#stripe au challenge

[truly-morgan]

Kkinktober 2024 Day 17: P̷r̷e̷g̷n̷a̷n̷c̷y | [Stripping] | P̷e̷g̷g̷i̷n̷g

RuoCheng Mo Dao Zu Shi

JC loves being on the stage, spotlight and all eyes on him like it never has been before. He loves the ambience, the people here, he feels free and like he can be himself. The club owner may also be a good reason he has stayed in this one for so long.

__________________________________

Jiang Cheng excites the stage with one last playful smirk to his audience, before signing once he is out of view. He stretches a little before noticing from the corner of his eyes Wen Zhuliu is approaching with a soft bathrobe in hand. “You did very well tonight, especially after taking on more stage time after someone couldn’t make it tonight”.

Jiang Cheng simply smiles at this, wrapping himself in the comfortable bathrobe. While the spotlight and the general heat of the club made it comfortable out on stage while dressed so little, the back area was much cooler.

“I found it pretty fun regardless, even got to dance with some newcomer, it’s been a while” he pointed out. He rarely did any dances with other dancers, more often scheduled to do solo shows. He did miss dancing with others like this.

“Master was wondering if you were too tired to see him later on,” Wen Zhuliu asked as he followed him to his chair. This had Jiang Cheng looking back at him, knowing exactly what this meant.

“A-cheng is being requested by the boss once again” one of the younger dancers commented in awe. “It’s rare seeing him request anyone else, I guess this is what being one of the club’s stars means” he pointed out.

“I’m sure you’ll get there one day too, you already work pretty hard” Jiang Cheng smiled, already working on removing his makeup. He was a little surprised when he felt Wen Zhuliu take care of his hair, offering a smile through the mirror.

Once that was all done, he decided to take a good shower. While he knew Wen Ruohan wouldn’t mind it much, Jiang Cheng felt like it would be refreshing after spending so long dancing and entertaining people all night. Like this, he could even pick a nice perfume to wear, instead of whatever had stuck on him.

When he went back to his mirror, he started thinking about what to do. He knew Wen Ruohan did like his stage looks, but the young man knew what he liked better and was more to his taste. He decided to not redo the colourful and bold stage makeup he had for the night, switching to a smokier red and black look. He accepted some help in styling his hair a little differently, having dropped the extension he usually wore to make his short hair longer and give him more haircut options. He still kept it simple and trendy, not using much to keep it natural.

When he was all done with his makeup and hair he decided to go to his personal wardrobe, knowing what to wear. He decided to pick some nice black leather harness that hugged his chest snuggly, emphasising his chest nicely too. He decided to also pick the black leather collar with a lotus pattern embossed in it, a nice gift from Wen Ruohan.

He took his time as he picked out what else he should wear, knowing he could tease the older man a little by making him wait. Plus, it wasn’t exactly like he had given him a meeting time. He was certain that he was probably still working right now anyway, or else Wen Zhuliu would have come back to tell him the room was ready.

After trying different things on, he finally settled on some net stockings and a pair of leather shorts. He quite liked the lace on the sides and he knew the older man would also quite enjoy it. He finished it with a nice red sheer loose-fitting shirt, keeping it unbuttoned a little. He had to say, he quite liked this picked and felt like his boss would also enjoy it.

Wen Zhuliu had joined him once again while he was finishing dressing up, which already told him everything he needed to know. “Master is waiting in the room for you” the man stated, going back to his task when Jiang Cheng said he understood. He quickly put on some nice perfume and some heel boots before making his way out to the bar.

He waves to one of the bartenders, the man losing no time to come take his order. “Two of the boss’ favourites please” he smiled, watching as the man got to work without needing anymore. “Thank you, Wen Ning, keep up the good work” he thanked him once the drinks were ready, winking at him playfully before grabbing a tray and making his way to the private lodges.

He didn’t miss the lingering gazes on him as he passed by some, grabbing the attention of people as he walked down the hall. The man standing at the start of the VIP section nodded as he passed by.

He knocked when he arrived at the room, knowing without being told which it had to be. Of course, the more luxurious one would be the one Wen Ruohan picked. “Hope I didn’t make you wait” Jiang Cheng smiled, slowly making his way to the booth, and walking around the small round table.

“I could wait all my life if it means you coming to join me” Wen Ruohan smiled, picking the drink he was offered. He chuckled as he saw Jiang Cheng about to sit next to him, pulling him closer so he would be straddling his lap instead, his free hand sneaking under the shirt to settle directly on his naked waist.

“Sir our establishment doesn’t allow for heavy contact” Jiang Cheng pouted, although he soon smiled amused, never pushing his hand away. He liked the low laugh it got from his boss, the man’s thumb drawing a little circle against his skin.

“Now don’t be so cold with me, I thought my little lotus loved my touch” Wen Ruohan commented before taking a sip from his drink. “And to think I was thinking of rewarding you for all of your hard work tonight” he hummed, “You looked truly stunning, as always”.

The praise had warmth blooming deep inside of him, expression softening a little. He had always been weak to the man’s praise and compliment. He picked up his own drink from the tray he had placed next to them, clicking it softly with the one Wen Ruohan was holding before taking a sip. “Then I suppose I’ll have to accept the reward, wouldn’t want to miss out on it” he smiled, “I am certain the boss wouldn’t mind” he added playfully, gaining him another low chuckle.

Wen Ruohan downed what was left of his glasses, placing it back on the tray to be forgotten soon. Jiang Cheng slowly finished his as he looked down, watching a large hand slowly caressing his skin under the sheer shirt. He moaned quietly as he felt him tease his nipples, making the little red buds stand out, soft fabric brushing over them and making him sensitive.

“I am hungry for a tasty snack to go with my drink, won’t you give it to me?” Wen Ruohan asked.

This had Jiang Cheng chuckling, placing his drink down before slowly unbuttoning his shirt. He liked the way the man’s eyes racked over the pale skin slowly uncovering, each button popping with ease under his delicate fingers. When he was done he allowed the shirt to fall off his shoulder, gathering in the corner of his elbows.

Soon he could feel a warm breath against him, an eager mouth licking and sucking at his chest. It had him hugging the man’s head loosely, bringing him closer. This close to him he was able to smell something nice, smoky and spicy. “You are wearing the cologne I got you” Jiang Cheng commented between two pleasurable hums.

It made him feel really happy to see the man was using what he had gifted him. He knew it would suit him really well.

“How could I possibly reject such a nice gift from my precious lotus~” the older man replied, looking up at him. He then kissed his chest, fingers lazily playing with the laces of his shorts. “I figured you would like it” he winked.

And Jiang Cheng really did like it. He knew the man could buy himself anything he wanted, and didn’t actually need anyone to really gift him anything. He was usually the one doing the gifting and offering things to Jiang Cheng. But seeing him appreciating what he could get him was nice too.

Wen Ruohan then looked down again, Jiang Cheng following his gaze as he looked at him started pulling at one of the laces, undoing the flimsy knot. He smirked playfully at Jiang Cheng, his fingers digging between the laces and pulling the two sides apart. “This is in the way of my rewards, would you mind helping me out?” he asked.

This had Jiang Cheng chuckle softly, pushing himself off of the older man. He put on a show of untying to the other side, loosening the short enough for him to slowly pull them down his smooth legs. He threw them on the end of the table, soon kicking off his boots too.

He liked the way the man looked stuck at what he was still wearing, swaying his hips a little in amusement. He had found a nice pair of lacy open-back panties that hid practically nothing just for him. With this he allowed his shirt to fully slip off of his arms, falling at his feet.

Wen Ruohan extended a hand for him to join him again, although Jiang Cheng would have come back regardless. He crawled back into his lap, soon finding his lips captured. He hugged his neck loosely as he kissed back, leaning more closely against the man’s broad chest. When he pulled back he couldn’t help but lick his lips a little, eye heavy lided.

As he kept kissing he could feel the man’s rough hand slowly explore more of his body, playfully tugging at the harness. Then his hands went back down, grabbing a handful of his ass, seemingly enjoying kneading it.

Then Jiang Cheng heard ripping fabric.

“I liked those” he pouted as he looked back, his stockings now ripped apart leaving full access to his ass.

“I’ll buy you as many of them as you want” Wen Ruohan chuckled against his neck, kissing and nibbling his skin a little, leaving a mark behind. His hand went back to his ass, spreading it a little instead. “But now I can give you a nice reward, I am sure you’ll forget about it and forgive me~”.

There was the sound of a cap opening, then soon after cold fingers brushed against his rim, teasing him a little. Jiang Cheng could help but move along with them, trying to push back so they could properly enter him. A soft sigh escaped him when they did, two fitting inside of him already.

“Look at how easily you take me, did my pretty lotus play by himself before me?” Wen Ruohan asked, looking up.

This had Jiang Cheng playfully batting his eyelashes at him, smiling. “I simply couldn’t help but think of you in the shower, it would have been too long until I was with you” he replied. He had truly felt a little excited at being able to see Wen Ruohan, they had been pretty busy lately so they couldn’t meet up properly once.

“Good to hear I am on your mind as much as you are on mine~” he replied, adding another finger.

And like this he kept lazily fingering Jiang Cheng, enjoying the way he would fuck himself back on his fingers when it seemingly wasn’t enough for him. He knew exactly how the young man liked it and he knew he was giving it way too slowly and shallowly for him.

