team dinner, maybe, but nothing that should make him so unavailable to you.

Well, except one very obvious thing.

There’s a flashbang of hurt you immediately try to tamper down. Soonyoung can’t read your mind. He’s never ignored you when you’ve needed him or given you reason to believe he’d do something like this intentionally and maliciously—not to mention that the arrangement the two of you have has never been an issue before, so it’s nothing to get upset over. You know it’s nothing to get upset over, but knowing doesn’t suck the poison out.

A temporary lapse in communication is all this is. You’ve survived worse.

It’s just—

This shapeless, undefinable thing that’s clawed its way inside of you isn’t going anywhere. And you can deal with the stopgap emotions until you’re able to put a name to it—the anger and confusion, the abstract betrayal—but it’s always easiest to carry burdens with two sets of hands, is all.

Hours tick by. What was two hours without a response turns into four; four turns into six turns into you readying yourself for bed and spending the night tossing and turning, checking your phone every time you awake in the middle of the night. When your alarm goes off at eight o’clock and there’s still nothing, all those ugly feelings come swimming back to the surface.

Your first call rings and rings until it goes to voicemail.

So does the second.

Soonyoung answers the third out of breath, voice gravelly. A woman’s laughter greets you before he can, and for the first time ever, it makes you sick to your stomach. Makes you wonder what the fuck you’re doing. Has your hands trembling, all your words stuck in your throat, frustrated tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

Another twinkling laugh that your boyfriend responds to with a husky one of his own. “Hello? Hi, baby, I’m a little—”

Busy, he’s going to say. You’ve gathered as much. Busy is laughing in your ear, probably has her hands all over him, and it’s always been like this, the sharing and the nonexistence of possessiveness, but you come first. That’s the rule. Both of you come first to one another, so busy isn’t acceptable. Busy has resentment biting at your heels. Has your blood pressure spiking, your skin flushing hot.

Has you cutting him off, saying, “So busy you couldn’t answer my fucking texts?” with so much animosity all noise at the other end of the line immediately ceases.

You hear footsteps and the shutting of a door, the turn of a lock. “Okay, I’m alone,” he murmurs softly; you wish it did anything to comfort you. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”

A laugh of your own, derisive and disbelieving. “Yeah, that’s what I’ve been trying to do.”

You’re not about to spill your guts when Busy is in the next room over touching herself so she’s primed and ready to go when your boyfriend ends the call, goes back into the bedroom and says, sorry about that, and climbs back on top of her. You’re not about to spill your guts and feel like an inconvenience.

So you scoff and shake your head, say, “You know what, Soonyoung? Don’t even worry about it. Go back to fucking whoever the fuck she is and forget I even called.”

“Baby, come on, wait—”

You’re not about to spill your guts, so you rewrite the script.

You end the call. You ignore the texts that follow.

You text Vernon and ask if he’s free after work.

He is.

Vernon gets done work a little after ten.

You get off the train a few stops early and decide to walk the rest of the way. It’s been so long since you’ve done this. Since you’ve breathed in the smell of the samgyaetang and dakgalbi restaurants, the tteokbokki and bungeoppang from the street food vendors. Since you’ve thought the neon lights of Hongdae Street were going to blind you and shielded your eyes. Since you’ve walked by groups of friends posing for selfies in the middle of the sidewalk, apple cheeks from wide smiles pressed together; couples doubled over in laughter as they try to jump on one another’s backs. Since you’ve watched patrons stumble out of bars and clubs with queues to get in, faces flushed from the alcohol they’ve already consumed.

Vernon lives in Mapo, in an artsy high-rise in Seogyo-dong. New construction that’s meant to look much older, meant to resemble the industrial loft apartments found in older American cities, warehouses made irrelevant as the 21st century moved in and took hold. They’re all exposed brick, twenty-pane windows, concrete floors, neo-expressionist paintings hung in the lobby.

A block away, a bingsu restaurant is closed until the next afternoon, but it’s what lies beneath that piques your interest: a basement rock bar, show flyers plastered all over the door, live music pounding the pavement and spilling onto the sidewalk.

You’re in the lungs of the city, and it’s every bit as alive as you expected—and hoped—it would be.

You feel at home here, surrounded by people and nightlife and unrelenting noise. Where you and Soonyoung live isn’t dissimilar, just different—more refined and inhibited, more concerned with appearances than letting loose. You’ve gotten good at rubbing elbows with those types of people, as necessary and inevitable as it is, but sometimes you just miss the unpolished grime of ordinary people.

Vernon’s outside waiting for you when you reach his building.

Hat pulled low over his eyes. An oversized black hoodie that drowns his lithe frame, makes him look smaller than he is. Face lit up by the glow from his phone. A lollipop stuck in his mouth that he presses into the fat of his cheek when he looks up, sees you, and smiles.

“Hi,” he greets you, arms twitching at his sides, unsure of what to do—what’s okay, what isn’t. If he’s allowed to be affectionate with you in public. If anyone can know, even though you’re no one to these people and he’s as out of the spotlight as you are.

So you make the decision for him. Place a hand on his waist, lean in and press a kiss to his cheek. When you pull back, his cheeks are the same shade of cherry red as his lips and tongue. He ducks his head, tries to hide it, but there might as well be a flashing sign above his head to signal his embarrassment. “Oh,” he says quietly, touching the spot where you’d kissed him.

You swallow. The Vernon standing in front of you is a stark contrast to the one you fall into bed with. This one is all soft, rounded edges: shy, chivalrous, almost self-conscious—the kind that wouldn’t bruise if you bumped into him. You try to ignore the way your heart is hammering away in your chest, but the duality is making your head spin.

“Do you want to grab a drink first, or should we just…” He trails off, coughing to cover himself when all you do is quirk an eyebrow just to see if you can get him to blush again. “There’s a pretty cool LP bar down that way, if you’d be into that sorta thing? But I also have vinyl at my place, so I guess it doesn’t—”

You know laughing will only mortify him more, but you can’t help it. “Are you nervous?”

“No,” comes his automatic response.

“Are you sure?” you tease, watching as his fingers—covered to the second knuckle by his sleeves—worry insistently at the fabric of his hoodie. He flushes again, mouth opening and closing around words that don’t materialize, and it’s almost painful how endeared you are by him. “Come on, then,” you say, deciding to put him out of his misery, “show me this pretty cool bar.”

It’s a short walk, only a few blocks, but Vernon sets a slow pace and holds your hand anyway. Neither of you acknowledge that his is sweat-slick, and you can tell he’s thankful for this bit of reprieve. Must help him settle, because it isn’t long before he starts yapping away, animated and buoyant. He talks about work, about the album he’s mastering and how he hasn’t yet gotten the sidechain compression on the bass where he wants it. Tells you about a group the company recently put together that he’s excited about and thinks could be really successful.

“I don’t see them much since they’re always at practice,” he explains, slowing further as you approach a convenience store, “but when they have free time some of ‘em like to sit in the studio and watch me work. This GS25 gave me a black eye once.”

“What?”

He sounds straight out of a nature documentary as he tells you the story. How he’d wanted convenience store ramen because they had a 1+1, and on the way decided he needed a Yonsei bread, too, except he was piss drunk and didn’t realize the doors weren’t automatic, so yeah—hence the black eye. And it’s not particularly funny, but you laugh until your stomach hurts anyway; laugh until both of you are off-kilter from it, shoulders knocking into one another, tears blurring your vision and making the city look crystalline.

You laugh all the way to the bar, and Vernon only lets go of you to open the door and help you inside, hand reassuring and warm when it moves to the small of your back.

A two-seater table is open in the far corner. You sit with your back to the wall and a Blondie poster above your head, content to take in the view. Vernon’s content to let you. Asks what you’d like to drink and doesn’t bat an eye when you request a midori sour. You throw him an exaggerated wink as you say, “If you ask them to put a cherry in it, I’ll show you a magic trick.”

Vernon nearly cums on the spot.

But he does as you say. Returns to the table with two drinks and a pencil and paper. “For your song requests,” he explains when he sees you eyeing it.

“Thank you,” you say, taking your midori sour from him. “What are you gonna request? And what are you drinking?”

“It’s a Coke and something,” he answers, “but I’m not telling you what.” You roll your lips to keep from laughing. As if you couldn’t smell the coconut from across the bar. As if you can’t smell it on him now, when all you can think about is if you’ll be able to taste it on him later when he’s licking into your mouth. “I think you promised me a magic trick.”

A group of American girls taught you this in university, back when you were a starry-eyed freshman completely out of your comfort zone, friendless, more wallflower than functioning human. You just need a party trick, one of them had said, something to break the ice, and that’s how you learned to tie a cherry stem with your tongue.

Just like all those impressionable, hormone-riddled college boys, Vernon is stunned when you stick out your tongue to present it to him. Gets that dazed, faraway look in his eyes; has to clear his throat to get his lungs working again. Turns the tables on you when he reaches out and grabs it, putting it in his pocket for safekeeping, and then it’s you who feels like they’ve been punched in the chest.

It’s maddening, how oblivious he is to the effect he has on you.

“Did I ever tell you I was born in New York?” He drums the pencil against the table. Looks around the bar that’s grown steadily busier. “I moved here when I was five so I don’t really remember much, but it’s always felt like this huge part of me, so I went through this phase a few years ago—read a ton of books on the history of the music scene there, listened to all the albums they said were influential.”

You jot down some songs. “And? What was your verdict?”

He takes a sip of his drink. Laughs a little as he scratches at the back of his neck. “I got really into Tom Tom Club,” he answers. “You know Talking Heads, right? Tom Tom Club was the side project of the drummer and the bassist of that band. Husband and wife.”

Over the speakers, a bluesy folk song starts playing, soft and melodic. You’re not as musically inclined as your boyfriend or the man across from you, but you’re still able to be moved by it. Still able to appreciate in others when they love something so much it becomes tangible. When a bluesy folk song starts playing in a bar and it brings a smile to Vernon’s face. When he talks about artists and albums he’s discovered and speaks with all the reverence of an archaeologist digging up ancient riches thought to be long-forgotten. When you glance at the songs you’ve written down and don’t have to worry that they won’t be cool enough, because everyone here just loves music, no matter what form it takes; are able to find something to appreciate everywhere they look.

“Talking Heads had already put out, like, four or five albums I think by the time Tom Tom Club formed,” Vernon continues. His drink is almost gone. “But David Byrne had released some solo stuff by then with Brian Eno, so they wanted to do something, too, and what they made was this really funky, kind of unexpected new wave album.

“They did some really weird stuff production-wise—103 bpm when everyone else was doing 120, deliberately tuning Tina Weymouth’s bass to 150 hertz, using a really crunchy synth. I find myself going back to it every time I get stuck, mostly because it’s the sort of thing you can listen to and feel how much they loved making music.” He pauses. Almost looks horrified when he sees there’s nothing left in his glass but half-melted ice. “I—oh my god, I’m sorry, I can’t believe I’ve been talking your ear off about this.”

Head tilted to the side, you smile. “We’re in a music bar,” you deadpan. “I’d go so far as to say we’re in the perfect place for you to talk my ear off about this.”

“Yeah, but—” You give him a look that has him holding his hands up. “Okay, okay! I’ll go refill our drinks since it’s the least I can do. Do you have your…?”

That aforementioned smile morphs into something more mischievous when you hand him your slip of paper. You watch as he looks it over, nods at the picks he thinks were in good taste: “Dreams” by The Cranberries, “Don’t Push It Don’t Force It” by Leon Haywood, “Smalltown Boy” by Bronski Beat, “When I Come Around” by Green Day just to take the piss out of Vernon, who seems to have an endless collection of faded, worn Green Day t-shirts with loose necklines. Then, you watch as he gets to the last song on your list and his brows furrow.

He looks up at you. Even against the dark backdrop of the bar, against the red green blue lights casting technicolor shapes across his forehead, his cheeks, you can tell Vernon is stunned. Can see how wide his pupils have blown.

There, at the bottom of your list, is “Fantasy” by Mariah Carey.

Arguably the most well-known song to sample “Genius of Love” by Tom Tom Club.

Vernon’s apartment has three bedrooms.

One is used as a home studio, with a massive L-shaped desk that nearly takes up the entire room. In the middle, a laptop hooked up to a massive curved monitor with immaculate resolution, flanked on each side by monitor speakers. Stereo receiver. Preamps and input patch bays. A midi controller and a drum machine.

The rest of the room is taken up by instruments. An upright piano against one wall, clearly purchased secondhand; beside it, a two-tiered stand containing a keyboard and analog synthesizer. Two electric guitars, one acoustic, one bass. More microphones and over-ear headphones than you’ve ever seen in a single room.

Another resembles the LP bar: two walls of floor-to-ceiling built-ins that house his extensive vinyl collection, sorted first by genre then alphabetically. More records sit in milk crates on the floor, waiting to be catalogued and put away. To the right, on the only remaining wall that isn’t fully windows, sits a vintage credenza, most likely Japanese mid-century. You don’t have to ask—just by looking at it, you can tell Vernon’s hi-fi setup is top of the line, each item carefully chosen after hours of research and trial and error. Two plush armchairs, angled toward one another. Colorful shag rug.

His actual bedroom contains none of those things, but there are still touches of him everywhere.

Framed prints from his favorite artists and films. A concerning number of plain white t-shirts hung on a chrome clothing rack. On his nightstand, a well-used Replica candle (Jazz Club; smells like him) sits atop a stack of books with neon spines: Virgil Abloh. Nike. ICONS, Sofia Coppola Archive, Yoshitomo Nara. There’s a lamp on his dresser meant to look like entrance beacons of the New York City subway. Above his bed hangs a neon sign of Basquiat’s Beat Bop album cover, and on the floor, a black and white checkered rug.

As for the rest—well, you hadn’t been given much time to admire it before Vernon was laying you in the middle of the bed and kissing you breathless.

(It does taste like coconut when he licks into your mouth.)

And it isn’t like you needed a reminder—you never do with Vernon—but it serves as one anyway. That the two of you spent the last few hours of a Friday night drinking together in a bar, laughing at one another’s song requests, laughing at Vernon’s drinks mixed with coconut rum, laughing in general. That it’d taken a few rounds, but after the laughter faded and he plucked up the courage, he asked about your and Soonyoung’s relationship: how you met, how it started, how it works. That you answered all his questions because there was only curiosity beneath them.

That he paid your tab and held your hand as you left, giddy and eager to get back to his place. That when the two of you reached an intersection, no walking sign lit up, he pressed his chest to your back and wrapped his arms around your shoulders, pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

That when you passed the GS25, you cracked a joke and asked Vernon if he wanted to stop and get ramen and Yonsei bread.