But he looked so good when he was desperate for more, begging him.

“A-Han” Jiang Cheng whined sightly when even moving his hips along with his fingers wouldn’t get him what he wanted. “You said you would reward me, not tease me” he pouted slightly.

“You seem to be enjoying it quite a lot already” The older man smiled, pausing his hand instead. “Why don’t you tell me properly what you want?”.

Jiang Cheng was truly adorable when he pouted like this, playing bratty for him a little. “You know what I want” he replied, “I want it like usual” he continued, a slight blush on his cheek suddenly appearing. “I want your fingers to go fast and deep, I like it when you do that and when you press against my weak spot”.

Wen Ruohan hummed at this, enjoying him being so forward. It had taken a while for his cute lotus flower to be this honest with him and tell him what he wanted exactly. It was always nice hearing him talk like this. “As you wish then~”.

He didn’t lose any time to go along with what he wanted, surprising the young man by how sudden it was. He knew exactly how to angle his fingers to make him moan sweetly against him. “That’s it, sing nicely for me~” he whispered against him, kissing and biting his neck playfully again, giving his chest the same treatment.

He liked how vocal Jiang Cheng was, likely loud enough that anyone standing at the door could hear him. Good thing everyone knew better than to come and bother the owner when he was having a nice private moment with his favourite little dancer.

“So close” Jiang Cheng mumbled as he held onto the man for dear life, eyes fluttering close.

“Then cum for me” Wen Ruohan replied, making sure to abuse his prostate more than before. When Jiang Cheng came he made a mess of his pretty panties, shaking into the older man’s arms. Wen Ruohan didn’t stop his hand until it seemed too much, continuing as the young man rode his orgasm.

Then he simply wrapped his arms around him, kissing him lazily as Jiang Cheng seemed lost somewhere else. “I want more” the young man stated after a while, leaning back.

“Then why don’t you come back home with me for the night” Wen Ruohan suggested, a grin on his lips. “I’ll take care of you as much as you want” he assured him. This sure seemed to please his cute lotus, who leaned down again to kiss him.

When they finally exited the room, no one dared comment on the mark littering the number one dancer’s chest and neck. Nor did anyone dare point out to Wen Ruohan that he had lipstick marks on his neck and shirt collar.

Everyone’s eyes were on them as they exited the club, Wen Ruohan kept a possessive arm around his precious lotus as he guided him to his car.

(clothing inspo)

[fairyofshampgyu]

Now live ! stream: 8

Genre: camboy au, college au, smut, crack, ongoing series

Paring: : camboy! Beomgyu x gn reader (afab when smut)

Warnings: sub! beomgyu, dom! reader, forced concentration (is that a thing lol?) anyway he’s forced to read little red riding hood whilst given a hand job lmfaoo, blowjob, riding, use of petnames puppy, baby, creampie, degrading, edging, nipple clamps, nipple play, cockwarming

Synopsis: Every Thursday night at 8pm, you tune into your favourite camboy: Angel313. What you don’t know is he goes to the same uni as you, is even in the same class as you and is Choi Beomgyu, the campus fuckboy but will you keep his secret?

Word count: 4.3k

“Go on. Keep reading, puppy.”

You watched beomgyu in amusement as he struggled to focus, the hand that held his phone trembling as he tried to read aloud the text on the screen but failing to do so with the way your hand pumped his cock.

You had told beomgyu if he was able to focus and read the passage of text until the end, then he’d be able to cum, but so far it was beginning to seem like a very challenging task for him.

Beomgyu sat on the edge of the bed, bathed in the soft glow of his fairy lights strung across his bed frame, the pink and white stripes of his signature thigh-highs adorning his legs, and his hello kitty belly button piercing gleaming in the dim light of the room. You were perched beside him, your hand leisurely wrapped around his cock, moving with a deliberate slowness that made his breath hitch every few seconds.

"Once upon a time," Beomgyu tries again, but his voice wavers as your thumb brushes over his sensitive tip, spreading the bead of pre-cum that gathered there. "There...there was a girl with a red cloak..."

You quicken the pace on his cock, hand still jerking him off and moving up and down on his length, hearing the sounds of tips flowing in from the stream.

Beomgyu bites his lip, his breath ragged. "A-as she was going through the w-woods, she met -ah- a wolf..." He stutters, his voice cracking with each stroke of your hand. He tries to focus, but every touch, every twist of your wrist, sends him spiraling. He’s fighting a losing battle, and you can see it in the way his eyes glaze over, unable to stay on the text.

He was so pretty like this, you thought. His skin was even more flushed than usual, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on his brow. The way his lips quivered, the soft whimpers that escaped his mouth—it was mesmerising. Beomgyu’s long lashes fluttered as he struggled to maintain control, his body betraying him with every movement of your hand on his cock.

@luvsubbyboys333: he looks so cute trying to concentrate! >_<

@angelsno1fan: he can't even finish a sentence haha aww

@live4angel: mess with him even more!

You can’t help but grin at the flood of comments, agreeing with them. He does look very cute when he's trying to focus. You're surprised he's even lasted this long and not made a fit about it. He gets so dumb and lost in pleasure whenever you touch him, you're quite amazed he hasn't even completely abandoned reading yet.

"Keep going, angel.” You coax, voice low and teasing as your thumb swipes over the head of his cock again, leaning in to nibble at the shell of his cute pink ear, breath warm against his skin, drawing out another helpless shiver and whimper from him.

To be honest, you’re a little disappointed. You had expected him to crumble and give up within seconds, looking at you with his sorrowful puppy eyes so you feel sorry for him and decide to call it quits. You liked seeing beomgyu plead and struggle and whilst it was clear he was struggling to focus with you jerking him off, it wasn’t quite enough. You wanted to see him become a desperate, needy mess for you and watch him beg. You weren’t satisfied yet and you knew the viewers weren’t either.

With a mischievous glint in your eyes, you lean down and get on your knees in front of him, spreading his legs and positioning your head between them. His breath hitches and he gasps, eyes widening, realising what you had in store for him and knowing he wouldn’t be able to last at all. He was such a sucker for whenever you sucked him off, losing himself entirely, his mind going blissfully blank. You’d made him go cross-eyed more times than you could count.

When you finally take him into your mouth, Beomgyu’s back arches off the bed almost instantly, a guttural moan tearing from his throat. His hands flying to the sheets, gripping them tightly as he tries to keep reading, but the words were lost on his tongue.

He tries, valiantly, to continue, but every word that left his lips are punctuated by stuttered breaths and choked moans, tumbling out in a messy, incoherent stream. "W-what big teeth you have said—oh god—little red riding hood. She..was...was…" His grip on the phone tightens, knuckles white. Beomgyu chokes on his breath as you hollowed your cheeks, taking him deeper. “The wolf—oh—said—f-fuck…”

You bob your head back and forth on his cock continuously, occasionally flicking your tongue over his sensitive tip and also the veins on the side, one hand gripping the flesh of his thighs and the other stroking the base of his dick and fondling with his nearly swollen balls, making him desperately moan even more.

Beomgyu’s attempts to keep reading are laughably futile by now, passage long forgotten as his eyes flutter shut, brows knitted cutely and his mouth hanging wide open, words dissolved into a chorus of moans and desperate little noises that drive the chat and yourself wild. His hand reaches out blindly, grasping at the air before settling on your hair, tangling his fingers trying to hold on to some semblance of control.

Beomgyu’s gaze is constantly flickering between the screen on his phone and also you, torn between the words he’s supposed to be reading and the sight of you with your lips wrapped around his cock. But he can’t even pretend to focus when the only thing on his mind is the way you look, sucking him off and looking up at him and the way your wet and warm mouth feels.

“You’re so pretty... so fucking prettyyyy,” Beomgyu whines needily, looking down at you with half lidded eyes, pitiful sounds escaping him. He can’t help it.

For some reason it makes your heart flutter. He barely manages to say anything whenever you fuck him, either whining or moaning and you’ve never heard him say anything like that to you before. But he’s just so out of it, he’s saying anything.

Ah, please...can’t read anymore.” Beomgyu whimpers and pleads at you, pouting.

@313angelluvr: Look at him, so pretty and hot 💓💓

@dom_23: Make him read it all, don't let him stop!

The rest of the viewers seem to agree, spamming the chat with similar demands.

You grin, taking a moment to glance at the screen. "They want you to keep going, baby. You can't stop now."

Beomgyu let’s out a slightly bratty, frustrated whine, furrowing his brows and bottom lip jutting out, but he reluctantly goes back to looking at the passage on his phone and trying to continue. You quicken your pace just to tease him more. You know he’s be on the edge any second.

“I’m gonna—oh god, I can’t—please, I need to cum,” he babbles, his voice high and strained and worried. “I can’t finish! I can’t focus! I’m gonna—”

But you pull back just before he cums, pulling off him with soft, wet pop and beomgyu lets out a pained, frustrated cry, his hips jerking up into the air in a desperate attempt to chase the sensation. You glance up at him, his flushed face, his half-lidded eyes glassy with tears of frustration, his lips parted as he gasps for breath. It’s a sight that sends a thrill through you.

You wrap your lips around his pretty cock again, starting all over and he attempts to read aloud again, hiccuping and lips trembling forever in a pout and sulky, still remnants of tears in his brown eyes. What a poor baby.