That he’d clenched his jaw and sent you a look that was pure heat; grabbed you by the waist and leaned in close, whispered in your ear, “I’ve been ready to bust in my fucking pants since you decided to torture me with that cherry, so I’m not doing a fucking thing that isn’t taking you back to my place and making you come over and over.”

Now here you are.

Vernon’s pace is bruising. It’s frenzied and unpredictable, like he’s trying to prove a point. What it is, you don’t know, but you find it hard to care when he’s like this. When he sheds his shyness like a second skin and is brazen in the way he wants you. When you’ve crossed the threshold of his bedroom and he makes it clear selfishness doesn’t exist here—that all you have to do is lay claim to what he’s willing to give.

And maybe that’s the thing: you can’t put a name to what you want. “Everything” feels too heavy, too much. When it’s exactly what’s on offer, it feels like the weight of the world. I couldn’t possibly ask for that, you think, and Vernon is right behind you asking, Why can’t you?

So you’ll take it, for now. You’ll let Vernon’s deft fingers undress you with reverence and you’ll claw at his back and help him pull his hoodie over his head. You’ll revel in his proximity; how it never, ever feels like he’s close enough. You’ll steal the breath from his lungs and wrap your legs around his waist to keep him draped over you like chiffon. And the first time your phone vibrates you’ll ignore it. The second and third times, too.

When it doesn’t let up, Vernon pulls back. Asks, “Is that…? Should I grab it?”

You only have a split-second to decide how things are going to play out—not only this, right here, but everything that comes after. You and Soonyoung come first to one another, but you still feel scorned. A bit petty. Hi, baby, I’m a little busy, still feels like a bruise; has hurt coursing you like it came from a blood bag.

So you thread your fingers through his hair—impossibly soft; the color of molten chocolate—until they’re resting at the back of his neck. Bring his mouth back to yours and let the taste of him transport you someplace else. Vernon groans as he fits his hands to the curve of your waist.

Your phone is still ringing. Vernon opens his mouth and you shake your head. “No,” you answer, voice unwavering, “this one’s just for us.” He stares down at you. Everything he’s feeling shows clearly on his face, but it’s still undecipherable: the push and pull of the tide, always changing. “Kiss me.”

He does. Whatever fire had consumed him earlier has cooled off considerably, replaced only with the need for closeness. Every press of his mouth against your body is delicate. Every brush of his fingertips and knuckles against your skin is tender. When he kisses down your body and makes you come with his tongue, it isn’t booming fireworks but a quiet gasp into the crook of your elbow.

When he rolls on a condom and presses into you, he twines your fingers together again, and they aren’t sweaty. When he rests his forehead on your shoulder, the words he speaks against you are full of velvet praise. When he moves his hips, the sound of his skin against yours reminds you of a symphony: adagios bookended by scherzos, culminating in a shared finale that leaves you both glowing and euphoric.

Four a.m. looks different from Vernon’s apartment.

More down to earth, not as deep into the clouds. You’ve called Seoul home for the entirety of your adult life, but you’re still learning its secrets. Here, on Vernon’s side of the city, it’s more lively. Sleeps less. You watch as dot-sized people duck in and out of 24/7 shops; as groups of friends converge and separate like starling murmuration. You watch through bleary eyes as the city lights start to blur together.

This is where Vernon finds you, sitting on his living room floor, knees tucked against your chest.

Wordlessly, he sits beside you. Stretches his legs out, hands planted on the rug behind him. He’s close enough that you can feel the warmth still stuck to his skin, see every breath he takes from the corner of your eye. And you think you should say something—maybe apologize if you woke him—but four a.m. is built for silence.

Minutes pass. The traffic signals go through their sequence, green yellow red green yellow. The stream of dot-sized people remains steady. The man beside you is steady, too, but he’s also perceptive, and usually it’s a perception that lets you initiate, come closer once you’re ready, doesn’t push. Not this time. This time, he turns to face you and studies your profile. Must notice something, because his eyes narrow, perfect brows pinching in the middle. “You okay?” You nod. Give him a smile you hope is convincing. Four a.m. is a lot of things, but it doesn’t feel like the time or place for this kind of revelation.

Because you like him.

Something of this magnitude should feel world-altering, you think, but it doesn’t. Even if it was subconscious, you’ve known this, so it feels the same as when you look at the sky and see it’s blue, when you look at the grass and it’s green—the universe as advertised and in perfect working order. The way things are meant to be.

But you aren’t sure where the lines are drawn anymore, or if there’s anything left of them at all. Both you and Soonyoung have been here before: feelings that came out of nowhere, hookups that left a more lasting impression than others, the occasional short-term fling. All of it was within the boundaries of your relationship, but something about this—about Vernon—feels different. Feels like something you don’t want to lose.

You suck in a deep breath. “I’m okay,” you confirm, “I just… there are things I need to talk to Soonyoung about, I think.”

Vernon nods. “I figured as much with all the phone calls.”

And because it feels like something you don’t want to lose, you need to be honest. “We got into an argument yesterday morning, before I texted you. It wasn’t—I don’t even know if I’d actually call it an argument, really, because I just got pissed and hung up, but.” You sigh. Place your chin on top of your knees. “I needed to tell you that, because I don’t want it to seem like I used you. It’s not like that for me with you, but I also can’t lie and say I’m not still stung about it.”

Vernon hums. Asks, “Did you want to hurt him?”

“No,” you answer immediately, because it’s true. You never want to hurt him. “I know the relationship me and him have doesn’t make sense to a lot of people. Most people, probably. It works for us, though, and because it’s always worked, I’m not always sure what to do when it doesn’t.” A sigh. “I’m not jealous, you know? I love him, and I love that other people love him. I don’t want someone else’s normal.”

A half-smile ghosts across Vernon’s face. “I’m sensing a but coming.”

“No but.” You laugh. “Well, maybe a but—ever since you left a few weeks ago, I’ve just felt… off? I couldn’t put my finger on it. I couldn’t shake this feeling I’d done something wrong, and I tried talking to Soonyoung about it but we couldn’t make the time difference work, so I texted him and asked him to make time, but he never responded, so I called him yesterday morning. I’m sure you can guess where this is going.”

“Mm, yeah,” comes his simple reply.

“I overreacted, and I need to apologize for it, but I wasn’t ready to have the conversation until I figured out what was weighing on me.”

“And?” His fingers inch closer to yours. “Did you figure it out?”

You place yours over them. “Yeah, I did.”

Vernon had gotten called into the studio just after eleven.

Both of you had tried holding onto the last dregs of excitement of waking up together for the first time. Tried blinking the exhaustion out of your eyes and showing some semblance of life as you danced around one another, brushing your teeth and getting dressed. Vernon paid for your ride home and kissed you goodbye at the door, but not before promising it’d all get figured out.

The drive takes you down streets lined with cherry blossoms in full bloom, petals covering the asphalt, blowing in the breeze. Morning doesn’t often find you philosophical, but there’s something comforting about the changing of the seasons. Winter will always give way to spring in the same way everything will always work out, just like Vernon had promised, and it makes you feel light, finally unburdened, so you dig your phone from your bag.

You: I’ll be home soon You: I know it’s early where you are, but I’m around if you’re up and want to talk

Soonyoung doesn’t answer, but this doesn’t surprise you—the message just sits there, undelivered.

So you thank the driver when he drops you outside your apartment. Without much else to do, you stop into the grocery store to grab a few things, including a bundle of yellow and pink flowers, and the café next to your building after that, where you order something strong and not watered down. You soak up the sun on your skin, let it warm you from the inside out, and after half your coffee’s gone you start to feel human again.

This only lasts as long as it takes to get to your apartment and open the door.

Because there’s your boyfriend asleep on the couch. Soonyoung, whose mouth is hanging open and is snoring lightly. Soonyoung, who’s supposed to be in Europe. Soonyoung, whose phone is laying on the floor, halfway under the couch. Soonyoung, who startles awake when you call his name and punctuate it with a question mark.

Soonyoung, who realizes it’s you and crosses the living room in milliseconds. Who pulls you into his arms before you can breathe life into another question. Who peppers kisses all over your face and sighs when you thumb away the tears beneath his eyes simply because you’re touching him. Who presses his forehead to yours, content to hold you, and you, who fists your hand in the fabric of his shirt, content to let him.

Once the shock wears off, you realize you’re still holding the flowers. Say, “Let me just…” as you gesture at the bouquet. “Then we can talk?”

He’s reluctant to let you go, but he nods anyway. Doesn’t say a thing about the dozens of flowers already covering the kitchen island. When you spin around, his cheeks are dusted pink, teeth worrying at his bottom lip. “I ordered them to be delivered first thing this morning,” he explains. “Well, no—I ordered them yesterday, but they couldn’t deliver that many on such short notice. They also thought it was fake, since I was ordering them from France, so I had to call them, but—”

“They’re beautiful,” you whisper, rubbing a rose petal between your fingers. “Thank you.”

“I panicked. I thought you were breaking up with me.” You don’t mean to laugh, but one tumbles out anyway. Soonyoung pouts around a smile he tries to tamper down, doesn’t take any offense because he, too, knows how absurd it sounds.

“Why would I ever do that?”

He nods his head in the direction of the couch—his favorite place to have these kinds of talks. Says having serious discussions standing up gives him heartburn. Really, you suspect it’s so he has pillows within grabbing distance for when he inevitably starts crying and needs to cover his face in embarrassment, but you’ll give him this. You’ll sit in your usual spot and wait as he sits in his, and then you’ll stretch out and place your feet in his lap like you always do. And he’ll try to apologize first like he always does because he can’t stand things being tense between you, even when it’s your fault.

Today, though, you don’t let him.

“I owe you an apology,” you say, and you want to laugh again at the shocked look on his face, that he can’t believe you beat him to the punch, but you don’t. “I shouldn’t have reacted that way. It was out of line and I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve it.”

“I did a little,” he snarks, all self-deprecation. “I am never, ever too busy for you, and I made you feel like I was.”

“I know.” He moves to protest; you hold up a hand to stop him. “Just let me try to explain this. After Vernon left a few weeks ago, everything felt really off. I had this overwhelming sense of guilt, like I’d done something horrible and I couldn’t figure out what it was, because it’s not like I’d crossed any boundaries, you know? Everything was above board. But I wanted to talk to you about it in case you knew something I didn’t, and then we couldn’t—”

“You like him.” Soonyoung says this as a declaration rather than a question. He says this with a shit-eating grin on his face. He says this as if he’s an old philosopher imparting ancient wisdom upon you, like he’s predicted historical events and has yet to be wrong. “You do, don’t you?”

“I—yeah, but how did you know that? How long have you known that?”

He laughs. “Baby, it’s been obvious to everyone except the two of you since that first night.” You sputter, ready to defend your own honor—Soonyoung’s album release party feels like ages ago now, so surely you would’ve been able to put two and two together before now if what he’s saying were true? “I know you,” he adds, tone far more serious and gentle. “I know what you’re like when you have feelings for someone, remember? I’ve watched you fall in and out of love; not only with me, but—”

You gasp and nudge him in the ribs with your foot. “First of all, I have never fallen out of love with you. Don’t even joke about that—”

“Yes, ma’am.” Soonyoung salutes you sarcastically. Captures your foot and acts like he’s going to tickle you just to get a rise.

“Soonyoung, don’t—you know how ticklish I am! I won’t be able to control my body and I���ll kick you in the ribs or the dick or whatever and hurt you and you’ll get all upset! Also, we are in the middle of a serious conversation here! Stop derailing!”

“I’m not even doing anything,” he lies. “Please continue.”

With a groan (and a very deadly stare), you convince him to stop fucking around. He doesn’t release you entirely, but he forgoes the threats of tickling to press his thumbs into the arch of your foot instead. It works. In an instant, you’re calm, half-melted into the fabric of the couch.

“I went out with him last night.” You swallow, feeling the guilt creep in again. Soonyoung digs in deeper. “I texted him after I hung up on you. I didn’t intend for it to be one, but it very much turned into a date. I slept there.”

“Did you have fun?”

“Yes,” you answer honestly. Soonyoung pulls you closer, moves his hands to your calf and works at the muscle there. “I didn’t tell him.” You don’t know whose sake you’re saying this for—if it’s for Soonyoung or you or even Vernon—but it feels important to admit. To acknowledge that Soonyoung still comes first to you; that, as chaotic as things feel, one thing hasn’t changed. “Wanted to talk to you first.”

“Okay,” he replies breezily. “Let’s talk, then, pretty girl. Let’s figure it out.”

And you do.

The two of you talk for hours. Mostly apologies and promises to do better, but Soonyoung wants to hear all the perverse details of your night spent at Vernon’s apartment. Can’t help himself. Laughs when you scold him for getting hard, but you’re laughing, too. He asks if you want to date him—properly, not only when you’re feeling spiteful—and you ask if it’d be okay if you did. Briefly, you wonder if such a question is presumptuous. After all, you haven’t talked to Vernon, haven’t put your feelings into plaintext, but then you think back to the way he’d touched you last night and come to the conclusion it isn’t.

The two of you talk about the future. Soonyoung makes a point to revisit the original agreement; needs to make sure the two of you are on the same page. “It’s okay if you don’t want this anymore,” he assures you. “I just want you to be happy.”

There’s something in his tone that has you eyeing him. “Do you still want this? You’ve never floated the idea of closing the relationship before.”

“I had a near-death experience,” he jokes. “You know how they say your entire life flashes before your eyes right before you die? That’s all I could think about on the flight home—that it’d be my fault if you left and I’d deserve it because I was selfish; that no one I’ve been with could ever come close to you and none of it would’ve been worth it.”

Everything’s starting to sound waterlogged again. Soonyoung takes you into his arms when you crowd his end of the couch and fit yourself against his side. “If you just want it to be the three of us, that’s more than enough for me.” You press a kiss to his shoulder. “Or we can decide later when I feel less like a deer about to get destroyed by a car.”

You snort. Say, “You can decide. Whatever you want is okay with me. I know it’d be a big adjustment for you.”

“Don’t say what you think I want to hear.”

“I’m not,” you affirm. “I’m really, truly, one-hundred-percent okay with whatever you want to do, even if, like, fifty-five-percent of that is because I’m way less enthusiastic about butt stuff than you—”

“Hey!”

With another shared laugh, the air is cleared. Together, the two of you erase the existing lines and draw new ones. Talk about what it would look like for two to become three. Has another moment of self-doubt and apologizes that he is who he is, that he can’t love you in public the way he desperately wants to, the way you deserve to be loved out in the open. “You love me in the ways you can,” you tell him, “and they’re more than enough because they come from you.”