Soon enough, he’s pleading again, practically crying. “F-fuck-” His eyes roll back. “I-I really can’t pleaseee-”

"Yes you can," you murmur, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze and stroke his thigh softly. "Don’t disappoint your fans. You’re doing so well, puppy.” He only a had a few sentences left until he was done. Beomgyu looks down at you and nods, trying to comply.

At last, after the last few painfully anticipated minutes of waiting for him to say out loud the last sentence of which he struggled greatly with, he was done with the passage on his phone.

"Does our Angel want to cum?" His eyes snap open, wide and pleading, and he nods frantically.

Finally, you take pity on him, increasing the speed of you sucking and stroking him. Beomgyu’s cries reach a fever pitch, his body shaking on the brink. Reaching one hand up his tummy and waist to brush over his nipple, rolling the sensitive bud between your fingers, beomgyu lets out a strangled moan, his voice high and needy and it tips him over the edge completely. You pop off him, watching him toss his head back and make a pretty mess all on himself, cumming so much, thick ropes of white all on his tummy and thighs,completely milking him.

The chat explodes with praise and tips but beomgyu barely registers anything, panting deliriously and chest heaving as he comes down from his high as you switch the stream off.

"You did so good," you murmur, leaning in to brush a kiss against his sweat-dampened forehead. Beomgyu clings to you, moaning in response, his hands roaming over your body as if he can’t get enough. His lips find yours, pressing against them with a fervor that catches you off guard. For a moment, you lose yourself in his pretty lips and the insistent way his fingers dig into your skin, but then you pull away, a soft sigh escaping your lips as you glance at the time on your phone. "I’ve got to go," you say, smoothing down your clothes.

Beomgyu’s expression falters when you pull away from him, frowning. “Why…?"

“I’m just meeting up with a friend soon.” You shrug.

“Who?” Beomgyu’s brows knit together in confusion.

“Just this guy I met in the music practice rooms.” You don’t know why you have to explain who you’re meeting up with to beomgyu.

“Oh, cool. Have fun.” You can’t help but notice the subtle tightening of his jaw when you say that. Or maybe you’re looking too much into it.

You nod, though there’s a strange heaviness settling in your chest. It’s not like you and Beomgyu are together, you’re only fucking him for money. But for some reason you feel guilty and you don’t know why.

It seemed that haechan was always in the music practice rooms whenever you were, bumping into him and his cello more often times than not. Your paths crossed so often in the halls of the music rooms that small talk had become a routine—casual chats about classes, music, and the occasional complaint about assignments. Eventually, the idea of grabbing coffee together seemed like a natural progression, so here you were, seated in a cozy little café near campus, getting to know each other better.

You didn’t mind haechan’s presence and you were happy to have made another friend, though he seemed quite reserved sometimes, there was a lot more to learn about him.

Haechan stirred his cappuccino thoughtfully before speaking, “So, you study music, right?”

“Yep.” You nod enthusiastically, taking a sip of your own drink.

Haechan nods and smiles, raising a brow. “Well, what do you want to do with it?”

The dreaded question. You sigh and lean back in your chair, considering his question. “Probably go into teaching. I’ve always wanted to be a composer, but I doubt that would happen.” You reply and shrug. You notice his cello case propped up beside his chair and you nod at it. “You’re really dedicated, huh? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without your cello. Why don't you study music?”

He chuckles softly, eyes crinkling at the corners as he lifts his cup to his lips. "I thought about it but my career options were better without it. It's more of a hobby. I study Business."

“But why did you quit the orchestra? I’ve heard you play—you’re really talented.” You ask him.

“I prefer playing alone.” Haechan shifts slightly uncomfortably in his seat. There's a moment of silence before he asks. “I've seen you hanging a lot with beomgyu. Are you dating him? Because, you know, he's got quite the reputation. Everyone knows he’s a fuckboy. You wouldn’t really want to date him.”

“What? No! We’re just friends.” A flash of irritation spikes through you. “And those are just rumors,” you insist, more defensively than you intended. “Someone started them, but it’s not true. He really isn’t like that at all.”

It really did frustrate you now every time you’d hear people whispering and talking about beomgyu on campus and in class, calling him a sleazy man whore and a slut and making up so much bullshit about him to entertain each other. You admit, you were one of those people before, thinking he was a fuckboy, but as you had grown closer and closer to beomgyu, you’d got to learn he was many things and so much more than what people liked to think he is. And you were surprised Haechan was quick to judge him too. It didn’t seem like his character.

“Yeah. He’s really not what people say. He’s sweet and funny and a good friend.” You don’t know why you felt the need to defend beomgyu so much to him.

For a moment, Haechan just watches you, his expression unreadable. Then, he lifts his coffee cup and sips again, “If you say so,” he murmurs.

The original plan was for you, taehyun, kai and beomgyu to bake cookies together. But with taehyun and kai suddenly swamped with studying for an upcoming exam, it was just you and beomgyu left to tacke it alone, the ones not so particularly skilled at baking, or mostly anything in the kitchen. You had initially intended to just watch taehyun handle the actual baking since he was really the only one who was good at it, while you all snuck tastes of the cookie dough when he wasn’t looking. Now, you were realising just how much you and beomgyu were in over your heads.

“Alright, so we need eggs, flour, sugar, bicarbonate soda…” Beomgyu reads from the recipe taehyun had scrawled on a piece of paper for you both, his voice filled with feigned confidence as he rummages through the cabinets and sets the ingredients on the counter. His brows furrow in concentration, and you can't help but think it was funny and also endearing at how serious he seemed.

"Okay, 120 grams of sugar.” Beomgyu reads, he glances up, expecting you to take action.

You fold your arms, narrowing your eyes, not really liking how he’s just ordering you to do it all. “Have you ever even made cookies before?”

Beomgyu puffs his chest out dramatically, as if wounded by your question. “Of course I have! Once for Mother’s Day... With my older brother... Years ago.” His voice trails off sheepishly. “Okay, maybe I watched him do it. But still.”

You cock an eyebrow at him, arms still crossed and standing.

Beomgyu grins, his eyes sparkling with mischief, shrugging. “Okay but how hard can it be? We just follow the recipe.”

Famous last words, you think, but you’re too amused by his enthusiasm to protest. You begin measuring out ingredients, and it doesn’t take long for chaos to arise. Beomgyu somehow manages to crack an egg with a little too much enthusiasm, splattering egg white all over the counter—and himself. It really was quite challenging following out a recipe.

You’re not entirely sure who initiated it, probably beomgyu, but a flour fight ensues as well, both of you laughing and running around the the mess of a kitchen, throwing fist balls of flour at each other.

He finally corners you against the counter, his arms around your waist as he looks into your eyes, not entirely sure if your heart was beating so fast because of how much running you’ve done or something else. “Okay, truce?” Beomgyu asks, a stupid grin tugging at his lips, softly brushing a strand of hair out your face with his flour covered hand, eyes gazing at you and down at your lips.

But you grab the bag of flour and throw it at his face one more time, making an escape.

“Hey!” He shouts after you.

You both erupt into giggles, covered head to toe in flour by the end, and it’s in that moment, as you’re doubled over with laughter together, that you feel a warm flutter in your chest. Beomgyu’s smile is so wide, one of his cheeks dimpled and his eyes crinkling at the corners, giving him whiskers.

“We seriously suck at this,” you snort, wiping flour from your face. “Taehyun is going to be so disappointed in us.”

“Let’s call him,” Beomgyu suggests, fishing his phone out of his floury pocket and facetiming taehyun. When taehyun’s face appears on screen, he takes one look at you both and groans.

“What the hell did you guys do?!!” Taehyun asks, exasperated but clearly amused. Behind him, huening kai is already screeching and dying in laughter.

“We’re baking, obviously,” Beomgyu says, turning the phone to show the mess on the counter and the bowl.

“Did you even follow the recipe?!” Taehyun sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as huening kai still giggles behind, tears in his eyes.

Beomgyu glances at the half-folded piece of paper on the counter, now smeared with butter and flour. “...Sort of?”

With Taehyun’s guidance, you somehow manage to salvage the cookie dough and get it onto the baking sheet. Beomgyu proudly shapes a few into misshapen bears, placing them on the tray with a flourish.

The cookies go into the oven, and finally you think you might be at peace, but it’s not long before, the overly sensitive fire alarm goes off, blaring loudly enough to make you both jump, sending you and beomgyu scrambling to open windows and fan the smoke with kitchen towels.

It doesn’t switch off unfortunately, and the entire building filled with college students, are forced to exit and line up outside.

“This is so embarrassing.” You groan, hiding your face in your hands as the two of you stand outside with the rest of the students, most of whom are looking annoyed or confused, grumbling about the alarm and how cold it was.

Beomgyu just laughs, sheepishly. “Clearly, baking is not our thing. Maybe we should just stick to streaming together.”

Once the all-clear is given and you’re allowed back inside, you return to find that your cookies, while not burnt to a crisp, are definitely on the overdone side. Beomgyu decides to make the best of it and carefully decorates them with icing and sprinkles, turning them into cute little bears, managing to make them look halfway decent despite their rock hard texture.

“You know what? They may be inedible, but they’re still cute,” you say, holding up your bear shaped cookie you had bitten.