You talk until the sky begins to darken and the conversation devolves into nonsense. Until Soonyoung realizes he never plugged his phone into the charger and his team’s probably in a panic. Until his stomach rumbles and he suggests ordering a ton of food for delivery, except he really does mean a ton, and when you ask him who’s possibly going to eat it all his cheeks redden and he says, sheepish and a little nervous, “I thought we could invite Vernonie over?”

Another playful groan. “You’re back home for—what, barely 48 hours?—and your main concern is having another threesome?”

“And if I say yes?”

You text Vernon and ask if he’s free after work.

He is.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! Sharing and reblogging my work is the best way to show you enjoyed it, but I also accept any and all feedback and screaming in my inbox. <3

[kxsagi]

heyyyy, how are you doing???:)

so I've been seeing a lot of bllk x fem!reader fanfic yk those typical "sneaking in" and "dressing up as a guy" to fit in blue lock. may I request about what the blue lock 11 starters' reaction would be when they found out? i can picture isagi making up different possible scenarios as to how reader hasn't been found and lock off by ego considering he's very VERY meticulous with every player's information? please don't mind this request if you're uncomfortable ｡⁠◕⁠‿⁠◕⁠｡ thank youuuu, have a nice day:)

“𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐮𝐲𝐬”

a/n: heyyy, i'm doing good! i hope you are as well, pretty

thank you for the request, this was more fun to write than i expected!

(art credits go to kaziris_ on x)

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, nagi seishiro, karasu tabito, otoya eita, yukimiya kenyu, aryuu jyubei, bachira meguru, chigiri hyoma, niko ikki, gagamaru gin

isagi yoichi

spirals. immediately. 

“wait. no. that’s not – wait. how?? ego checks everything. he runs background checks, medical records, locker room rotations –" 

cue isagi pacing like a madman at 2 AM trying to piece together how you avoided getting caught. 

at one point he’s literally scribbling plays on a whiteboard like it’s match analysis: “okay, so if she never showered when anyone else was around, and faked voice cracks at key points… wait. WAS THAT WHY YOU NEVER CHANGED IN FRONT OF US???” 

he’s not mad. he’s actually kind of amazed. 

"you're like... the greatest tactical deception of blue lock."

itoshi rin

“... i knew something was off.” 

lies. he did not know anything. he’s just salty that you were better than him in the last scrimmage. 

lowkey respects your ability to deceive the system. no one else could’ve pulled it off. 

“well, if you're still here, guess it doesn’t matter. just don’t think I’ll go easy on you because you're a girl." 

surprisingly neutral, but his eyes linger on you more often now.

nagi seishiro

“oh. huh. that’s why your hands are so soft.” 

not phased in the slightest. 

honestly thinks it’s kind of cool that you tricked everyone. “that sounds like a pain. but also kinda genius.” 

keeps accidentally calling you “dude” out of habit and then awkwardly correcting himself: “uh. dudette? nah that sounds weird…”

karasu tabito

laughs SO HARD he literally cries. 

“bro. BRO. you mean to tell me you were out here breaking ankles and gender norms???” 

starts making up fake backstories about how you smuggled a fake mustache into the dorms or used voice-changing tech. 

100% wants to know how you did it. every detail. for science (and blackmail).

otoya eita

the flirt switch FLIPS IMMEDIATELY. 

“so you're saying i wasn't crazy for thinking you were kinda hot?” 

annoyingly smooth about it. calls you “princess” just to see you get flustered. 

absolutely refuses to stop flirting. even more now. 

“if you needed help keeping the secret, you could’ve asked me. i’m great at keeping things under wraps, baby girl.” 

yukimiya kenyu

dramatic gasp. glasses off. slow-motion blink. 

“you… you’re a her?” 

the poetic side of him kicks in: “like a rose blooming in a battlefield…” 

would never admit it, but he starts fixing his hair more often around you now. 

supportive as hell though. tells you he respects your drive and the risks you took.

aryuu jyubei

strikes a pose and fans himself with his own hand. “mon dieu… the betrayal… you mean to say… all this time… i wasn’t the only icon here???”

says you’ve raised the standard of beauty and elegance in blue lock. 

insists on giving you a makeover “to match your true self,” even if you’re like, “bro please no.” 

might actually fight otoya for flirting too much.

bachira meguru

gasps in dramatic anime fashion. 

“NO WAY! you’re a GIRL?! THIS IS AMAZING!” 

he’s totally hype about it. takes it as a challenge, like, “you were able to sneak by the whole blue lock team?? you’re a legend, let’s be best friends forever!”

starts calling you “mystery girl” and constantly refers to you as his “partner in crime.” 

“i knew you were special, but this is next-level. no one can keep a secret like that and still play like a monster!!”

chigiri hyoma

goes very still. blinks. stares. 

“... wait. you're serious?” 

he has a lot of emotions. probably more than he expected. 

part of him’s like, “hell yeah. girl power.” and the other part is like “oh no she’s hot.” 

quietly covers for you when needed. he gets what it’s like to be underestimated.

niko ikki

poor boy.exe has stopped working. 

you tell him and he literally just stares with wide eyes like a deer in headlights. 

doesn’t know what to say for the longest time. then mutters, “i... always thought your voice was kinda nice.” 

gets super flustered afterward and avoids eye contact for three days straight.

gagamaru gin

“HUH???”

pure confusion. “but… you tackled me last week. and cursed at me. in a super deep voice. i thought you were just… intense?”

he's like a golden retriever trying to understand algebra. but he means well. 

“wait does this mean we weren’t supposed to share toothpaste???”

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[fixated-cookies]

Idk why but I NEED Burning Spice cookie hcs… Something about him, literally anything…. Maybe some just general hcs and nsfw hcs?

Headcanons hmmm I like to think even though his quite literally embodies spice, spicy foods isn't actually his favorite, sure he'll eat them, but he prefers smoky foods with a rich/umami taste, like grilled vegetables or anything cooked over an open flamed. while sealed in the silver tree, he must've been seething with frustration and boredom (obviously) but it was to the point where I think it ended up doing more damage to him psychologically then if he never gotten sealed up in the first place. At first, he probably raged, but as the centuries dragged on, he had nothing but his own thoughts. His long hair is soft, unreasonably so. It doesn't tangle easily and almost eye-catching. He probably uses olaplex shampoo lol.

He doesn't cuss. ever. Have you heard that mans vocabulary? He's like a second Shakespearean, he doesn't need to cuss.He speaks with this grand, dramatic, almost poetic cadence, like a warlord who’s read too much epic literature. He probably insults people in ways so complex they don't even realize they've been insulted until five minutes later. He's actually not as loud as you think he is. His calm voice is more than enough to command attention, though, yes he can be boisterous he can also be intimidatingly quiet

NSFW Below

mdni

His sex drive isn't too high, at least not as charged as Shadow Milk's. He gets bored easily, I think in the beginning it would have been exciting but now its fleeting, predictable, and boring.If he were to indulge, it would have to be intense, consuming, and unpredictable—otherwise, he’d just move on

His dick is thick, your hand isn't enough to grasp the circumference all the way around. It's long too, considering how tall he is, its guaranteed to be over 10 inches. His veins are prominent and angry. The tip is bulbous but the lower base of his cock is most sensitive. If you were to give a hand job, stay near the bottom and massage if you want the most reactions out of him

His moans are deep and rumble against you, raw, gravelly edge in his voice would only intensifies when he lets out a sound.

This one may be the most obvious, but he enjoys power play; He doesn’t dominate with brute force alone; he plays a mind game, making others submit willingly to his overwhelming presence. He speaks in a low, commanding tone, making it impossible to disobey.

If he were to become interested in someone, sex would be almost teasing. He’s slow, deliberate, and relentless—never rushing, always dragging things out just to watch someone squirm. He enjoys seeing someone fight against their own reactions before finally giving in. Soft sex is nice but boring, and rough sex even more so. To him its not about the softness or the roughness but the intensity of the emotions, the aching, the yearning. He needs something intimate. yes, that is how you keep his attention. "You say you can handle me? Hah. Brave words. But I wonder… will you still be saying that when you’re gasping for breath?"

[venussaidso]

Mars Dominant Themes — 𝐍𝐚𝐤𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐚 𝐎𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 (part 1) 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟕

warnings!: mentions of mass-suicide and violence.

Nakshatra rulership indicates deeper behavioural patterns and specific talents rather than one’s fundamental personality, which is more governed by rashi rulership. This is why I do not prefer mixing rashi and nakshatra observations together, though there are exceptions — such as the rebellious and tantalizing nature of Mars being innately found in all Mars nakshatras and Mars signs. For example; Mars nakshatras are found in many well-known sex symbols, Anuradha may embody the Lilith archetype, Ashwini and Jyestha are known for being audacious and individualistic, while Bharani poetically merges violence — a radical form of rebellion — with beauty, making them one. But the consistent theme observed for this exploration is that Mars nakshatras focus more on bursts of energy, controversy, and the refinement through that.

There's definitely a heightened sense of energy and even aggression in this section of Earth & Air signs, supporting their pure drive through the mentioned themes I'll be touching on. And the themes are very typical of this planetary rulership.

There is this genre in challenging natural order and pursuing one's ideals, a recurring theme in Mars nakshatras, especially in ways that are so radical and even explosive. This can also be seen in mythologies that are particularly associated with Martian figures, such as Andhaka.

I may see an association with Andhaka to the Mars energy found in Ashwini nakshatra, as Andhaka was born blind, symbolizing an unreasonable destructive force. He also symbolizes darkness and ignorance, the combination of Mars's unyielding energy with Ketu's tamasic nature perfectly pointing to Ashwini. Yet, the guna of Dhanishta and Chitra is tamasic — meaning that Andhaka is a greater representation for these nakshatras. Both are considered demonic, which solidifies their connection to Andhaka who is considered a malevolent demon.

Mars is generally the planet most associated with Andhaka, as it highlights aggression and the drive for power. One of Andhaka's closest parallels are the fictional characters, Thanos and Ultron, from the Marvel Cinematic Universe. These parallels lie in the legend of Andhaka, this powerful asura (demon) who, despite his humble beginnings, sought to reshape existence according to his own vision. Though blind from birth, he gained invincibility through immense penance and sheer willpower (symbolizing the level of discipline this planet represents) and he commanded an army so strong that it threatened the cosmic balance. Andhaka believed himself worthy of ruling the universe, waging war against Shiva himself, and refusing to yield even in the face of destruction.

Like the character Thanos, Andhaka saw himself as a necessary force of change, willing to eliminate obstacles — including the Creator (Shiva) — to establish a new order.

Even the character Kylo Ren is another Dhanistha archetype, being played by the Dhanistha Ascendant native Adam Driver. Kylo has a vision of a new order, which is not just about destroying the past, but reshaping the galaxy according to his own ideals.

His intensely ambitious and destructive qualities, but also his capacity for transformation, signify the Mars influence. This being a tamasic nakshatra means that it thrives on intensity, chaos, destruction, and rebirth, reflecting his volatility & his drive to tear down the past to build something new (we also see his rise to power when he seizes control of the First Order after killing Snoke, wanting to be his own master rather than to continue to serve a higher authority. Though Dhanistha instills servitude, there's still potential for aggressive rebellion, as this nakshatra reflects self-empowerment — however extreme it may manifest).

Unfortunately, we have seen this mindset, in real time, with world leaders who forced a new order in their own country which essentially became a threat to everyone but them.

Donald Trump, who has Mrigashira Sun, easily comes to mind. Vladimir Putin, who Donald Trump now wants to take after, could have possible Chitra ASC. Xi Jinping also has Mrigashira Sun. And Adolf Hitler, who had a lot of Mars influence, with Chitra ASC and Ashwini Sun conjunct Mars. Even Benjamin Netanyahu, leading genocide for his fascist visions, has Chitra Sun & Moon. Regardless of all of their different ideals, they are examples of Mars functioning not only as a destabilizing force, but as a domineering one too. It needs submission. And so Martians will always have minions and enablers.

Again, Ashwini is Mars energy at its highest levels due to the nodal influence. And according to Claire Nakti, in her Serial Killer exploration, she states that whatever Ketu is conjunct, the themes of that planet become exaggerated or extreme — due to its sucking receptivity; further giving a perspective on Mars and Ketu energies together — which are both tamasic.

Similarly to Andhaka, Ultron, in his pursuit of ultimate evolution, had a plan to replace flawed organic life with a machine-driven future, much like Andhaka's attempt to overthrow divine order with his newfound strength. Both the mythology and Ultron's story arc portray Mars as an agent of transformation, however destructive it is, in them commanding armies and defying all limitations. Mars breaks barriers, in the first place.

This also means that Mars is a symbol of resistance, rebellion and growth as well. The character Katniss Everdeen, played by Mrigashira Moon native Jennifer Lawrence, in The Hunger Games sequel, stands against an oppressive, totalitarian government — her defiance sparking a revolution which threatens to dismantle the system and ultimately break all barriers to force freedom to all.

This is quite reminiscent of the character Curtis Everett, in the film Snowpiercer, who is played by Mrigashira Sun native Chris Evans. Curtis has held deep resentment for the Wilford's corrupt leadership (basically the elite people) and he is determined to lead a revolt against the elite of the front of the train. Another layer which highlights this character as Martian is his engagement in the horrible violence and chaos that ensues. The film is directed by Chitra Moon native Bong Joon Ho.

Violence is used as an equalizing force, since Mars does not moralize and acts on necessity instead. Counter-violence, in some of these films led by Martian natives, is done to balance power structures, rather than cause annihilation. Violence -> restoration.

Mars, being the warrior archetype, embodies the natural response to oppression with absolute force. So such influence will be often seen in strong, revolutionary leaders — even if they do not outright promote violence as a first resort, you will sense their Martian power. Such as the Ashwini Moon native Malcolm X, who strongly believed in self-defense, criticizing passive resistance.

Assata Shakur has Mrigashira Moon.

It is fascinating that Kendrick Lamar, and Tupac Shakur, are considered revolutionary thinkers — both having implemented messages of resistance with their mainstream appeal. Mrigashira Sun, Chitra ASC Kendrick Lamar especially with his aggressive delivery in his album To Pimp a Butterfly, and Mrigashira Sun native Tupac Shakur whose tracks ranged from introspective/political to raw street anthems.

The restless energy in all Mars nakshatras is already responsible for pushing one forward, even to the extremes, to initiate or force change; this being something clearly seen in breaking boundaries or challenging the status quo. Mrigashira’s association with breaking free is rooted in its dual focus on exploration/seeking and self-liberation/evolution, exactly why stagnancy or oppression cannot be allowed any longer — making this a very rebellious nakshatra. This notion of Mars seeking to transcend stagnancy can extend in other themes. This restlessness is seen through sexual impulses in the Netflix series Sex/Life.

As it is known, Mars in your chart governs one's sex drive and desires. This fiery planet represents passion and attraction. Mars governs primal urges, which include carnal desire, which can be so transformative for the native — similar to the act of violence to restore balance. According to certain Puranic folklore, when Mangala (Mars) sought a consort, he was rejected by various goddesses due to his raw heat. In the series Sex/Life, Billie's primal urges are so fiery and even animalistic that the energy scares her. But she eventually has to embrace that other identity, as Mars deals with raw empowerment. Exactly why natives with this influence quite literally exude sexuality and vitality, which explains why they become sex symbols in the first place.

But Mars, as it carries tamasic and primal energy in its influence, can make people the most evil, violent and domineering if such energy is not used constructively.

For healthier examples of Mars energy being used constructively, we can look at the film Pump Up the Volume (1990). It stars Chitra Moon Christian Slater, whose character agitates and stirs hidden impulses within the collective, bringing forth suppressed frustrations to the surface through his pirate radio station which gains a large following. His ability to ignite rawness in his listeners, encourage rebellion and self-expression, is something so very Martian. Much like Ketu, Mars can have an intense, subconscious effect on the collective – forcing people to deal with their animalistic nature in an authentic way. Christian Slater's character in Pump Up the Volume becomes the catalyst for unpredictable, at times destructive, reactions — which actually inspire growth more than anything. This film also inspired the Disney movie Radio Rebel (2012), with a similar plot, in which Dhanistha Moon Debby Ryan's character sparks a movement amongst her peers and challenges authority. This theme of being a total disruptor of the status quo or encouraging freedom from restrictive rules is a key element in all Mars influences.

So, the core themes of all of these Mars nakshatras are self-assertion and authenticity, which indicates what is supposed to be cultivated with balancing passion and refinement (Mars pushes for transformation, after all).

This being the planet of raw energy, of impulsive action, and extreme rebellion, can reflect themes of needed chaos and animalistic drive. Both of these movies show the Martian influence behind the incite of radical shifts, often seen in controversy and the destabilization of institutions etc. You will also notice how Mercury nakshatras almost function similarly, especially Revati, the nakshatra of peak expansion, which eliminates all barriers (such as the movie V for Vendetta which is about anarchy). This further supports the constant duo between Mars and Mercury nakshatras.

Mars being the literal planet of war, survival, and primal instinct is translated repeatedly in films about lawlessness, violent anarchy, or rebellion, where the main character, usually a Mars nakshatra native, is able to survive using brute force and wit against outward violence & chaos.

The explosive expression of Mars is so perfectly depicted in the movie Mad Max: Fury Road (2015), directed by Chitra Moon native George Miller.

The film's primal core is survival of the fittest, implementing relentless energy in pursuit of the War Rig. And the character Max, played by Chitra Moon native Tom Hardy, represents the perseverance of Mars, able to navigate the chaos & lawlessness with pure instinct and wit — a trait common in all Mars nakshatras as they possess a level of high intelligence.

The plot of the film also includes a violent rebellion against the tyrannical warlord, and the rich cinematography supports the blend of the explosive, fiery nature of Chitra through its artistic genius. George Miller has definitely succeeded in executing his vision, as this nakshatra grants one the ability to express their grand ideas — the Mars rulership giving the native a higher success rate.

Mars nakshatra natives operating as visionaries who are, at times, self-absorbed, or even extremist, definitely points to the urgency and energetic drive which is provided by Mars. And the ability to even dream or think big is provided by the Venus and Mercury influence. The character JD from Heathers is certainly a terrible manifestation of the selfish visionary.

Jason Dean’s need to remake the world (even if it's through mass suicide) and his desire to tear down the oppressive social system in Heathers ties well into the visionary nature of Chitra. He wants to create a "better" world by destroying the old, his motivation making him parallel characters such as Kylo Ren, or even Ultron, in that sense.

As I've spoken of Kakegurui before (the anime & Japanese live-action), I've highlighted Mary Saotome as Martian as she has been portrayed by the Dhanistha natives, Aoi Morikawa & Minami Tanaka. Mary is the typical queen-bee of the school, caring only about maintaining her dominance over others. But then she falls from grace, and she experiences the harsh reality of being at the bottom of the hierarchy.

However, instead of aiming to overthrow the elite system altogether, the powerlessness she feels from being at the bottom fuels her desire to climb back up the ranks and reclaim her dominance. Usually, once the Martian has gotten some taste of power, they're unwilling to let it go. That's why you get these dualistic themes, as someone like Mary Saotome upholds hierarchal systems while someone like Jason Dean wants to destroy them. But, this may also speak to the difference between Dhanishta nakshatra and the earlier Mars nakshatras.

Dhanishta's purpose is to give one the ability to be on top of any hierarchy, which is exactly why its natives can be extremely gifted or resourceful in many things. Dhanistha would be the Mars nakshatra that is likelier to be the non-disruptor, keeping a harmonious nature within society than challenge or rebel against it for radical change, given that this nakshatra is more focused on discipline and gaining power within restrictions (and that is completely due to its Saturn rulership, making it more passive and self-controlled than its prior trine nakshatras).

So the character Mary Saotome is more calculated than violent, as her goal is not to abolish the oppressive system, but to reclaim power within it.

Kylo Ren is similar to Mary Saotome in this regard, as his goal is not to destroy the system, but to seize control of it. He doesn't care about dismantling the Sith or the First Order — he wants to rule over it. Rather than abolishing it, he embraces the Sith-Imperial power structure and works to remake it under his rule. He manipulates, schemes and positions himself to gain power, very similar to Loki, who is played by Dhanistha Sun Tom Hiddleston. Just like Loki, Kylo also has a deep need for validation and power.

Both Jason Dean and Kylo Ren are both driven by anger, rebellion, and a desire to break free from the system — but on their own terms. Though JD believes in destruction, Kylo believes in power. These Martian natives have a singular vision which they spend the majority of the time trying to make a reality. Both of them fall in love, or form an intense connection, with a Mercury nakshatra native who start off idealistic and resistant to the Martian's radical, destructive methods. Rey is played by Revati Sun Daisy Ridley and Veronica Sawyer is played by the Jyestha Ascendant native Winona Ryder. Both Rey and Veronica are challenged to join the dark side with their Martian counterparts, as JD wants Veronica to embrace the chaos and destruction with him, while Kylo wants Rey to rule alongside him.

The very reason why these Mercury nakshatra natives find themselves in an interplay with Mars nakshatra natives is because of their similarities. Rey grew up abandoned and powerless, resenting the idea that worth and power was only reserved for certain bloodlines — typical of Revati nakshatra as it symbolizes the search for belonging and completion (she didn’t fit anywhere in any hierarchy, as she floated between worlds; which supports the purpose of this nakshatra to transcend beyond the material <hence why it's called the Wealthy Star, regardless of humble beginnings>, as Revati is ruled by Pushan, the shepherd deity who guides lost souls). And when Kylo voices her frustration, saying to her, "You have no place in this story," this validates her anger and loneliness, as he, too, rejects the rigid power structures that tried to control him. While Veronica despises the toxic social order of her school, where the Heathers dominate, and cruelty is rewarded (her ability to see through the illusions of popularity & power without getting sucked into the superficiality reflects Jyestha’s sharp awareness & strong resilience). JD's desire to burn it all down initially excites Veronica, only to then scare her away because his destructive, power-driven acts make him no different to the tyrants she wanted nothing to do with in the first place.

To the theme of lawlessness, the film The Purge (2013), quickly comes to mind. It is directed by James DeMonaco, who has his Sun and Moon in Chitra nakshatra, about the institutional breakdown of a government which legalizes crime for one night, encouraging unrestrained Mars energy at its purest.

The film Escape from New York (1981) also has an aspect of lawlessness to it, as New York City is basically a prison to the most dangerous inmates ever — making it a chaotic jungle. It stars Mrigashira ASC native Kurt Russell who plays the character Snake Plissken. He embodies the combination of Mars and Gemini energy, always having a strategy and being constantly on the move. And like a Martian native, he questions authority and doesn't follow orders blindly, having a rebellious edge to him. His survivalist mentality reflects Mrigashira being a nakshatra of searching and surviving, giving one the ability to thrive in dangerous environments (the nakshatra being symbolized by the deer further signifies alertness and perception).

Martians also falling into warrior archetypes is the least surprising, and it's interesting that they are intuitively cast in huntress roles as well. Mrigashira is linked to tracking, making sense of the obvious connections to the genre of bounty hunting. This nakshatra literally embodies the mindset of a seeker, and due to the Mars influence, extends further to the mind of a huntress. Bounty hunters rely on strategy, intelligence, and tracking abilities to locate fugitives. Mrigashira, being ruled by Soma (Moon), which governs intuition, instinct and adaptability, supports the skillset of the bounty hunter even more.

In the series The Mandalorian, Din Djarin was a bounty hunter who is portrayed by the Mrigashira ASC native Pedro Pascal. In the 1977 film A Man Called Blade, Blade is a hatchet-wielding bounty hunter with a dark past who is played by the Dhanistha Sun & Moon native Maurizio Merli. In Star Wars, Boba Fett is regarded as one of the most fearsome and capable bounty hunters, and he was played by Dhanistha Sun Jeremy Bulloch.

The Mars nakshatras being in both Earth and Air rashi sections points to the importance of structure vs fluidity, suggesting that Mars is mastering both the physical and mental battlefields. The whole mastermind archetype perfectly aligns with these nakshatras, specifically Mrigashira, the nakshatra of the eternal quest for knowledge.

The strategy of Mars, the creativity of Venus (Libra/Taurus), and the craftiness of Mercury (Gemini/Virgo), can make for a theatrical trickster, instigator or mastermind, as seen with the character the Riddler.

As Mars is associated with the head, since it is co-ruling Aries (and the head is more emphasized in Ashwini nakshatra, symbolized by a horse's head which signifies qualities of swiftness such as quick wit); this means that Mars drives intellect, providing one the energy to slice through life with strategy and dominance with accumulated knowledge to defeat opponents, giving one the gift in noticing details that nobody else would (this ability often arises when an individual is on survival-mode, further showing how Mars, being associated with survival of the fittest, makes its natives have a keen sense of awareness). This is exactly why Mars nakshatras are often found in medias that have to do with solving mysteries.

Miss Marple is literally the original female detective. She is an elderly amateur, consulting detective who has been prominently played by Mars nakshatra natives. Throughout many film adaptions, she has been portrayed by the following actresses; Chitra ASC Gracie Fields, Chitra Suns Angela Lansbury and Helen Hayes, Chitra Moon Geraldine McEwan, Dhanistha Moon Joan Hickson, Dhanistha Sun Julia McKenzie. In the series DI Ray, Chitra Moon Parminder Nagra plays a Birmingham-based detective. In the series The Fall, Dhanistha Moon Gillian Anderson is a sharp, determined detective. It reminds me of the relentless detective in the Spanish series Berlin, played by Dhanistha Sun & Moon native Najwa Nimri. Though you'll see Ketu nakshatra natives take up this genre as well, it seems to be dominated by Mars influence. In the film Silence of the Lambs, Magha Moon Jodie Foster plays detective Sterling who is the fixation of a terrifying serial killer; in Hannibal, Jodie Foster is replaced by the Mrigashira Moon & ASC native Julianne Moore, continuing the story as detective Sterling who finds herself in what you'd consider a dark romance, or game of prey-&-predator, with Hannibal (which has to do with Mrigashira nakshatra, in general, more than it just being a Mars nakshatra).

So high IQ, beauty, mass appeal, and dominance can be a full package when it comes to Mars nakshatras. Each Mars nakshatra may provide one with a gift to expand one into elite rooms or into higher positions of power.

Dhanishta nakshatra possesses Khyapayitri Shakti, which is the power to bring fame and abundance. Mrigashira nakshatra, with its seeking nature, is powered by Prinana Shakti, which gives fulfillment. Chitra nakshatra, ruled by Tvashtar, who is the cosmic craftsman, has the ability to accumulate good merit in life from being powered by the Punya Chayani Shakti.

As Dhanistha is associated with rhythm & performance, Mrigashira being partially ruled by Venus, and Chitra's deity, Tvashtar, being the god of artisans and fashioning, it comes as no surprise that these nakshatras are prominently found in the art, entertainment, and fashion industry or in celebrity culture in general. Often the faces of the glitz and glamour.

Chitra especially, since it signifies beauty, meticulousness and expressing imagination on the material plane. Chitra is literally the nakshatra of the visionary.

The Disney princesses I'd confidently associate with Chitra are Moana and Ariel. As this nakshatra is symbolized by the pearl, it points to the pursuit of brilliance. And like the pearl hidden in the ocean, their path involves venturing the unknown, seeking newfound radiance or, similar to Mrigashira, finally capturing the higher power they've always been seeking — showing just how these natives are deeply aligned to fate. Mars provides these characters with enough enthusiasm and restlessness to fulfill that destiny.

Mrigashira, Chitra, and Dhanistha each embody core themes which have to do with the relentless pursuit of fulfilment, whether it be alignment with one's true identity (such as through Mrigashira's trope of memory loss, or Rapunzel retracing her true roots), or knowledge, mastery, status/validation, or freedom. All three nakshatras make individuals challenge their own limitations, as they are a force of growth themselves. This falls perfectly well into the warrior archetype which defies hierarchy and reshapes their reality through strategy, ambition, rebellion, and even violence.

All of this just to say, they have the power of INFLUENCE and IMMENSE GROWTH.

[avianyuh]

Jeon Wonwoo as a boyfriend...

Other SVT as bf's { S.Coups , Jeonghan , Minghao/The8 , Hoshi }

Like most, I'm sure Wonwoo appeals to you because upon introduction, you think he's the quiet, brooding type

But he'd show a different side of himself in a relationship with you

A goofball all the way

Any carat knows that he's a secret comedian

I think he'd always be trying to make you laugh

Had a bad day? He'll make you watch a funny video he saw

Texting him that you miss him?

You will be sent stupid pictures as his response

GAMING

He's not competitive though

He likes to play chill games with you just because he likes to spend his time doing one of his favorite things with you

And that makes him really happy!