Beomgyu smirks at his handiwork, a very proud look on his face as he waits for you to praise him even more.

“They’re like… really cute bricks.” You laugh, and beomgyu joins in, leaning his forehead against yours as you both dissolve into giggles.

“Maybe we can redeem ourselves on camera?” Beomgyu suggests.

Beomgyu whines underneath you, eyes squeezed shut and head thrown back on the pillow, grip on your hips so tight as you continued to slide your pussy against his wet dick despite his constant pleas of actually letting him inside.

He was also wearing the pink nipple clamps, you both had newly attained with the money from the streams, his cute nipples extra flushed and perky and even more sensitive than they usually were, making touching and teasing and licking them even more entertaining than it usually was, body squirming and him moaning even prettier every time you did. The added sensation of you sliding against him and ministrations on his nipples, too much, but also not enough for him and he carried on crying and whining about it.

The viewers had also commented for you to actually just fuck him too since this had been going on for quite a long time now, beomgyu’s face dumb and fucked out, the slickness of both his precum and your wetness sliding together on him, making him go even more crazy.

“Please…even the viewers want you too…” Beomgyu pouts and whines at you, bringing his hand to reach at your wrist, pleadingly and hold onto you, but you pin his wrists down against the mattress, keeping him firmly in place. You roll your hips on him even more, bringing your mouth to his nipples to swirl at them, making him jolt and a strangled cry coming out of him. His tummy heaves intensely, watching his belly piercing go up and down as well.

“Hmm. Not yet, pretty boy. You’re so cute like this.”

He shivers, eyes fluttering shut as he bites down on his lip, trying to keep his composure. But every slow roll of your hips has him unraveling, the sweet agony of being so close yet so far from what he truly wants. “Just let me inside! Please! I just want to feel you, please, pleasee. Just wanna feel you.”

“Fine.”

He’s surprised you give in so easily, but he doesn’t seem to care all that much when you finally line up his dick with your pussy and sink slowly down on him. The feeling of your warm tight pussy making him go cross eyed for a second as he groans, mouth hung open in a sustained ‘o’ shape.

“Oh…t-thank you, thank you.” The look on his face is pure bliss, brows furrowed together.

“You can’t move.” You tell him.

“W-what?”

“You can’t move yet.” You reiterate again, leaning down to play with one of his nipples and lick at the other in the pink clamps, ghosting over it with your teeth, lightly biting at his swollen nipple, just enough to send him reeling.

“B-but!—” His back arches and he tries not to moan, but his protest his cut short.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” You grin, looking down at his cute confused expression.

“No!”

But he knows there’s not much else he can do, having to lie underneath you, dick twitching inside your pussy, aching to move his hips as you carried on teasing his tits and also kissing his neck, body trembling with the effort to obey as he practically sobs. This was torture for him.

You clamp your pussy tightly around him, just to be a bit evil, drawing a deep, guttural moan from his lips. “Please, please—can’t take it. Need it so badd. Might die.” He gasps, the words tearing from his throat as his hips jerk slightly. The way he’s clenching his jaw, trying so hard to hold back, makes something in you soften, just a bit.

He’s a gorgeous wreck, flushed and panting, his entire being consumed by the need to move. His eyes are squeezed shut, thick lashes clumped and wet with unshed tears of desperation. He’s mumbling incoherently, words blending into a string of pleas and whimpers, each one more desperate than the last.

You press a kiss to his parted lips, swallowing his next moan as you finally, finally give in and begin to move, rocking your hips against his. The relief on his face is immediate. “Thank you.” Beomgyu breathes out, his voice cracking as he starts wildly and desperately thrusting up to meet you, unable to hold back any longer. “God, thank you, thank you…”

You begin to fuck him at an unrelenting pace immediately, bouncing on his cock up and down that your pussy smacks with his balls every time you sink back down, stickiness and skin slapping noises so lewd around the room and heard very clearly by your viewers in the stream too, which both of you had mostly forgotten by now. Beomgyu can’t contain his moans at all, strings and series of loud and high pitched whines and moans leaving his mouth one after the other, seemingly getting louder every second. His hands, still pinned by yours, flex and curl, fingers itching to touch you, so you let go of them and he tightly grabs hold of your hand.

When he finally cums, it’s with a choked off scream, his whole body shuddering as he spills so much into you, that you can practically see the creamy ring between you both, yet to pull out, his grip on your hand tightening until his knuckles turn white, throwing one arm over his head. He’s still babbling, words slurring together in the haze of his orgasm, mixed in with thank yous and breathless gasps of relief.

After the stream, beomgyu looks at you rather hesitantly, as if he has something he’s itching to say to you.

“So um…you know that famous camgirl, Winter01?”

“Yeah…?” You say, unsure of where this was going. You were aware of Winter, she was a very famous camgirl within the community, one of the most popular and big ones, always gaining so many views whenever she went live.

“Well, um…she messaged me privately and asked if we were together and I said no, so she asked if only me and her could film something together since she said she sees we’ve been been getting a lot of views ourselves lately. And she said that if we collaborated together, it could do really well…” Beomgyu plays with his fingers, waiting for you to say something.

“Oh. Just you?” Beomgyu nods.

“And you’re thinking of doing it?” You don’t why something weird pools in your stomach.

“W-well, if I do, then it would be good because more people will find our account as well by doing this because she’s so big. And we’ll make a lot of money out of it…” Beomgyu looks down, not meeting your gaze.

“Well, it’s up to you if you want to.” You shrug, trying to maintain a very nonchalant expression. Although the idea of beomgyu streaming with someone else and not you makes you feel inexplainably horrible.

Please actually reblog !!!!!! and leave comments !!!! guys 😭 if you like the fic. It’s really appreciated and so nice tysm !<3🙏💕🌷🌷! It’s incredibly discouraging and disappointing when fics have such little reblogs ☹️👎🤨. At least send an anon in the inbox if you don’t want to rb, don’t just like. Feedback is always appreciated it makes writers want to actually write more :)

A/n: I finally wrote for this series after over a year !! Everyone applause me 😭 I’m really sorry if this was just horribly written, I haven’t written for this series in a really long time and it took me so long to try and gain some motivation to so I’m very sorry if it’s disappointing 😭 also the taglist is old and if you wish to be taken out or added, please lmk ! ALSO LMAO DONT ASK WHY HES READING LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. LET IT BE PLEASE I DIED MYSELF 😭😭 this is also not proofread

Taglist:

@jayoonology @pogigyu @denleave1088 @mashimarshmello @cha0thicpisces @soobsfairy444 @lcvetyvn @1ummcalhoody6 @imrllytootiredforthis @bjttersweets @aliceoracleollormusic @yongboksgf @daniarafid @nyanggk @aggiebackstage @qluvr @artypjmlbss @dickdeprived @lilactangerine @kissmeow @katsukeis @shutupheathersorryheatherr @mastergibbs93 @tae-ology @lynanist @guavagyu @soobhns @mikeeel @multistansimp4life @goquokka @scarfac3 @roses-for-my-love @maxismp1 @peachenle @i-loved-you42 @vampcharxter @th3-3d3n-g4rd3n @yuhjoeyuh @ren-junwrld @eggeutarteuu @staurdvst @vivioluh @itbtoblikethatsometimes @nct-dreamteam @ixayjun @beomgewwwwww

(Ask to be added to the taglist !!)

[nottswitch]

⋆˙⟡ you give cult leader!theo a blowjob during a sermon

hello, hi. here i am, with probably my favourite and the most challenging to write au. hoping that y’all will match my freak with this one.

warnings: 18+ mdni, cult dynamics (duh), power imbalance, religious terminology, public blowjob, mentions of gagging, praise

⟡ navigation ; m.lists ; theo m.list ; cult leader!theo

the whole main area of the temple is taut with anticipation as soon as teacher theodore walks onto his podium. he sits down onto his black leather chair, raising his hand to silence everyone, although it’s already pretty quiet – but now even the smallest of whispers die down. his calm gaze slowly drifts over the room, making every single one of your fellow believers shiver, and you’re no exception. you watch with awe as the man scans the room, and eventually, his fascinating blue eyes land on you.