Please encourage him and geek out with him over video games

I think he can be sensitive sometimes

But strikes me as the type to not verbalize when something is bothering him

So being with someone observant would do him good, get him to open up more

Especially in the beginning of the relationship

I think overtime, you won't have to try as hard to get him to share his feelings with you

He'll just naturally start to feel really comfortable around you

The g-gl-glasses

Ughhhh

I know you love them

You get to see him in his glasses basically everywhere

Barely takes them off to begin with

Even some promotions he keeps them on

Imagine late night gaming with him

The lights are all out and your sitting as close to each other as possible

And the reflection of the computer screen is in his glasses and he's all happy because he's really enjoying himself omg

You're just looking at him and thinking Damn that's my man...

As I've pointed out in my previous dating seventeen posts, you have to pass the vibe check and get approval from all the members if you want to be a permanent part of Wonwoo's life

Strikes me as the type to see you on the down-low for a few months

Would probably mention you to Mingyu since last I heard, they're roomies

You'd be introduced to Mingyu first

Then he'd probably mention that he met someone to the rest of the guys

Then he'd bring you around the dorm, or a dance practice, somewhere you can meet as many members as possible

That way Seungkwan can be his extroverted self and make you feel comfortable.

Like, imagine meeting another relatively quiet member like Jun or Woozi

"Nice to meet you😐🙂"

Please tell me you can see that happening cuz I can

Maybe even Minghao or Seungcheol would be sorta awkward

Like not in a bad way, but introverts need time to warm up to someone new (speaking from experience)

But once everyone has been acquainted and they like you, you will be family and it will shift from like to love

Because you treat Wonu right and you make him happy

Wonwoo being with you would make him more energetic and outgoing

He's a homebody

Normally I would say opposites attract, but in his case I definetly think being with another introvert would be ideal lol

Would recommend you a lot of books

And would want you to read his favorites so the two of you could discuss them

Same with video games

Remember I told you to let him geek out?

PLZ LET HIM BE A GEEK!!!!!!

I think Wonwoo would love to go on vacation every once in a while

I think he can drive abroad

But even just driving in Korea

Going on day trips

Just talking, singing to your favorite songs

Teasing him by playing some of SVT's music

Or just sitting in a comfortable silence

That's the best type of silence and it's very underrated imo

One thing about Wonwoo is how tall he is

6 feet I think? (182 cm for those not in the U.S.)

And he has very broad shoulders

Imagine watching a scary movie with him and hiding your face in his chest, and he wraps his arms around you

Lowkey protective

Just wants to keep you safe

Loves everything about you

The type to stare at you and just blurt out that he finds you beautiful

He's well read so he'd probably say something really poetic

Just makes you feel special

Shexy Shtuff:

Okay, we need to sit and have a conversation about how buff this man is...

Look at those pecs

Damn

He's ripped

He's not a gym bro, but he definitely likes going

Imagine him coming home and he's all sweaty and his muscles are all visible

He loves a good sweater or hoodie so I think seeing his physique is rare

The quiet ones are always great kissers...

This bitch is all dark and mysterious

A.K.A most likely a FREAK

Uses tongue when he kisses

Like, probably pulls you on top of him if you're on the couch or lays you down on the bed

Or pins you against the wall if he's frustrated or hasn't seen you in a while

If you ever got in an argument he's apologizing profusely and then making up for it in bed

Definitely a grunter

Not overly vocal

More concerned with your needs

Definitely a giver

I don't think he's that adventurous when it comes to location

Bed, shower, couch maybe

Most of the time, you'll be watching a movie or maybe sitting on his lap if you come in while he's playing games on his computer (or just doing something on his computer in general)

So there you are, sitting on his lap, not trying to do anything sexual, just asking what he's playing or doing

And at first everything's good but as you're readjusting yourself in his lap, you're shifting around and suddenly he's getting turned on

He'd start kissing your cheek, your neck, moving his hands up to waist

Eventually getting impatient and scooping you up and taking you to his bedroom

Shower sex after the gym

Or late at night after practice if he isn't too tired

I see him being a big pillow-talker

Get's really emotionally vulnerable with you after sex

And that's how you know he trusts you

And congratulations, his voice is already deep as is, but in the morning, omg he'd sound so hot right after he wakes up

Would love to just keep you in his arms and lay in bed for a while, especially if he had nothing to do that day

Okay, i think this is long enough now

In conclusion, I think he'd be a great boyfriend

~

{A/N: AHHH, omg I'm sorry I've been inactive the past two weeks, I got pneumonia. I'm still recovering but felt really bad that I hadn't posted. I've been trying to make up my missed schoolwork. I couldn't think of a fanfic to write so I decided to do a headcanon for seventeen to add to the series. Wonwoo was my first bias back in 2017 before I realized I'm a coups girl. But I'll be honest, sometimes I'm creeping on Wonwoo's fancams (sorry Cheol) Anyways, I love you guys so much whether you're a frequent reader/follower or this is your first time reading anything from me. I love you, have a great day/night, whenever you're reading this, mwahhhh❤️ I put in a continue reading because this one was so much longer than my previous bf headcanons, Wonwoo, a man of substance lol}

[ooooo-mcyt]

While I get people's desire to draw parallels within the final four of Secret Life, I really feel like a lot of fanon attempts to juxtapose Gem killing Scott with Scar sparing Pearl are unfair to either Gem or Scott.

I see people imply that either Scott or Gem did something wrong in some way- either Scott unfairly pressured Gem into killing him or Gem devalued her ally by agreeing- and attribute this as the reason they lost in the end while Scar and Pearl- Pearl being 'less pushy' and Scar 'caring more' about his allies- won. The thesis seems to be that Gem made the 'wrong' choice, Scar made the 'right' one, and that's why Scar won over Gem.

Which. No.

The truth is that there was no 'choice' to be made.

At the point where Gem killed Scott, both Pearl and Scar individually had more hearts than Gem and Scott did combined (this is not an exaggeration. gem had 6 hearts, scott had 2.5, pearl had 15, and scar had 17), Scott was an easy one-shot for whoever took the first swing at him, and he had no way to regenerate health at that point. Scar chose to spare Pearl, yes, but Gem didn't "choose" to kill Scott, there was no real choice in the matter. Scott was, practically, already dead, and Gem was close enough if she didn't take the final swing (honestly, even the hearts from scott probably never would have been enough to save her).

I've said this before, but I genuinely believe that Gem and The Scotts were doomed, probably starting from the fight with Grian (who took a frankly shocking amount of health from them all things considered). That fight just spread them too thin, took too much of their health. Impulse died shortly after, and what health Gem and Scott did have was whittled away fighting a team twice their size. Gem and The Scotts were a powerful and competent team with ample resources, but they took a hit the mechanics of the game wouldn't let them recover from, and everything from that point was them desperately fighting against the odds trying to get one of them to the end, even if they must have known how bleak those odds were.

People have called it poetic. 'Gem lost because she didn't value her ally enough, Gem ironically died to a 2v1 after killing the one who would have fought beside her, funny that she's so bitter about the 2v1 when she 'chose' to kill her teammate while Scott didn't, etc. '

And it drives me insane because Gem didn't choose to kill Scott out of some callous desire for an advantage, Gem killed Scott because the latter half of their finale was a slow steadily worsening case study in helplessness and Scott gave Gem everything as an act of love, in the desperate hope that she could find a way despite the odds, (only for it all to be wasted, because it was two against one, and they didn't give gem the chance, and of course that left her bitter)

I'm just so insane about this.

[torawro]

LIKE SPECKS OF SUNLIGHT IN THE EARLY MORN. ( p. a.)

portgas d. ace & marine!fem!reader.

cw ━━ ! minors, ageless and blank blogs DO NOT INTERACT. reader is written / portrayed as a black woman but you do not have to imagine it as such! everyone is welcome to read <3 reader wears glasses, and is a marine stationed on an unnamed island at a base along the grand line. ‘lazy morning’ / ‘morning after’ kind of vibes so, a bit of pillow talk (?) . references to smut & making love (it already happened). contains some angst & angsty themes throughout (i.e., ace dealing with his self esteem issues, low self worth, etc..) otherwise it’s supposed to be fluffy ( the quiet, somber kind i think ) ! descriptions of kissing & borderline making out. ace is kind of lovesick and clingy but it’s subtle-ish. lots of introspection and reflection on both him and the reader’s part. kind of based on mitski's "my love, mine all mine", definitely had that song on repeat as i wrote this. romantic and deeply poetic rhetoric but y’all already know that’s just how i write lol. told from omniscient point of view (third person). proofread this as i was feeling sleepy, so please excuse any mistakes or things that don’t make sense!

word count ━━ ! 3.9k

notes ━━ ! guess who's baaaaack.....! i know it's been a while since i have published any original work and i want to apologize for that. lately it's been difficult finding the energy to write something for more than five minutes and honestly, i think i just need to rediscover what drives me so i can tap into the zone more often. i missed it though, and hope i get to write more this year <3 anyway, first fic of 2025 and it feels right to make it about second commander of the whitebeard pirates, portgas d. ace. this fic is my late birthday 'gift' to him and something of a love letter because ohhhhh i miss my pookie bear so much :(( this entire idea started as just me thinking about kissing each of his freckles because i have the personal hc that he doesn't really like them, the reason for it is inherently tied to his distaste for his father and by extension himself :/ and then it just turned into this lmao. i hope ace doesn't behave too out of character here, as this is also my first time writing for him in any context, so pls be gentle with me. REBLOBS + COMMENTARY ARE GREATLY APPRECIATED.

IT WAS NOT THE LIGHT chirping of small birds that awoke you, nor was it the ringing of your biological clock telling you that the dawn was near. Instead it was a familiar tugging sensation within the pit of your stomach— the need to relieve yourself— that caused your eyes to peel themselves back slowly and with struggle, slumber from the previous night hasn’t been completely washed away yet.

It took your brain several more moments to dust off enough of its sleepy exhaustion before you attempted to sit up from your comfortable position in bed, but were immediately met with some light resistance.

The resistance in question was a long, muscled arm thrown around your soft torso, blackened ink of a tattoo staining the skin on its bicep. It was still too dark and you were still too tired to make out the sharp angles of the marking, but you knew what they were; your eyes have gazed upon it more times than you could count, and it has made a home in your memory.

That’s when your ears registered the rhythmic and almost nasal snores that flowed from the mouth of the man who held you so securely against his chest, and you almost smiled at how completely at ease and relaxed he seemed. 

At times like this, when things were still or you had a moment to yourself, you still could not wrap your head around the fact that you had gotten yourself involved with Portgas D. Ace— willingly at that. 

The first time was a fluke at best. That’s the excuse you were going to go with. You didn’t realize he was a pirate— an infamous pirate with hundreds of millions of Beri to his name— until your clothes were already halfway off and you were feverishly grinding down onto his lap like some touch-starved whore who’s been aching to feel something. That ‘fluke’ was one spurred on by alcohol, a particularly rough week at sea, and a sizable lapse in judgment, but you hadn’t felt that…… alive in a long time. But now, two years have passed since you have been seeing Ace in secret like this, and you have long since given up blaming it on a fragile emotional constitution further weakened by alcohol. You knew good and well what you were doing, and you could no longer deny the way your heart was constantly set aflutter whenever you spent any amount of time with him.

You did try your hardest to not let yourself enjoy how … domestic it all seemed: waking up next to him in the morning and falling asleep entangled with each other at night, having him hide out at your cozy apartment for days at a time, cooking him meals when you were relieved of your duties for the day. You wouldn’t— shouldn’t let yourself enjoy such content thoughts too much, because you also knew it could all be over in the blink of an eye. The world could be cruel that way if it wanted to.

But still, that didn’t mean you couldn’t be grateful for these moments. From what you could tell, Ace seemed to enjoy this arrangement as much as you did. And for now, that was enough.

Lightly wrapping your fingers around his wrist, you carefully lifted his arm from around you, moving slow so you wouldn’t wake him up. Once you’ve successfully loosened his hold, you sat upright, a muted ache shooting through your lower body as you shifted around to stand. The ache mostly resided in between your legs, and a flood of memories from just hours ago rushed over you at once, causing a tingling warmth to bloom underneath your skin. Ace had poured so much into you, it never failed to leave you equal parts stunned and breathless when you witnessed his passion overflow from the brim of his being. His hands, calloused palms that always ran hot, had been everywhere— your body could still feel the heat of where they had laid, caressed, groped, smacked, and squeezed. And you involuntarily jolted as you recalled where his fingers and lips had been, how it felt to be pressed so closely against him as he simultaneously took you apart. 

After another moment of being lost in your own reverie, you pulled yourself out of it and filed those memories away in a separate corner of your mind, so that you may more fully indulge in them later. As you carefully removed the blankets and climbed over the sleeping pirate, one bare foot had hardly hit the cool wooden floor before a hand wrapped itself around your wrist. 

A quiet grumbling noise vibrated from behind Ace’s lips, his eyes remained closed as he spoke, indicative that he was barely awake. “Wh…where y’goin’....?” His words were slurred and thick with sleep, his deep voice reaching the depths of your being to spark something to life in the pit of your belly. But you promptly ignored it for now. 

“To the bathroom, I gotta pee.”

He replied with another mumbling sort of noise, presumably one of acknowledgment or begrudging acquiescence— you couldn’t be sure. “M’kay, just . . . hurry back t’bed, will ya? M’cold.” 

You found amusement in the inherent irony of his claim that he was ‘cold’  when he always ran a little warmer than most— not to mention his devil fruit powers— but also in the fact that despite his urging you to take care of your business swiftly, he hasn't released his hold on your wrist yet. In fact, he tugged you a little closer to him, as if he was trying to pull you back into bed. 

A small smile began to curl at the corners of your lips as you moved to manually pry his fingers from your arm so you can make your way out of the bedroom and down the hall.

For the next several minutes, Ace was left alone. 

He stirred in his partially-awake state as he made himself comfortable again in bed, but one eye managed to pry itself open by a few millimeters. It was unfortunate he was roused from his deep  sleep, but he was sure he’d doze off again soon enough. 

From what he could see, the room was still dark for the most part, his surroundings washed in a rich, navy blue color, a telltale sign that the sun would rise within the next hour or so. Aside from the faint rustling coming from the bathroom, the air was occupied by a serene silence, meaning his innermost thoughts became that much more perceptible to his mind’s ear. 

Sometimes, a part of Ace felt like fate had shined upon him— just a little, just this once— when his mind mulled over his…unique relationship with you, and all the events that led up to this exact moment. He too understood the implications of seeing you like this, but he couldn’t find it within himself to let go and move on. There was just…something about you, something special. 

Even now, he still couldn’t quite understand why you were taking such a big risk and basically throwing your life away by getting comfortable with a pirate like him. The both of you came from two different worlds, the morals embedded within those worlds constantly pitted you against each other. 