"you, my dear," he drawls, his voice enveloping you like the warmest blanket and simultaneously igniting a fire inside your body that not a single soul can put out except for him. "come here."

excitement nearly bubbles over in your stomach as you stand up from the floor, trying to keep your legs from trembling – you have to show him that his choice tonight is worth it, that you’re worth the grace he’s shown you. as you approach him, you can feel the stares of others burning into your back, but you don’t mind them, you barely even notice – your entire being is filled with theodore, him, him, him.

your reverent eyes never leave his face as you kneel between his spread legs and kiss the back of his hand, your hands obediently resting on your thighs as you wait for your cue. you can’t help clutching the fabric of your white robe just a little as you feel the heat starting to spread in your stomach – but it’s all about him right now, and it always is.

theodore looks down at you, his gaze lingering on your awestruck face, and nods. giving your best to staying collected, you nod in return and lift your hands up to unbuckle the belt of his trousers. theodore watches you for a moment longer, and then his attention shifts to the room filled with the rest of the disciples. his soothing voice begins to waft through the air like silk and honey combined, and you try not to get completely lost in it. you have to focus. you have a task.

as quietly as you can, you pull the zipper down, then his trousers and briefs. his cock is already half-hard, which makes you simultaneously salivate, and your chest fill with pride – usually, the other girls and guys have to work a bit to get him to this state. you don’t know if it’s your luck, but you wouldn’t dream of questioning it; it’s your first time being picked for the pleasure purpose, and you’re determined to make a good impression in hopes of becoming a new favourite.

you lean in, your breath ghosting over theodore’s skin, and notice his cock twitch at the sensation. even the smallest movement makes you preen, but you try not to get lost to your selfishness. your hand comes up to grab him at the base, and you feel him harden more, his cock now standing straight in your hold. he’s so big – you’ve been dying to get a taste ever since you first saw it, but have been patiently waiting for your turn until now.

your tongue sticks out to lick a wet stripe up to the tip, where your lips wrap around it. you give an almost tentative swirl, knowing that you can’t rush – the sermon can last up to an hour, and you have to draw it out until the very end. you don’t want to disappoint the teacher. you starts sucking in the tip, and your mind fills with the overwhelming sense of adoration – you still can’t believe that you’re the one given the honor of pleasing theodore tonight.

you fail to register the words he’s saying, which makes your cheeks heat up with shame – just because you’ve been chosen doesn’t excuse you from taking in the preachings. yet you can’t help yourself – his cock fits too good in your mouth, like it was made to slide right in and out. as you take him deeper, the tip hot and pulsating against the roof of your mouth, a wave of tingles washes over your belly. your hand itches to drop down between your legs, but you’re fully aware it’s not allowed. if you’re good and lucky enough, teacher theodore will give you release after the sermon is over. until then, he’s the center of your world.

as the minutes pass, your jaw starts to hurt a little from being stretched to its absolute limit around theodore’s thickness. your head slowly bobs up and down, the slick sounds of your saliva coating his cock quiet enough not to disturb the sermon, yet you’re sure the entire temple can hear them. this knowledge makes you proud of yourself yet again – they know, they should know that you’re the one making theodore feel good at this moment. you know you shouldn’t feel possessive of your teacher, yet you allow yourself the weakness, even if only deep inside your soul.

when theodore’s hand lands on the top of your head, you know it’s a sign. the sermon is close to an end, which means you have to speed up. a bit too excited, you take him in fully, making the tip of his cock suddenly hit the back of your throat. you gag, immediately knowing that you shouldn’t have – your eyes flicker up, meeting theodore’s ocean blue ones, and his eyebrow is raised. you’re unsure if it’s a sign of disapproval or amusement, for his expression is usually hard to read. you can’t apologize – you’re filled with him to the brim, but when his attention shifts back to the crowd behind you, you take it as a sign to continue.

you taste the saltiness of precum soon enough, and you can only hope that the timing is right. theodore’s hand tightens a bit in your hair, signifying the fact that he’s close – and he doesn’t stop you, meaning you’re doing a good job. your pace picks up, saliva dripping out of the corners of your mouth as his length disappears into the tightness of your mouth over and over again. you gag again, yet at this point it doesn’t really matter – theodore’s cock starts throbbing, and the warmth of his seed coats the walls of your throat. his voice never falters above you, but you can feel the way his fingers dig into your scalp, and it’s the most pleasant sting you have ever felt on your body.

as you lick him through the orgasm, throughly cleaning him up, theodore closes the sermon, dismissing everyone with a wave of his hand. you don’t dare to pull away until he tugs at your hair, his other hand softly caressing your chin, lifting up your face. you look up, your eyes filled with endless devotion. theodore takes in the sight of your swollen lips, your jaw which hangs slack due to being open for so long, your glassy eyes that are nearly tearing up, and his gaze softens.

"you did well, darling. very well," he murmurs, and your heart grows a few sizes too big for your chest. you did well. his praise is all you could ask for yet could never dream of.

"meet me in my room in ten minutes. you deserve a reward, my dear."

if you weren’t on your knees already, they would surely buckle. you nod, accepting his invitation for what it is; you know the others will notice you heading to his house on the grounds later, and it fills you with a sense of accomplishment. it’s rare to earn yourself an honor of getting a reward from the teacher, and it certainly feels like a win. maybe, just maybe you could become a new favourite, after all.

[hauntingrabbits]

Happy Batman day! Went back and finished the last batch of the MLP AU I had sketched way back in May.

Part 1, Part 2

More info under the cut!

Enigma/The Riddler (Edward Nygma)

Intelligence and puzzle-solving are deeply valued among sphinxes, and those who fall short of their standards are often ridiculed and cast out. Among some (prejudiced) Sphinxes, other sapient, non-Sphinx species such as ponies are looked down-upon or seen as fundamentally inferior for not putting as much stock in puzzles and the like as sphinxes do.

Enigma, though considered a prodigy for his remarkable intelligence and skill with puzzles even among his fellow Sphinxes, was ostracized when a pony unfamiliar with Sphinx culture (a younger Sundown traveling Equestria for his training), humiliated Enigma by unraveling a puzzle of his that was meant to be judged as his final submission in a prestigious event, permanently staining his reputation and wounding his massive ego.

After years of quiet ridicule from his peers and his own growing obsession over the event, Enigma eventually snapped and fled to Gotham for revenge. His contempt has since spread far beyond that of the original pony he wished to prove his superiority over, and he now makes all of Gotham the target of his obsessive schemes, constantly trying to prove his superiority and feed his ego by putting ponies through his elaborate puzzles and riddle-based traps. He sees Batpony’s skill and determination in foiling him as both an inherent challenge to and a slight against his own abilities, reminding him far too much of that original pony from so long ago. 

Other notes:

-Apparently sphinxes in MLP have pony heads instead of human heads which makes sense I guess but it threw me through such a loop man.

-Whilst traversing the wiki I ended up with the same problem I had with chimeras in the first post where only one ever shows up in the series and there's no other info on them. So I made stuff up again.

- I imagine Sphinxes live a very long time, so the event Enigma was embarrassed at would probably take a long time to roll around again and he'd be forced to stew with his anger and wounded ego for far too long. I'm not sure what the puzzle was exactly or how Sundown dismantled it, but I imagine he did something extremely simple that a Sphinx would never have thought of (a la that software engineering joke), making it feel far more unfair and humiliating than if he'd solved in the intended way.

-His naturally crooked tail settles into the shape of a question mark, and the pattern on his arm is meant to look like a stylized question mark wrapping around his forearm (the "dot" is the white of his paw).

2. Miss Friday (Miss Tuesday)

Enigma’s teenaged assistant, Miss Friday seems to be the only pony the sphinx enjoys (or perhaps simply tolerates) the company of. Beyond her having met Enigma in Tartarus during their simultaneous imprisonments, the exact origins of her relationship to and exceptional status with her boss are a bit of a riddle in of themselves. Regardless, the two seem to have something of a mutual understanding, and Miss Friday’s mental prowess and dubious moral code are more than a match for Enigma’s own.

Other Notes:

-Yes this is a "The horse's name was Friday" joke. I'm sorry it was just too good to pass up.

-Miss Tuesday already sounded like a MLP name, but the horse named Friday thing was just too perfect for somebody who works under a guy who's whole thing is riddles. Also I relistened to the BTAA episode where she's introduced while coloring her and I noticed they reference His Girl Friday several times, so fun coincidence?

-The candy-striped leg patterns are based on her canon costume's striped pants & are meant to mirror the Riddler's wrapped leg pattern. The dark patterns on her face are supposed to be reminiscent of eye bags.

3. Mania (Bat-Mite)

Bat-Pony’s self-proclaimed biggest fan, Mania is a Draconequus embodying the spirit of obsession. Normally he watches the hero from his own dimension, but at times he tries to insert himself into the narrative or help Sundown fight, both to varying degrees of success. Though he genuinely adores Bat-Pony, Mania is usually more of a hindrance than a help, and can even be directly antagonistic at times when his obsession goes too far. 

Other notes:

-Similar issue to Chimeras and Sphinxes, only two Draconequuses (Draconequui?) show up in the series, one being Discord (embodying chaos), the other being a comics-only villain known as Cosmos (embodying malice), but honestly what little we're given worked super well for the character anyway. Discord seems to come from his own unique plane of existence/dimension and Cosmos has similarly strange origins; both have penchants for causing mischief with incredible reality-warping powers; and both embody non-physical concepts. Bat-Mite being a reality warping 5th dimensional creature obsessed with Batman was surprisingly easy to adapt.

-He has the head of a pony, a ferret-like body, two front rat paws, mite antennae, an insectoid wing, a bat wing, a pigeon foot, a chevrotain (mouse deer) foot, and a monkey tail. I tried to have him mostly made up of animals that were very small, seen as mischievous, and/or seen as pests.

4. Poison Ivy (Pamela Isley)

Said to be more plant than pony, Poison Ivy is the self-proclaimed princess of the Green. Though once a regular Earth pony, she began to spiral after receiving her cutie mark and fully coming into her powerful natural attunement to plant life. Fleeing into the nearby forests on the outskirts of Gotham, she wasn’t seen again until many years later when Gotham’s city refurbishment and expansion efforts began to encroach on the forests borders, where she reemerged with strange new powerful magic and retaliated violently.