But you willingly ignored them, and so did he. 

Perhaps that was the ‘special’ quality about you and this relationship that he still struggled to articulate, how pure and genuine it all felt— how you were. Either way, he was grateful that he wasn’t the only one being a little selfish. And every now and again, Ace might silently thank the universe for allowing him this one thing, even though he hasn’t, and probably never will do anything, to deserve it. 

The increasing volume of footsteps pulled Ace from his thoughts, and soon enough you reappeared in the doorway, making your way back to bed– back home in Ace’s arms.

Your lips parted in a yawn, putting your hand over your mouth to muffle the sound, before carefully climbing over the taller man to reclaim your spot next to him. Ace wasted no time encasing you against him once more, one arm laid lazily across your stomach and the other resting under your neck, acting somewhat as a pillow of sorts.

“...took too long,” the pirate muttered under his breath, the low, vibrating sound of his voice so close to your ear did nothing for your fiercely pulsating heart. It was the only organ in your entire body that seemed to be fully awake right now.

“I wasn’t even gone for that long, ya big baby. Prob’ly less than five minutes.” A soft sigh punctuated your reply, snuggling more into the toned front of Ace’s chest and abdomen as he adjusted the thick blankets over both of your bodies. The covers, as well as the gentle warmth radiating from his exposed skin, provided a steady stream of heat that battled against the crisp morning air, both sensations nearly enough to lull you back to sleep. You enthusiastically pushed aside the fact that you had to get up again in two and a half hours for your shift to patrol around the city.

“Shuddup, let’s go to sleep.” Ace grumbled, pulling you even closer to him so that very little space existed between both of you, and nearly nuzzling his face in the bonnet you wore on your head. A soundless chuckle rumbled within your chest, finding his sleepy and almost pouty tone both amusing and adorable.

However, despite his own request, and the fact that his own eyes were barely open, Ace was finding it difficult to once more quiet his thoughts enough to drift back to sleep. They were still a bit too loud and knocked against his skull too much. 

Such thoughts only seemed to intensify when both of his eyes managed to peel themselves open this time in order to observe your form next to him. From what he could see based on where he laid, Ace silently took note of how tranquil your expression was as your breathing began to even out, how long your eyelashes actually were without your glasses obscuring them, and the small birthmark on your cheek that he developed a habit of kissing. His dark eyes roamed across every inch of your face, and he relished in the soft flesh of your stomach underneath his fingertips, giving it a feather-light squeeze every now and again.

You were here with him— in this bed, hardly wearing anything at all, and practically clinging to the arm wrapped around your abdomen— bound together with a kiss on that fateful night two years ago. You wanted to be here, he knew that. So why was it he still had to wrestle with the phantoms of doubt in the darker sectors of his mind? Why did they haunt him so, and prevent him from just plainly accepting this for what it is? Accept that it was okay to indulge, okay to claim this one thing as his and his alone? He didn’t even claim his own father, but this— you? Oh, how he wanted to be greedy, he yearned for it. But something in him, some dark, caustic, unforgiving thing, made him feel like he shouldn’t.

But didn’t he deserve something nice too? Something that wasn’t, or could no longer be tainted by the wicked and unloving world they were born into?

Ace knew that you cared for him— quite a lot, more than you should. There was a four letter word he might have used to label the way in which you cared about him, and he about you, but he dare not say it. He dared not say it in fear that the universe would snatch it away the moment it left his lips, and reveal that it was only playing a heartless joke on him.

“Hey. Are you… okay? Okay with this, I mean.” The words left his lips without putting a real thought behind them, for his mind was preoccupied with trying to keep itself afloat above the sea of negative ones that tried to carry him off to a place he did not want to visit.

Your left eye opened, then your right, as if opening them would help you better process his sudden question. Your brows furrowed next, digging deeper into your forehead in order to figure out the hidden meaning behind his words— or if there was one to begin with. “I…this position is fine, and I’m comfortable. Unless you want to be closer to the window?” You replied with your own question, uncertainty of what he was asking about thick in your tone. And judging by the way his arm tightened around you by a fraction and the nearly inaudible sigh that left his lips, it became clear that’s not what he was truly asking.

“No, I meant…are you okay with us?” Ace’s already husky voice quieted even more, nearly tapering off into a whisper. But he was pressed close enough to you that you were still able to hear him loud and clear. Something about the way he phrased his question rang a silent alarm in your head, indicating that the forthcoming conversation was going to take a more solemn turn.

With that in mind you shifted in his arms, turning around so that you were now facing Ace directly, still so close that the tips of your noses nearly touched each other. His hold on you readjusted as a result, the tattooed arm once more staking its claim on your waist and effectively trapping you against his front. His sable tresses fell unceremoniously across his face, a few strands nearly covering one of his eyes. Your fingers didn’t miss the opportunity to brush them away. 

“Yes.” Your reply was simple, and you thought it important to make that clear first because something, an emotion you were unable to categorize, flickered in his still-hooded eyes. And something about it worried you. “I am more than okay with us. There isn’t another person I’d rather be with right now.” The fingers lingering on his skin suddenly became your entire palm, as you were now cupping the side of his face.

Ace burned even warmer here compared to the rest of his body, and you found physical comfort in the sensation. His skin seemed to ignite under your touch despite his sleepiness, and the dark-haired pirate was internally grateful that it was still quite dark in your room, so you were unable to see the light flush that was beginning to form underneath his freckled cheeks. 

“Why are you asking?” Your inquiry was as tender as your touch, and it made his chest ache. 

It took Ace several seconds to search for his next words and arrange them in a sentence, for your straightforward reply admittedly caught him off-guard. Now he was unsure if there was a need to continue at all.

But the specters of doubt were ever persistent.

“I just…” The words faded away on his tongue before he could say them and instead, your response rang loud in his head. 

‘There isn’t another person I’d rather be with right now’.

Did you mean that? Have you always felt that way? Did you just happen to say that because he asked a question, because somehow you knew that’s what something in his soul wanted to hear?

And then, Ace found his words again. “You can do better, you know.” His voice turned more gruff, rough around the edges, as if he had to forcefully tug those words from the back of his throat. As if it hurt to say that. “You could, if you wanted. You’re gorgeous. Intelligent, resourceful. You have a respectable career, and you can cook damn good.”

You released a soft chuckle at that last part, finding it comical how he always found a way to talk about how good your food was. But whatever uptick on your lips faded as soon as it came once Ace parted his lips to speak again.

“You don’t have to spend your time, money, or energy on someone like me. You didn’t have to spread those pretty legs of yours for me, either. Didn’t have to let me stay here whenever I come to town. You didn’t even have to let me sleep in this bed so close to you.”

He paused, the muscles laying against and wrapped around you tensed briefly, his eyelashes met the apples of his cheeks when he allowed his eyes to close for a moment. When he opened them again, he found it harder to look at you— if he did, he might crumble away. “You could do better than a pirate like me, who has nothing going for himself except for instability, anger and…and hate. So, why?”

The next words reverberated in the air without Ace even having to say them. Why choose me? Why risk all of that for me?

Similarly, something throbbed uncomfortably within your chest as you listened to him speak, even after he finished and silence descended upon the both of you. 

You could only wonder where this line of questioning originated from. It was uncharacteristic of Ace to voice thoughts of this nature, even more so when there was no prior word or action to lure them forward. You continued to observe him in the quiet, not even realizing that you had been softly caressing his cheek all this while until your hand came to a halt.

Why? Why were you with Ace, entangled in every sense of the word and jeopardizing the life you’ve built for yourself for his sake? The answer seemed so simple, but not as much now that you had to consciously think about it; you somehow struggled to put it into words. 

Ace was like the rays of sunlight that peeked through heavy drapes in the early morning— much like they would soon be in a few hours— or like the flickering flames of a small fire that offered you solace on an unkind wintery night. He was warm and intense, but mellow and tender at the same time, in his own way. He offered you comfort when you needed it, stirred up something in you when you wanted it, brightened your life when you didn’t even realize how dull and monochrome it was. Ace was…

“Allow me to offer a question of my own. Why are you taking an equally significant, if not greater risk, just to curl up in my bed with me? Why come back so often to this town, risking capture, if only to hold me close, eat the food I make, and to make love to me?”

Your inquiries seemed to tug you forward, motivating you to scoot a little closer to Ace so that there was hardly even an iota of space existing in between your faces. His breath hitched quietly in his chest at that, more so when you leaned forward and simply placed your lips on his cheek, right on top of the dozens of prominent and faded freckles that resided there. Something about the gesture felt intentional— like you did not kiss his face, but the light specks on top of it. And thinking about it like that made his taut chest twinge again in a manner he could not describe right now.

Your breaths against his flesh were soft and leveled, and successfully fanned the flames of an even pinker flush to blossom across his visage.

He struggled to give you a coherent answer to your questions because his inner thoughts seemed to reset every time your plush lips came in contact with his face— all gentle like he would break if you applied too much pressure. He never associated that word with himself before, nor had anyone else in his entire life.

So why did he do it? Why did he do any of it? Why was he so attached to you, to your existence, your presence, and everything that reminded him of you? 

Ace knew the answer. 

He fears he’s known it for some time now.

But would it be right— would it be okay to label it with the word that was sitting on his tongue? Did he truly have the capacity to bear the weight of it? Would this blissful reality he found himself nestled in start to unravel the moment he said it? Would the universe truly let him have this one thing to himself, forever?

A feathery, open-mouthed kiss from you onto his nose cut off his thoughts, but confirmed his answer. 

A bleary sort of smile, edges softened by his affection for you, tugged the corners of Ace’s mouth upwards. The hand that encased your waist traveled further downwards to take the meat of your thigh in its grasp, and toss it over his own hips. He had slung your leg over himself in an attempt to hold your bodies inexplicably closer, the feeling of his fingers gliding lazily across your exposed skin caused your pulse to quicken.

“I understand. Thank you.” 

Within another second or two, his mouth eventually met with yours. His lips and yours seamlessly molded together, like they were two carved parts of the same whole. It was a slow, saccharine thing, ultimately leading your fingertips to slide back and thread themselves through his dark locks, and the calloused, hot palm on your thigh to grip the area ever tighter— as if you’d evaporate if he didn’t do so.

Ace loved you— was in love with you. His heart thrummed against his chest when he tossed that fact around in his head, gradually accepting it to be true as he steadily deepened the kiss.

He murmured those three words into your mouth after languidly coaxing it open with his tongue so the wet muscle could slither inside and make a home there. It was barely intelligible, but somehow you knew what he’d said. Such a declaration was only reserved for you, so of course you recognized it. Ace didn’t even want the words to linger in the air, lest the universe heard what he had said. He still thanked it though, grateful to whatever deities thrusted you into his path that night so that he could have this moment with you, and build similar ones like this hereafter.

You reciprocated it, quietly sighing the words back into him and he eagerly swallowed them up, giving your thigh an affectionate squeeze in response.

Briefly, you pulled back, but only by a millimeter— not wanting the cold air of the early morning to catch you yet— and your palm ended up on Ace’s jaw. The pad of your thumb brushed over the sheet of freckles with no particular pattern or rhythm, and you absently thought about how they might be your favorite feature on his entire body. As if to emphasize this point, you pressed a lingering kiss onto its surface again, and for a moment, Ace thought he might shut down. He simply could not comprehend the loving nature behind such a simple act, or why it affected him so; all he could do was offer a small, fond grin.

Time still marched forward, but it graciously allowed the pair of lovers to bask in each other for a little while longer. The sky’s hue would slowly shift from a deep navy blue to a slightly brighter one, causing the dimness of the room to inch back into its corners for the day. The sunlight would soon come.

( # ) @icy-spicy @triangularz @pookieace @ichore @valentineluvu

[pit-stop-princess]

Click Click - Chapter Three

Ollie Bearman x Photographer!Fem!Reader

Kimi Antonelli & Antonelli!Sister!Reader

Summary: I came to F1 with my little brother Kimi to photograph his rookie season, not to fall for his best friend and Haas's golden boy. Somehow, Ollie Bearman keeps ending up in my shots!

Warnings: Angst, fluff, awkward text messages, young Kimi panicking, self-doubt, talk of perfection, picture of woman in swimsuit, light swearing

Word Count: 1694, not including text threads or social media posts

Notes: I had a lot of fun writing this chapter. It's very long. I'm graduating in just two weeks, so I've been feeling very nostalgic lately, and this chapter very much reflects that. Val's face claim is Niki Victoria for the sake of consistency. All in all, please enjoy and let me know what you liked about it!

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Nine Years Ago, ages 11 & 12

The kart was still smoking faintly when I reached the edge of the track, skidding to a stop just past the barriers. Kimi had ripped off his helmet and sat slumped in the grass, tear tracks already streaking the dirt on his cheeks. His hair stuck to his forehead in damp little curls, and he looked about two seconds from a full meltdown.

“My engine died,” he said, voice breaking halfway through. “It just- it stalled and I couldn’t fix it and I DNF’d the race and-”

“Hey,” I said, crouching in front of him. “Breathe, Kimi. It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” he sniffled. “I practiced so hard. And I was gonna win. You said I could win.”

“You can win.” I reached out and wiped a smudge of oil off his nose. “Just not today.”

He curled his hands into fists. “It’s not fair.”

“No,” I agreed. “But you’re not done yet.”

He looked up at me through wet lashes, lip wobbling. “What if I never make it?”

I smiled, even though my throat was suddenly tight. “Kimi, I swear on the stars you will. And when you do? I’ll be there. Every race. Every lap. Camera in hand, yelling louder than your entire pit wall.”

His eyes went wide. “You promise?”

“I promise,” I said, tears pricking my own eyes, pinky out. “You race. I’ll shoot. Deal?”

He linked his pinky with mine. “Deal.”

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Present Day

speed bump = Kimi, ollie bearman = Ollie Bearman, that bitch val = Valentina (Val)

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Val was waiting for me at the airport. She's tall, all sharp cheekbones and bright blue eyes, with beautiful curls that live in a perpetual state of artful chaos. She’s got the kind of style that looks effortlessly put together, even when it’s just thrifted jeans, a cropped tee, and golden hoop earrings.

We met at fourteen, two kids who dreamed too big for their school and the nuns who ran it.

Val was the new girl from Florence with clean blue nail polish and dreams of being a model. I was the girl with a camera instead of friends, always in the back of the classroom documenting shadows and corners and silence.

We were on a class trip when I asked if I could take a picture of her for the first time. I posed her, set up my angle, and got the shot. It was my first photo I was truly happy with since leaving Kimi.