Though she isn’t recognized politically or physically as an alicorn, plants grow from the flesh of her body in the pattern of a horn and wings characteristic of those born into or bestowed with royalty, and the strange natural magic that accompanies them seems to almost rival that of a true alicorn’s.

Other notes:

-I dont really have anything to add to this one I just thought a false alicorn would be a cool concept.

-the whole alicorn royalty thing is very strange to think about isnt it? I feel like the ruling class having such insane amounts of physical and magical power probably has much more pressing ramifications than ever was, would, or should be addressed in a kids show but they are fun to think about.

-Her actual name is Poison Ivy, yes. It sounded like a pony name. I don't know what that says about her parents.

-The leaf wings are folded down in the graphic but I think they are flighted, or at the very least useful for gliding and expressing emotions.

5. Saltbrine (Oswald Cobblepot)

Short, stout, and flightless, Saltbrine’s moniker of “The Penguin” has its origins in the taunts of his peers from his youth. Though the title has persisted into the current day, it’s often spoken with far more fear and trepidation throughout the alleys and backstreets of Gotham than ridicule. Saltbrine owns two of Gothams most well-known businesses, one being the luxurious, high-class Iceberg Lounge…and the other being the organized crime syndicate the former acts as a front for.

Other notes:

-Again don't have much to add to this one. One of my favorite designs though, I love the giant beak face.

-The bird half is actually based on a puffin, because a penguin felt too on the nose for Oswald and too strange for a hippogriff (I couldn't get the wings or face to look right at all either). I feel like the title being an insult works a little better if he's not literally half-penguin.

-he's the same color my club penguin avatar used to be (RIP)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Code of Conduct 1

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as cheating, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your boss has a difficult time keeping his personal life from bleeding into his work. 

Characters: Steve Rogers, this reader is known as Rosie.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

💼Part of the Bad Bosses AU💼

“Mr. Rogers’ office. This is Rosie, how can I hel--” 

“Where is he?” Peggy’s voice cuts over your own. 

“Oh, hello, Mrs. Rogers, he’s currently in a meeting--” 

“Get him.” 

“Mrs.--” 

“Don’t argue with me. Go get him. Are you not his assistant?” She challenges brusquely. 

Her accent adds to the sharpness of her words. Her curt demeanour is a stark contrast to her husband. Your boss is always amiable, accommodating even, but the few times you’ve dealt with his wife have been similarly tense. You put a smile on so she can’t hear your anxiety. 

“Of course, Mrs. Rogers,” you preen, “I’ll put you on a quick hold.” 

“No, you will get him. No hold.” 

You suck in a sigh and hold your breath in your chest, “of course.” 

You set the phone down. You don’t see how her hearing your desktop will be any better but you wouldn’t want to irritate her further. It must be urgent. 

You stand and smooth out your dress. You step out from behind your desk, digging your nails into your palms as you ball your fists tight. You get nervous about most things. Answering the phone took your months to get used to and even now you tend to fumble over your words. 

You go to the door and brace yourself. You don’t know why you expect Mr. Rogers to be upset. He’s never been anything close to rude. Maybe short in times of stress but not unpleasant. You knock and wait as you twiddle your fingers against your striped pleats. 

It isn’t Mr. Rogers who answers by Mr. Barnes. You give a sheepish smile, “excuse me, doll.” 

He steps past you and you bid him a good day. He leaves without further courtesy and Mr. Rogers calls your name from within, “need something?” He asks. 

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Rogers is on the phone.” 

He doesn’t seem happy about that. His cheek dimples and he nods, wiggling his pen at you, “patch her through.” 

You go back to your desk and pick up the receiver, “hello, Mrs. Rogers, he’s available now--” 

“I don’t want to talk to you, honey. Where is my husband?” 

You transfer her without another word. Phew. You almost feel bad for your boss as you hear him pick up in his office. His tone is low and dull. 

You try not to overhear, letting his conversation drone into a buzz. There’s enough work to be done without worrying about his personal life. Your own afterhours concerns are more than concerning. You wouldn’t say you have much going on and that’s the problem. It’s moment like those that ease your envy of others’ full plates. 

You haven’t seen the girls lately. The group chat’s been quiet but you suppose you could go ahead and say hi. Your weekly cocktails petered out to biweekly, then monthly, and now you can’t remember the last time you let go with a mimosa. 

You peek over your desk and back at your screen. It’s not only on them to keep things going. You pick up your phone and open the chat. The last message is a meme Elfie sent about printers. You shake your head and send a little waving sticker, keying in a message. 

‘Long time no see! I’m in need of drinks. Anyone free? When’s best? Hope you’re all taking care.’ 

You’re professional tone shines through even on WhatsApp. It’s a bit lame but you’re an entirely different person in text. Most people are surprised to meet the mousy secretary hiding behind her screen after the lively back and forth in Outlook. 

You set your phone down and try not to stare at it. A reply never comes while you’re waiting for it, nor does water boil when you’re watching it. As you click around and try to remember where you were, the silence sinks in. Your realisation brings your eyes up as quickly as Mr. Rogers shadow. 

You bat your lashes at him in surprise, “need something, sir?” 

He gives a half-smile, the type weighed down by disappointment. He sighs and crosses his arms, leaning on the door frame, “you hungry?” 

“Um, well, it’s only eleven,” you shrug. 

“Mm, yeah,” he unfolds one arm to rub his neck, “I’m restless. You feel like getting lunch early?” 

“Sure, I can run out and grab you something,” you stand eagerly. 

“No, uh,” he drops his arm back over his other, “together. I had a reservation for me and Peggy but she canceled. I’d hate to inconvenience the restaurant and I just can’t sit and mope in my office.” 

“Oh, okay, I guess that works...” 

“Do you need to ask your boss?” He scoffs. 

You laugh at his joke, “do I?” 

He smiles, a real smile and drops his arms, “my treat. You know what, you earned it. You work so hard around here, a little employee appreciation is overdue.” 

“That’s so nice,” you chime, “uh, sir, I... I should leave an away message, should I?” 

“Oh, who cares, come on.” 

“Well, I mean...” 

“Ah, I get it, boss is a real hard ass,” he winks. 

“Sir,” you giggle nervously and teethe your lip. He watches your mouth. 

“You can catch up later. Come on, I haven’t played hooky in years.” 

“Hooky?” You stammer. 

He laughs, “a goody two shoes. It’s why I hired you but it’s okay to let loose once in a while.” 

“I know, Mr. Rogers, it’s just... it’s work.” 

“Too much of it and you’ll turn into me,” he huffs. “Please, I’m sure your husband would hate if you were never home. Never answered the phone.” 

“If I had one, probably,” you blurt out then look away shyly. 

“Really? I thought...” he begins and shakes his head, “doesn’t matter. I’ll grab my jacket and we’ll go. I missed breakfast.” 

“Um, sure, sir,” you agree and put your hand on the phone. 

When he turns, you look down. Missie sent a reply; ‘please, drinks are required!’ Ooh! Yay. 

[bonbonly]

bon's thoughts (18+) a/n: the way i did all my chores in under an hour i am exhausted and damn this is a long ass thought

college!au daniel ricciardo who's the class clown, sweet with the professors and still gets the top grades of the class. he's sitting in the front, casually talking to the professor during the first day of the semester when someone clears his throat behind him. "excuse me, if you're done with your little chat, i have some questions to ask," you clear your throat, crossing your arms with a disgruntled expression. he raises an eyebrow at you, trying to process that attitude at 8:30 in the morning.

"somebody woke up on the wrong side of bed," he chuckles, sending a playful smile to the professor, before taking a step back with his hands in the air, letting you ask your so-called questions.

office hours, extra help with homework, tutoring sessions held in the library. you were asking for every single resource known to mankind for your course, diligently writing them down on a sticky note as you bit your bottom lip, deep in thought. and then you ask a question that really irks him - being a ta for the next semester. there was only one spot left, and daniel was so sure that he was going to get it until miss strawberry shortcake - you were dressed in all red and white, dash of pink on your skirt - decided to stroll in and take what's his. he had a reputation in college for being on top of things, despite his sense of humor and outgoing personality. he watches you push past him, your head held high and he takes note of the way your ass sways as you walk away with a buttload of pride. huh, this is going to be a fun little challenge for him.

it starts off small: answering questions in class, and then it grew to asking questions. daniel starts to read the lectures a week ahead than necessary, jotting down anything he could to try and outdo you. you'd show up to office hours only to see daniel already there with a smile on his face, chatting happily with your professor. you'd narrow your eyes at him, your lips straightening into a thin line as he saunters into the professor's office to occupy most of the older man's time. volunteering events would consist of you and daniel being paired together, internships were being fought and so were mock interviews.

you got more and more tired of having to deal with daniel, and your last straw was at the library when he shows up to the study room that you took hours to find, knocking on the glass door with a scoff, "i booked this room, shortcake. you'll need to find somewhere else to study."

"i just sat down," you grumble, "you can take the other empty seat."

"no can do. i got friends coming over to study with me. you're gonna have to leave."

"i'm not leaving."

his eyes widen, a smirk on his lips, "wow. miss shortcake's a little bold today, isn't she?"