When I showed Val the shot, she gripped my arm and told me I was the only one who made her look like her.

We’ve stuck together ever since.

She speaks with her hands, her heart, and absolutely no filter. One minute she’s dramatically reenacting a conversation with the cute barista at the cafe, the next she’s waxing poetic about the symbolism in a street mural or why that particular pigeon seems to be giving her attitude. There’s always a snack in her bag, a book with a cracked spine, and at least three bandages for other people’s blisters.

I told her how I loved motorsports, but stopped when Kimi went to the academy. I showed her the pictures I had taken, a year old at that point, and then newer pictures of people, landscapes, close-ups, and everything in between.

“You always think you’re photographing people doing something. Driving. Laughing. Walking. But the ones that matter, they’re when the person forgets they’re doing anything at all. It’s the breath between words. The blink after a smile. That’s the truth.”

When we left school, we built our empires. I would photograph for her, she would model for me. Our portfolios grew in tandem. She got her first job with a boutique brand in Milan. I got published in a small arts zine out of Rome. When I landed a travel feature for a new indie magazine, Val came with me to the Amalfi coast, wearing vintage scarves and red lipstick, standing barefoot on sea-slick rocks while I got the shot.

“You make me look like someone worth looking at,” she said once, quiet and serious, as we reviewed the prints in a café booth sticky with sugar.

I laughed. “You always were.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Before you, I just felt… pretty. Now I feel seen.”

And now, here she is, picking me up from the airport, hugging me so tight I lose my breath, already talking a mile a minute about the pasta she made and the barista she may or may not have a crush on but is too stubborn to admit it.

“I missed you,” I say into her hair, which smells like bergamot and sea salt.

She squeezes me tighter. “You left for, like, two weeks.”

“I know,” I say. “Too long.”

She pulls back, squints at me, then grins. “You look pale.”

“You look chaotic.”

“Thank you,” she says proudly. “Now come on. I made pesto. And I want to hear everything.”

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“So. Kimi sent you Ollie’s number, you texted first, he responded, and then the conversation died.”

“SÌ, basically. I think he might have been busy because he said he was ‘just training’ but I don’t know if I came across as too awkward.” I said, flopping down on her couch. “We haven’t talked outside of Kimi introducing us, so maybe it was too soon?”

Val shrugged her perfectly tan shoulder. “Maybe.”

“You’re supposed to lie and assure me it wasn’t too soon.”

She blinked at me. “Okay, you came off tragically normal. That’s even worse.”

I groaned and threw my arm over my eyes. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” She said, standing up gracefully. “Now come on, you’re back home, and we’re going to the beach. I need fresh air, and you need the sun.”

“I’m not that pale!”

She threw my swimsuit at me.

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I had missed the beach.

By the time we got down to the shore, the sun was bright and the sea was throwing glitter across the surface with every wave. I kicked off my shoes and wandered to the edge of the tide, the sand already cool and damp beneath my feet.

I just stood there, let the breeze get into my hair, let the waves pull at my ankles, let the sun kiss my skin. I could hear Val rustling around behind me, probably laying out her towel like a ritual, probably already monologuing to a seagull.

I turned just in time to see her toss a sun-warmed peach into the air and catch it like she was in a commercial for perfect summer evenings.

“Come on,” she called. “You're allowed to be dramatic, but not that dramatic.”

I laughed, and it felt good, loose and warm in my chest. I jogged back up the shore, collapsing beside her and stealing one of her chips.

“Hey!”

“Friend tax.”

We spent the rest of the day sunbathing and taking pictures. As much as I loved photographing F1, I missed taking photos of Val.

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❤️ liked by kimi.antonelli, valentinavlogs, olliebearman, & others

yourusername back home for a little while with @/valentinavlogs 🐚🩵

view comments

valentinavlogs lookin like a couple of baddies

⤷ yourusername girl what are you talking about 😭

user34 I wish this was my life

⤷ user23 don't we all??

kimi.antonelli come back ollie hasn't stopped asking about you

⤷ olliebearman shut up, kimi

❤️ liked by author

user80 will she be at the next race?

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Five Years Ago, ages 13 & 15

It was late.

Too late for the track to still be echoing in his head, but I could see it in the way he sat on the curb- hunched over, hands loose between his knees, helmet abandoned beside him like it’d said something mean. The kart was parked a few feet away, half-loaded onto the trailer, the last stragglers from the paddock already packing up and heading out.

I sat down next to him, not saying anything at first. Just breathed in the warm, dusty air, the scent of engine grease and old asphalt.

He didn’t look at me. Just said, flatly, “I was shit today.”

“You weren’t.”

“I was. I spun out. I missed the apexes. I didn’t listen.” He ran both hands through his hair, frustrated. “Everyone saw it. They always see it. Every mistake, every second too slow-”

“Kimi.”

He kept going like I hadn’t spoken. “And I can’t keep up. Not with the guys the scouts are watching. Not if I keep messing it up every time it counts. Maybe I’m not- maybe I’m not cut out for it.”

“Andrea.” I touched his arm. “Look at me.”

He did, eventually. Eyes bright and wet in the glow from the nearest overhead light, jaw tight with everything he couldn’t say out loud.

“You are not your lap time,” I said gently. “You are not your placing or your telemetry data or how many people are looking at you. You are the kid who listens. Who learns. Who takes everything people throw at him and actually gets better. That’s rare, Kimi.”

He sniffled, quietly. “Doesn’t feel like enough.”

I tilted my head, nudged my shoulder into his. “You want to be perfect. But you don’t need to be. The ones who last? They take the hits, take the lessons, and come back swinging. You already do that.”

He picked at a loose thread on his race suit. “You’re always chasing the perfect picture.”

“SÌ, I am. Everyone is chasing perfection fratellino, but all you can do is attempt to be better than your past self. Learn from your mistakes, give yourself grace, and prepare for the next round.”

He didn’t say anything, so I looked up, out, into the vast stretch of stars overhead, and said, “You know what I think about sometimes?”

He glanced at me. “…What?”

“How lucky it is. That we’re on the same planet. In the same moment in time. Under this same sky.” I gave him a small smile. “Like, out of every possible version of the universe, we ended up in this one. Where I get to know you. Be here with you.”

Kimi blinked. “That’s weirdly comforting.”

I shrugged. “We’re small. But we’re not alone.”

He leaned against me then. Just a little. Not enough to crush me with shoulder pads or helmet hair, but enough that I could feel him start to breathe normally again.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

“Always,” I whispered back. “I’m not going anywhere, Kimi. And even when I’m not beside you we are still under the same sky, remember?”

He looked up, lips twitching into something soft and tired and real. “Same sky.”

prev • masterpost • next

[eelnoise]

supplicate (nsfw!)

18+ MDNI!

Trafalgar Law x afab!reader cw: mild brat taming, teasing, edging, snarky law, piv sex, creampie an: this one kinda went overboard and was not meant to be this long. it was supposed to be two drabbles for both zoro and law but i kinda got carried away. i'll post them separately or whatever idk. tagging: @bby-deerling @themushroomofdeath @risenwrites @kaizokuniichan @strawheart-pirate

At this rate you were going to kill him.

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair as his jeans tighten again. You’d been at it all day – touching and teasing him every chance you get. Running your fingers down his arm when you bring him coffee and lingering far longer than you usually do before departing with a small smirk across your lips, not-so-subtly unzipping your boiler suit just enough for him to get a glance of the soft flesh that lies beneath when you cross paths throughout the day’s work, and he doesn’t miss the sultry, half lidded gaze that seems to follow wherever he goes.

Must be some kind of cruel joke, he thinks. Something you and Ikkaku had conspired together to conjure just to drive him up the wall. Law wasn’t keen on any of the crew knowing of your shared… situation, though considering the fondness you have of your crewmate, he should’ve known it was inevitable. And usually, he pays it no mind – so long as he isn’t bothered by any unwelcome, irritating comments or jabs.

But today it eats at him, riles him until your very image is superimposed onto the backs of his eyelids. As much as it pains Law to admit – your stubborn attempt at teasing him had worked, and probably much more than you even knew. Of course, he could simply take care of the ever growing, insistent need for you right now – right here in his office, and without you. He considers it for a moment as he leans back in his chair. There's poetic irony in the thought, and he chuckles selfishly to himself imagining the look on your face when he doesn’t give what you think you’ve won.

Though why deny himself the sweetened privilege of correcting your impish behavior? You’ve earned it at this point, a victory certainly – though perhaps not quite the prize you seek. Law’s mind reels with possibility, bringing him to a point of distraction that leaves him unable to focus on his own tasks. He wants to teach you a lesson, wants to hear you beg, whine, writhe beneath him, pleading for release that he plans on withholding until your absolute limit. 

The way his cock throbs painfully against his thigh gives him an answer that he can’t ignore, and without a second – more rational – thought, utters a near-silent “Room. Shambles.” 

Suddenly it doesn’t matter where you were or what you were doing. And Law isn’t surprised when you appear before him looking smug and as expectant as ever. 

“Took you long enough,” You begin, the coy edge to your voice cutting through the silence that had been his prison for the past few hours. “Thought maybe-”

Law slides backwards away from his desk and cuts you off with a snap of his fingers – a sure signal for you to keep your mouth shut. “Strip, and make it quick.” The way you shiver from his words alone does not go unnoticed, lips twitching upward at just how easy it is to make you come apart from him.

Spurned onward by both his demeanor and his obvious predisposition, you hastily peel your layers off and leave them in a heap around your feet and step toward him. Law leans back and places his elbows on either arm of his chair. Seems like you’re going to have to work for it.

He only assists you with a slight raise of his hips when you move to free his cock from its confines and allows you to pull his jeans and underwear down as you see fit to do. Instinctively you lean down with means to wrap your lips around him, but Law grabs you by the forearm and clicks his teeth – twisting you around to settle into his lap. 

Law reaches down to the backs of your thighs, pulling you into a position that aligns himself near perfectly with you, and pressing your back to the edge of the wooden desk. You gasp when he glides his length along your slick folds, an excited half-mewl that lets him know that you’re exactly where he wants you to be. He delights in the sight of you trying in vain to roll your hips for any sort of friction, but his hold on you is too heavy and the attempts get you nowhere. “Law – come on!” 

At your frustrated plea, Law tilts his head forward to peer at you with a knowing smirk on his lips. “I don’t think you’re in any position to be talking,” He purrs smoothly, breathing hot upon your neck. “Let alone making demands.” 

He ruts his hips slowly – painfully – against you. Whines befall your lips as he lazily slides his cock up and down your pussy, making sure to press just a little harder against your clit. Law knows what makes you tick, having analyzed and researched each reaction to his ministries over the years at sea. He knows just how to make you cry out in limited bliss, how to inch you right to the precipice of paradise – only to whisk it away at the blink of an eye.

Why should you get away so easily?

Still tight within his grip, you’re at his will. Each stroke of him against your walls, feeling every throb of his cock within you leaves you a whiny, needy mess. The frustration turned ecstasy in your gaze cracks his guise further, though not enough to unmask him – yet.

He’d never admit it at a time like this, but the way you sound, the way you feel, the way your expressions twist and curve at his teasing – he needs you like a man needs food. And deciding that you’ve had your fill of his game is a good enough excuse to up the ante.

Law guides himself to your entrance, and using the abundance of slick that glistens along his flesh, eases you onto him. You hiss out a moan as he bottoms out, and a moment later he’s bouncing you up and down his cock, pace still unhurried and languid. 

It's agony, sweet and unsated passion that you’re not being given despite your best attempts goading both now and throughout the day. Your laments fall on deaf ears as Law continues his tortuous campaign, pulling you down onto him until your hips are flush together, letting the head of his cock twitch against the spongy spot that makes your eyes roll back in your head. You’re desperate, the need for him begins to outweigh your tolerance of his little game – so you do the one thing that you know will make him crumble.

You reach out for him, pressing a hand to his cheek to lead him into a tender kiss. Law’s eyes widen in surprise, but cannot help to fall into your trick. He closes them and leans into you, deepening the lip lock and groaning in satisfaction. You slip your tongue between his lips and the grip on you loosens enough to allow you to more freely grind on him. 

It takes Law a moment to come to his senses, too lost in kiss and affection to notice that you’d taken control. He breaks the gesture with a growl and a feral grin to match, and that's all the warning you get before he stands up from the chair and folds you backward onto the surface of the desk. Papers crease and books shift as he presses your thighs up to your chest, his cock drilling into your core as fast and as hard as he can give you.

“So fucking needy,” Law taunts, hovering his head just out of your reach. “Look at you. You’re desperate. Drooling for the thing only I can give you, isn’t that right?” He follows up the words with a smack to your thigh and a low chuckle. 

So much do you want to speak, though words fail you again and again. You’ve been reduced to nods and wails of pleasure, and Law is living for it.

He brings you to the edge so many times, and only a handful does he allow you to leap. Law’s stamina doesn’t give, and just when you think he’s close he stalls to a near stop – leaving you breathless and panting and giving you some respite before slamming his hips back into yours until the sound of skin against skin echo throughout his cabin once more. “Law, I can’t–” You wearily exclaim, tears pecking at your eyes beyond the hazy, fucked-out gaze you’re giving him. “It’s too much, I can’t…”

“Of course you can,” Law directs from above you. He clasps your jaw with one of his hands, lithe fingers grasping and forcing your face toward his. “You’ll take everything I have to give you since you’re being so good for me now, won’t you?”

The familiar tug from low in your belly pulls once more at his words, and in an instant you’re cumming again around his cock again. His name falls from your tongue like it's the only word in your vocabulary, and it sends his mind reeling. Law’s words eventually deceive him, and soon enough he’s digging his nails into your thigh and sighing into your neck as he fills you to the brim with his own cum.

The moment stalls, and for a moment Law looks at you, the hand nearest to your face coming to rest gently upon your cheek. You offer him a smile, and it makes his heart skip a beat. It always does. Law leans down to press a soft kiss to your forehead, and trailing an even softer one to your lips. It isn’t something he says often, what he’s saying to you now. The simple phrase is a whisper on his tongue, and made only for your ears – it's one you return just as quietly, though almost too eagerly.

After all, you do love him.