"stop calling me that" you hiss, standing up and he shuts the door behind him, "you're so full of yourself, you know that? You think you'll get the ta position for professor barker, but no actually. i'll get it, because i'm better, smarter and more competent than you! you can't do shit to me!"

daniel's laughing at your outbursts, finding it very adorable that you're so stuck-up and egoistical. he's also laughing when he has you bent over the table, hiking up your skirt as he settles onto his knees. he pushes your panties to the side, inhaling your sweet scent as you're already bucking your hips to his face, aching for some relief. he shuold've known the day you showed up to office hours just 2 seconds later than him, when you pushed him away with your ass grinding against him, he should've known that you were getting off having an academic rival to fuck. he licks a long stripe of your cunt, wrapping his lips around your folds as he hums at how good you taste, how good you smell. his nose nudges against your clit, his hands wrapping around your thighs to bring you closer to the edge of the table. his head bobs as he continue to flick his tongue over your clit, letting his saliva trail down your gummy folds. his tongue probes your hole, and you can feel his grin against your inner thighs when you moan out loud, hands flying to grip his curls, pulling him closer for added pressure. he pulls away and spits on your cunt, massaging your clit with his thumb as he gazes up at your dazed state, knowing you're chasing your orgasm rather than good grades.

"sweetest cunt i've ever tasted by the way," he exclaims, "maybe i should just give you the ta position..." he pauses to glance at the way your cunt's clenching around nothing, weeping to be filled up. he pulls out his phone, "smile for the picture, shortcake!"

you whine as his thumb's pace falters slightly, wishing he'd go faster or take out his cock and fill you up. patience wasn't really your thing. that was for sure. as if he read your mind, his thumb pulls back from your clit, his shorts coming down with his cock springing out to greet you. you're whimpering when you feel him slide against your cunt, his camera zooming in to see the way your pretty pussy's begging to take him. begging to be filled up.

the sound of students passing down the hallway makes you tilt your head out the glass door to see who's approaching when all of a sudden, daniel takes this opportunity to immediately bury his cock to the hilt, relishing in the way your gasps echo around the study room, head thrown back and your back already arching for him. he's not necessarily gently with you, tossing the phone to the side as he grips your hips, giggling at the way your tits bounce back and forth for him... only him.

"maybe i shouldn't give you the ta position... what if you'd be just a slut, hm? just fucking random college students next semester? you're not really proving much to the university with your legs spread like this, sweetheart," he groans when your pussy clenches around his cock, your walls tracing ever vein on his shaft as his pace quickens, unrelentless as it is. tears stream down your face at how good you feel, how he fills you up to the brim. his words are just mumbles in your ears as he continues to talk about how you clearly know a lot more than him: "who would've thought the stuck-up princess knew more than just academics... she knows how to take my cock like she was made for it. oh fuck," daniel throws his head back when your walls squeeze around him again, "damn, also didn't know you were into dirty talk, wow you're full of surprises."

he ignores the way you narrow your eyes at him, mouth hung open with your moans crying out to him like a lullaby. he grips onto your jaw as his hips snaps against yours, prying your mouth open wider, "tongue open, baby."

you do as he says, so far out of it and he spits into your mouth, smiling when your eyes roll back, your back arching as you scream with his name like a chant on your lips. your cunt gushes around his cock, juices flying out onto your notes underneath you. he covers your loud whines when his thumb circles your clit harshly, his cock still punishing your poor cunt, "i might need some more convincing to let you be the ta. you know i've had my mind set for that position since last year. if you cum as many times as i want, i might let you take it.... key note: might."

his lips wrap around yours to swallow your moans, guiding your hands to wrap around his neck as his cock pushes deeper into you, his chest pressed against your bare tits. if you're ta, he might have you suck his cock every night as an apology for taking his job. but that's a thought for the next semester.

[dorkszn]

DATES WITH THE BROTHERS + choso, yuji, ryomen

SYNP — what dates with the brothers are like

PAIRINGS — choso kamo x reader, yuji itadori x reader, ryomen sukuna x reader

not proofread, big brother sukuna au, gn reader

YUJI

yuji is a fun and hyper person. he always tries to take you somewhere fun. places like amusement parks, carnivals, trampoline parks, arcades, etc. it’s never a sit-down or dull date with him.

“hey, i betcha i can win you one of those prizes.” yuji suddenly says. you turn your attention from the funnel cake that was in front of you and to the boy. “no way. these games are rigged, yuji, you can’t win.” you shake your head with a small laugh. “there has to be some way to win, there’s a few people around with prizes.” yuji replies, looking around for a moment before he finds his target. “the bottles game. first try and you got one of those huge stuff animals.” he challenges, grinning at you. “try if you wanna, you’re wasting tickets.” you hum. “you’re so mean.” yuji sighs, giving you a sad puppy look. “i am not.” “you are.” “I’ll be nice if you buy me some fried oreos.” yuji eyes light up. “deal!”

CHOSO

choso is just a bit calmer than yuji. his dates are more authentic, you can say. things like picnics, drive-in movies, top golf, aquarium trips, and fruit picking are choso’s ideas of dates. wherever he can just hold your hand and stare at you lovingly is great for him.

“woah choso, look! it’s the penguins!” you gasp, standing barely inches away from the glass of the enclosure. choso stands beside you, your fingers interlocked. suddenly, a penguin with a black stripe on his beak approaches the glass. it stares at the two of you with a blank expression. “oh my god, cho, it looks like you!” you squeal, facing your boyfriend. choso’s face flushed slightly. “no it doesn’t.” he pouts. “it has the same stripe on it’s nose. i think it’s cute.” you scoff, turning to look back at the bird. “y—you do?” choso stammers. “yeah, i do.” you nod, giving him a soft smile before pressing a kiss onto his blood mark.

RYOMEN

sukuna spoils you. he likes to act he doesn’t or as if he doesn’t like it but he does. he likes taking you to fancy or expensive places even when you tell him not to. places like nice restaurants, almost courtside seats at sport’s games, concerts, snowboarding, things like that. 

“ryo, come back!” you exclaim, struggling to find your balance. the pink haired man stands just a few feet ahead, watching you with an amused expression. “c’mon! don’t be a scaredy-cat, just come down.” he shouts. he stands on his snowboard confidently while you stumble on yours. you reluctantly push forward on your board. you glide down just for a few seconds before a squeal leaves you and begin tumbling through the snow, eventually landing at ryo’s feet. “get up, you’re fine,” he says, taking your hands and helping you up. you stare at him with a sad glare. “what’s wrong?” he questions. “you left me, asshole!” you scoff, hitting his chest. his coat protecting him from the blow. he sighs before grinning at you, shifting the black markings on his skin. “don’t be a baby, I was right here. want me to your hold your hand the rest of the way?” ryomen teases, cooing at you. “sure, whatever.” “i think you mean ‘thank you, ryo.’”

[seoulzie]

범규; whispers of the unsleeping

───── orphic ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 (adj.) mysterious & entrancing; beyond ordinary understanding

synopsis: in the small city of yeosu, insomniac choi beomgyu seeks refuge in his school's abandoned astronomical observatory to catch some sleep. there, he encounters y/n l/n, a sociable and carefree girl who shares his struggle with insomnia. together, they form an unlikely friendship and revive their school's defunct astronomy club, spending their nights exploring the stars.

彡 pairing: beomgyu x f!reader 彡 genre: fluff, angst, strangers to lovers au, university au 彡 warnings: mentions of mental health & insomnia, parental abandonment (?) chronic illness, strong language, grief & loss

RELEASE DATE; 07/26/24 — this week, friday

index: prologue i. sleepless encounters capella ii. a place of our own vega iii. rekindling the stars proxima iv. phases of the moon, phases of us rigel v. cosmic challenge polaris vi. beyond the horizon altair vii. heart to heart betelgeuse viii. tomorrow's sunrise arcturus the end: epilogue

TAGLIST: OPEN! leave an ask in my inbox, reply to this post, or send me a dm!

CHOI BEOMGYU ( 21 ) ( M )

a student who struggles with trouble falling asleep most nights. consequently, he is irritable at school, always searching for an opportunity to find a secluded place to doze off. despite his gruff exterior, he is well-known around campus for his charming looks.

Y/N L/N ( 20 ) ( F )

a cheerful and enthusiastic student, the astronomy club president, whose secret battle with insomnia leads her to the solace of the astronomical conservatory at night. determined to keep her condition hidden, she finds refuge among the stars until she encounters another night owl, beomgyu.