[mythicalcowboyatheart]

The Veronica to his JD

Ian McKinley x Reader

Warnings: near death experiences, death, mention of Erin and other FD3 characters, Heathers references, 10 things I hate about you reference, comforting Ian

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You went to the fair along with Wendy and Kevin to save Juile, you succeeded and saved Kevin and Wendy but now it was your turn. Ever since Erin's death, lan had been blaming Wendy for it and now he was a threat. While the four of you were trying to leave you saw lan coming right towards you and blocking your path."Get out of here, lan!" You yelled at him, but he had an evil little sarcastic smile on his face. "I'm just enjoying the fireworks for our fair little fair here" lan spoke sarcastically. "Stay away!" Wendy yelled at lan, tears in her eyes. "Oh no way.......do I cause your death?" lan then pointed at Wendy and laughed sadistically. "Just like how you caused Erin's?" His voice becoming darker as he said that. The four of you tried to run away but lan cut you guys off, blocking the path. His handed up and his eyes wide. "Woah, woah, woah, what? Did you just have a vision?" He pointed at himself with a twisted smile. "Was I in it? Was that- was that in a picture? Just tell me how to start it off, lets get this over with." lan said with a dark twisted smile on his face. "You'll save me if you just stay away! It'll all be over!" Wendy said, staying more than ten feet away from him. "What do I care? It skipped me! For me, it's over, I'm not dying!" lan shouted and as if on cue fireworks shot out at lan but missed, but they hit the base of the cherry picker behind him. He laughed. "You see!? I'm not gonna die! It's you, Wendy! You're dead!" And as he said that the top of the cherry picker started to fall, right above his head. "lan!" You shouted but lan couldn't hear you do the fear blocking everything out.

You quickly ran over to lan and jumped on him, making the two of you fall into the grass as the cherry picker fell right where lan would be. lan landed on the ground with you on top of him. You breath heavily as i try to help him up lan groans, dazed from the fall but unharmed. He looks up at you with a mix of confusion and something else in his eyes "Why the hell did you just save me? I was literally trying to kill you all." "are you okay?" lan pushes you away roughly but stays on the ground, running a hand through his disheveled hair "Don't act like you care. You should've let me die. It would've been poetic." "i do care asshole..." lan's expression falters slightly, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his face before he quickly masks it with anger "Shut up. You don't get to say that. Not after everything I've done." You suddenly hug him tightly lan freezes at the unexpected hug, his body tense. His hands hover uncertainly in the air before slowly, hesitantly resting on your back "Get off me... this isn't..." his voice cracks slightly, betraying his inner turmoil, you don't let go. lan's breathing becomes uneven, his fingers digging into your clothes as conflicting emotions battle within him "I hate you. I hate that you make me feel... anything but hate right now." "your okay..." lan's walls begin to crack, his body trembling slightly as he finally returns the embrace, holding you tightly

"I'm not okay... I'm so fucking lost. And you... you just had to be nice to me." You lock eyes with Wendy. Wendy watches from a distance, her expression a mix of concern and understanding. lan notices her gaze and tenses again "Don't look at her. Just... stay with me for a minute. Please." "Wendy go...i got him..." Wendy nods and slowly backs away, motioning for Kevin to follow. lan's grip on you tightens as he hears them leaving "Don't leave me too... not yet. I don't want to be alone right now." "how did you get here? Did you drive?" lan's voice is muffled against your shoulder as he speaks "I walked. Been walking around since... since Erin. Needed to clear my head, or maybe just wanted to be close to where she... never mind." "well Wendy was my ride...i can walk with you..." lan finally pulls back slightly, looking up at you with a mix of surprise and lingering anger "You'd really walk with me? After everything I said? After what I tried to do?" "you just tried to kill me...no biggie" you smile softly lan stares at your smile incredulously, then bursts into dark laughter "You're insane. I'm insane. We're all insane here." He stands up slowly, offering his hand to help you up. "Fine. Walk with me. But if you start being all... nice again, I might punch you." "come on Jason Dean lets get you home..." lan's eyes widen at the reference, a small genuine smile appearing for the first time "I think of myself as a Patrick Verona, but sure... lead the way, Veronica Sawyer." "In your dreams..." lan walks beside you, his previous tension gradually easing

"You're definitely a Veronica Sawyer - pretending to be cool while secretly caring too much." You chuckle. As you both walk through the empty fairgrounds, lan's mood shifts to something more contemplative "So... about what happened with Wendy earlier. I don't know why I snapped like that. The visions... they're driving me crazy.""me too..." lan looks at you with sudden understanding, his steps slowing "You've been having them too? I thought I was alone in this... but you... you understand what it's like to see things you can't control." "freaks me the fuck out..." lan nods vigorously, running his hands through his hair again "Yeah. Exactly. It's like someone else is pulling the strings in my head. And when I saw Wendy there... I just lost it." You nod in agreement The streetlights flicker on as night fully falls. lan walks closer to you, almost subconsciously seeking comfort "I don't know what's worse - these visions or facing that I might be wrong about Wendy. About everything." "me too..." lan's voice drops to a whisper as he confesses "I keep seeing myself... dying in different ways. But then there's this one where I don't die, and it's worse because I can see myself becoming... something else." "we'll find a way... hopefully" lan stops walking suddenly, grabbing your arm "What if there's no way? What if this is just... the end for all of us?" His grip tightens, almost desperately "then... we're what killed the dinosaurs" you say sarcasticly A strangled laugh escapes lan as he pulls you into a tight hug again "You're really not helping my existential crisis here, you know that? But... I'm glad you're with me right now." "I'm glad my stupid references made you laugh..." lan buries his face in your neck, his voice muffled and shaky "Shut up. You're making me feel things I don't want to feel. But I don't think I can push you away anymore." You wrap your arms around Ian lan's body trembles slightly against yours, his usual sarcasm completely gone "i... I'm scared. For once in my life, I'm actually terrified." He holds you tighter, breathing uneven "you and me both..." lan pulls back slightly, his eyes searching yours with an unusual vulnerability "Promise me something. If these visions are right... if I really die... don't let me be alone." "i can stay the night with you if you need me to..." lan's face flushes slightly, caught off guard by your offer "You'd... you'd do that? Even after everything I've been?" His fingers intertwine with yours hesitantly "sure...come on JD..." lan's eyes soften at the nickname, a mix of gratitude and lingering darkness in his expression "Lead the way, Veronica." He squeezes your hand as you both continue walking, his other hand occasionally brushing against your arm.

[bosskisbae]

So, I just rewatched the pilot for The Gaslight District and a thought occurred to me. During Ken's confrontation with Temperance, the audience is specifically led to believe that the secret the Virtue is keeping for Ken directly relates to Mel and her being the prophesied human, but I don't think it actually is. Like, obviously there is some connection there, but there are signs throughout the episode of Ken's ongoing animosity to the Virtues that feels to me like it's more than just him being protective of Mel. Obviously, that could be chalked up to his (possible) torture at their hands in the Inferno, but then why would they intentionally make the scene so weighty and mysterious. Mel's secret is known to the audience basically right off the bat, so there's clearly more to what's going on and I think I might have figured out what. I think...and stick with me here...Ken IS a Virtue. Sort of. There're those weird flashes of color whenever he gets uncontrollably angry, where half of his brain is highlighted. That's got to be more than just an aesthetic choice, right? Why the mystery of it all if it's not important. So, my theory is, that the version of Ken the Butcher we see in the Inferno, is not fully him. Not yet at least. I think that a Virtue replace half of the Butcher's brain with its own. It makes a certain amount of sense; the Virtues are basically just brains after all. Now, why would a Virtue do this, why would one of the seeming leaders of Paradise Lost physically bond themselves to the body of a rotling, which they all seemingly have nothing but disdain for? I think it has something to do with the rotling's immortality. The Virtues don't appear to be immortal in the same way, not based on what we've seen so far at least. I also think the reason might have something to do with which Virtue Ken might have gotten his half-brain from. I think it was Kindness. Not only is it the one that fits most closely with the name Ken, but I think it really fits with his personality too. You can tell how much he cares about people; not just Mel, but everyone. Everyone except the Virtues that is. It also sort of works narratively. All of the other heavenly virtues could easily be corrupted into concepts related to purity, duty or other sort of authoritarian ideals, but you can't really do that with true kindness. It seems pretty obvious to me that whatever the relationship between the Virtues and the rotlings is, it is clearly the Virtues who hold most of the power. I wouldn't be surprised if they turned out to be responsible for the apocalypse of the distant past (there is some obvious biblical symbolism there with the flood and the whale), or even the Black Hand and the rotling's horrific immortality. I imagine the supposed embodiment of kindness itself would have a hard time going along with things at that point, especially if the Virtues were then planning on wiping all of the rotlings out. It might even drive them to take drastic action. I think there's something poetic about the idea that Kindness is engaging in such cruelty as we see Ken perpetrate in the show in order to prevent something even worse from happening. I also definitely think that Temperance was the one who performed the surgery, hence why they knew the truth of everything. The butcher's knife, possibly the entire butcher persona, is there to explain away the headwound that would never really heal on a rotling body. Speaking of bodies, I think that what's left of the original Kindness, the other half of their brain and what not, is what is inside the pseudo-egg thing inside of the laboratory that Temperance is seemingly keeping alive for some reason. Thoughts?

*Small edit because I was wrong about the knife being there in the flashback scene

[brotherwtf]

John filming/recording Gale during sex

maybe they're long distance or smth like that so whenever they finally get together it's a nonstop fuck fest for the entire visit, and John will sometimes film Gale while they're fucking so he can watch when they're apart for a long time

pushing Gale's head down into the sheets, hands tangled into his hair while he records Gale's pretty sounds, the way his back muscles tense whenever John fucks into him, records how fucking deep Gale is taking him with every stroke, moaning because he gets to see this again when he's alone, just knows the memory of fucking Gale when he watches this back is going to drive him up the wall

recording Gale's beautiful crying face when he fucks him in the bed, leans down to kiss him and forgets all about his phone, getting too caught up in the moment and when he watches this one back it's mostly a black screen with Gale's beautiful moans and Johns grunts, one of his hotter vids for sure

recording the way Gale looks up at him so prettily when he sucks John off, knows to make a big show of it when John has his phone camera pointed down at him, looks up through his blond eyelashes and makes sure to moan long and hard as he hollows his cheek, smiles when he pulls off and John comes all over his face

they say a picture is worth a thousand words and Gale has to convince John not to put Gale's come-covered face as his lock screen or something, but John can't help but wax poetic about how damn beautiful Gale is, it's honestly exhausting how fucking Gale is and John has to prevent himself from doing something fucked at all hours of the day

[kaeso4ka]

You're being stalked. It becomes even more of a problem when you find out who it is

Pairing: yandere Optimus Prime x reader

Oddly enough, it started with a glance. You never suffered from paranoia, but it was impossible to ignore that feeling of constant scrutiny. Someone was peering at your back on the street, staring out your window, and even crossing their eyes with you a couple times, I think.

Jasper was a small town, and you worked at one of the most popular cafes. It wasn't strange that a lot of people knew you by sight and even sometimes recognized you on the streets. But a slight nod from a group of teenagers, to whom you made a discount yesterday by great kindness of heart - it's one thing, but the feeling of persecution - quite another.

During one of your shifts, you found a note on one of the tables, on which someone described your smile and hands in a very poetic and beautiful handwriting. It looked cute and weird in equal measure, so the strange note soon went in the trash and the memory of it went out of your head.

Then strange things started happening more often. Someone attached to the doors of the coffee shop not small notes, but whole letters in which someone addressed to you.

You tried to catch the joker for a long time: you watched the cameras, followed the visitors. But it didn't bring you any closer to an answer. It was as if someone was invisible: he did not meet anyone's eyes, bypassed all the cameras.

The situation began to get out of control at the moment when on the doorstep of your own house you began to find the same notes, but this time with presentations: scarlet roses, food, something that looks like jewelry. Someone continued to correspond with you one-sidedly, confessing their warmest feelings for you.

It sent a chill down your spine.

It wasn't normal.

Someone knew your workplace, your personal address. Someone was following you. Wanted to get you to like them. They were showering you with gifts.

And at one point, even contacted you.

It was an early Saturday: you woke up to the hot desert sun beating down on your face. And the sound of notifications coming in.

Normally, no one bothered you on weekends: your bosses knew you weren't going out on your day off, and everyone else preferred to rest rather than write to you.

And yet someone had broken a glorious tradition.

You frowned, unlocking your phone. Messages came from an unknown number.

“Hello. I apologize for disturbing you. Did I wake you up?”

“Jack, if it's you, I told you, just because you have ballet on Saturdays doesn't mean I'm going to go work a twelve-hour shift for you. Let's go without me somehow, friend.”

“This isn't your work colleague. I'm writing to make sure you liked all the presents. I didn't misjudge your taste?”

Sleep receded into the background soon enough. You sat up abruptly on the bed. Immediately you took screenshots of the correspondence. You weren't five years old, and she knew exactly what to do if you were being followed. At the very least you had to prepare evidence for the police.

“It's understandable. You do know there's still a statute for stalking in our state, right? That's a pretty serious violation of the law.”

“I apologize, there was a misunderstanding between us. I didn't mean to scare you at all. I'm just showing signs of attention.”

“Uh-huh, yeah. Tracked me down at work, at home, even got my personal phone number…. Not stalking at all, huh. If you wanted to meet me, you would have approached me yourself.”

“I can't.”

“What are you, a wheelchair user? Well, you'd drive up.”

You nodded your shoulder, remembering. Did a lot of handicapped people go to your coffee shop…?

“That's not the point. I can't come up to you right now. But I'll be able to soon.”

“You shouldn't bother. I did not like the note with which you began the acquaintance. I do not wish to continue it.”

You didn't wait long: you threw the undecided number on the block and drifted further into sleep. A sense of dread dulled the ironic hilarity.

The gifts and notes were gone. The unknown person didn't try to contact you again, and you exhaled hastily: it's nice when people around you turn out to be strange but understanding.

One shift, a tractor-trailer pulled up to the car food dispensing window. The red-and-blue, expensive-looking Paterbilt looked pretentious against the gray-and-yellow Jasper. Still, truckers often passed through this town on their way to Las Vegas, so you weren't surprised.

“Could you take the order outside?” a pleasant male voice asked quietly and conciliatory. “The booth is very high up. I won't be able to reach the order.”

“Yes, of course,” you nodded into the void, as if the person you were talking to could see you, ”the order will be ready in ten minutes. Wait in the parking lot, don't hold up the line.”

When the food was ready and stacked, you hurried out from behind your desk. You headed for the parking lot, which was empty except for Paterbilt.

The car door from the driver's seat was ajar, and you hurriedly reached forward with the bag of food, but… There was no one in sight. The cabin was empty.

“What the…?” the moment you reached forward to look for the trucker, who had obviously moved back to where they had a sleeping place, something yanked you forward by the arm. “What the…!”

Paterbilt's door slammed shut exactly as the plugs pulled you inside.

“I can speak to you personally now, my Spark.”