PROLOGUE: CHAPTER 0 word count: 3.1k

another sleepless night. beomgyu stared up at the ceiling of his room, counting the cracks for the hundredth time. it was a game he played with himself when he couldn’t sleep, a futile attempt to trick his brain into shutting down. spoiler alert: it never worked.  he groaned, the sound echoing hollowly in the silent room, and threw an arm over his eyes, trying to block out the faint glow of dawn creeping through the dusty blinds. the alarm clock on his nightstand blinked 6:00 am in angry red numbers, a mocking reminder of the day looming ahead.

with a sigh that condensed the exhaustion clinging to him like a shroud, beomgyu rolled out of bed. every muscle screamed in protest, a dull ache thrumming through his limbs. he shuffled to the bathroom, his movements heavy with sleep deprivation. his reflection in the mirror looked as shitty as he felt—dark circles under his eyes, hair sticking up in every direction, and a permanent scowl etched on his face. he splashed some cold water on his face, hoping it would wake him up enough to function through another hellish day at school.

he reached for his usual blue and white striped tube of toothpaste, but his fingers met only the cold, hard plastic of the sink. panic clawed at his throat. empty. of course, it was empty. why wouldn't it be? just his luck.

frantic, he rummaged through the cabinet under the sink, desperately searching for a spare tube. nothing. nada. just a half-empty bottle of mouthwash that reeked of peppermint and disappointment. he slammed the cabinet shut, the sound echoing through the small bathroom like a gunshot. “fucking hell.”

defeated, beomgyu straightened up, bracing himself for another blow. he hobbled over to his laundry basket, a tangled mess of unmentionables. he started digging, desperately searching for a matching pair of socks. hope flickered when his fingers brushed against soft cotton, then died a slow, agonizing death as he pulled out a lone, navy blue sock. where was its partner? had it been swallowed by a rogue dryer gremlin? eaten by a sock-hungry monster lurking in the washing machine?

beomgyu stared at the single sock in his hand, a monument to his perpetually bad luck. he was starting to think the universe had a personal vendetta against him. this wasn't just another day; it was a full-blown disaster waiting to happen, and he was just the hapless protagonist caught in the middle.

after throwing on his uniform and grabbing his backpack, he headed downstairs. his dad had already left for work, as usual. the house was eerily silent, a stark contrast to the chaotic mornings of his childhood before—stop it, he thought to himself. beomgyu shook off the unwelcome memories and grabbed a piece of toast on his way out.

he dragged himself to the front door, his feet protesting with each step. a splash of color outside his window caught his eye. mrs. han, his elderly neighbor, was kneeling by her rose bushes, her weathered hands wielding a watering can with surprising vigor. despite his fatigue, a small smile tugged at the corner of beomgyu's lips. mrs. han was a fixture in the neighborhood, a tiny woman with a heart as big as her prized hydrangeas.

"good morning, mrs. han," he managed, his voice rough from disuse.

she looked up, her eyes crinkling at the corners with a smile. "good morning, beomgyu. off to school already? you look a bit pale," she said with a motherly concern that always made him feel a flicker of warmth.

"just a little tired, mrs. han," he replied, offering a weak smile. "those history essays won't write themselves, you know."

mrs. han chuckled. "always busy, that's you. but remember, dear, rest is important too. don't you burn yourself out."

"i'll try my best," he promised, though the words tasted like ashes in his mouth. he knew the truth – sleep was a luxury he couldn't afford.

beomgyu continued his walk, the rising sun painting the sky with streaks of orange and pink. the usual sights and sounds of the morning held a peculiar distance, muffled by the fog in his brain. the bakery across the street, usually a source of enticing aromas, only offered a dull ache in his stomach – a reminder of the breakfast he hadn't bothered with.

as he neared the school gates, the sounds of chatter started to seep in, a rising crescendo of greetings and nervous laughter. he braced himself for the usual barrage of hellos and high-fives, his trademark charm already feeling strained. beomgyu wasn't just tired, he was running on fumes, his charisma a flickering candle in a hurricane of exhaustion.

just as he predicted, a cheerful voice chimed in from beside him. "beomgyu! looking handsome as ever this morning, even at this ungodly hour."

he turned to see yeri, a girl from his class with a smile as bright as her sunflower hair clip. she was notorious for her bubbly personality and her unashamed crush on him. usually, beomgyu would respond with a playful jab or a witty remark, adding to the innocent flirtation. but today, a single word was all he could muster.

"hey," he croaked out, a smile barely flickering across his lips.

yeri's smile faltered slightly. "everything okay? you seem...out of it."

he shrugged, the movement feeling like wading through mud. "just a late night studying." it wasn't a complete lie, but the truth felt too heavy to share.

"well," yeri continued, her voice losing a bit of its usual chirp, "don't let it get you down. math class first thing, right? let's just hope ms. choi isn't in one of her moods."

there was a time when such a comment would have sparked a playful banter, a shared groan about their least favorite teacher. today, beomgyu merely nodded, a hollow feeling settling in his chest.

despite his exhaustion, beomgyu couldn't help but notice the way heads turned in his direction, the whispered greetings, the stolen glances. he was undeniably popular, the school's resident charmer. but the weight of that popularity felt like a suffocating cloak.

a group of guys from the basketball team hollered a greeting, their voices echoing off the lockers. beomgyu offered a weak wave, the movement seeming to drain the last vestiges of his energy. a couple of girls from the dance club giggled as they passed, their eyes lingering on him for a beat too long. all he could do was muster a tired smile, the effort feeling monumental.

he reached his locker, the familiar combination numbers a blur in his sleep-deprived haze. as he shoved his books inside, a hand landed on his shoulder. it was kai, his best friend, his partner in crime (or at least, they were when beomgyu had the energy for crime fighting). kai, unlike beomgyu, was a beacon of energy, his perpetually ruffled brown hair and mischievous grin a constant source of amusement.

"dude, you look like a deflated balloon," kai commented, his voice laced with concern. "another night?"

beomgyu slammed his locker shut with a sigh that spoke volumes. "yeah," he mumbled, leaning against the cold metal for support.

kai's brow furrowed. "seriously, beomgyu. you've been like this for weeks. we talked about this already! you said you’d try anything besides looking like you haven't slept since kindergarten."

beomgyu ran a hand through his hair, a grimace creasing his face for a moment before smoothing out into a tired indifference. "yeah, yeah," he mumbled, more to himself than to kai. "it's whatever at this point."

kai's concern flickered, then died down as he picked up on the subtle shift in beomgyu's demeanor. he knew that tone – the one that said beomgyu was resigned, shutting himself off. pushing wouldn't help.

"alright," kai said, switching gears with the practiced ease, “come on, zombie boy. let's get to class before ms. choi starts discussing the square root of boredom."

the morning dragged on, each class blending into the next in a haze of exhaustion and boredom. beomgyu could barely keep his eyes open, let alone focus on the lectures. 

his first class was math, and he trudged to his seat, slumping down with a heavy sigh. he rummaged through his bag, only to realize he had forgotten his pen.

“hey, taehyun,” he whispered to the boy sitting next to him. “got a pen i can borrow?”

taehyun glanced at him and chuckled softly. “forgot yours again? here.” he handed beomgyu a pen, shaking his head in amusement.

“thanks, man,” beomgyu muttered, trying to muster a grateful smile. he opened his notebook and attempted to take notes, but his eyelids felt like lead weights. the teacher’s voice droned on, a monotonous hum that only made him feel sleepier.

his head began to nod, his vision blurring as he struggled to stay awake. just as he was about to give in to the sweet embrace of sleep, he heard his name being called.

“mr. choi,” the teacher’s voice was sharp and reprimanding. beomgyu jolted awake, blinking rapidly.

“y-yes?” he stammered, sitting up straight.

“care to repeat what i just said?” the teacher asked, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised.

beomgyu’s mind went blank. he hadn’t heard a single word. “uh… something about calculus?” he guessed, hoping he was at least close.

the class snickered, and the teacher sighed in exasperation. “detention, mr. choi. maybe next time you’ll pay attention instead of dozing off in my class.”

beomgyu slumped back in his seat, cursing under his breath. “great. just fucking great,” he thought.

by the time lunch rolled around, beomgyu was ready to collapse. he shuffled towards the cafeteria, his head hanging low. he spotted his friends at their usual table and dragged himself over, the fluorescent lights feeling like a personal attack on his already throbbing head.

"yo, beomgyu!" yeonjun called out, waving him over. "you look like shit, man. rough night?"

beomgyu slumped into a chair, the metal groaning under his weight. a defeated grunt escaped his lips as he slumped his tray onto the table. "yeah," he mumbled, picking at his food with a complete lack of enthusiasm.

soobin, munching on an apple, raised an eyebrow. "again? dude, you really need to see a doctor or something."

beomgyu shrugged, picking at his food without much appetite. "what are they gonna do? prescribe me more useless meds? no thanks."

yeonjun leaned forward, concern etched on his face. "have you tried, like, meditation or something? i heard it can help."

beomgyu rolled his eyes. "yeah, 'cause sitting still and doing nothing is gonna magically cure my insomnia. thanks, but no thanks."

taehyun looked at him, frowning. "you really should try something, man. this can’t be good for you."

beomgyu sighed. "yeah, well, i’ve tried everything. nothing works. now i’ve got detention ‘cause i fell asleep in math."

taehyun winced. "harsh. what are you gonna do?"

"skip it, maybe. find a quiet place to sleep," beomgyu muttered, pushing his tray away.

beomgyu wandered the halls, his mind a jumble of thoughts and exhaustion. the school was a labyrinth of possibilities, each one fraught with its own set of risks and potential rewards. he needed to find the perfect place to nap, somewhere quiet and out of the way where no one would bother him.

places to (possibly) sleep 1) the janitor's closet

the first place that came to mind was the janitor’s closet. beomgyu had passed by it a million times, always noticing how the janitor, mr. lee, would leave it unlocked while he went about his duties. beomgyu headed towards the closet, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. he carefully turned the knob and slipped inside.

the closet was small and dark, filled with cleaning supplies and equipment. the smell of bleach and disinfectant was strong, but beomgyu didn’t care. he saw a small space behind a stack of boxes and decided it would have to do. he crouched down, wedging himself into the cramped space. the floor was cold and hard, but he was desperate for some rest.

he closed his eyes, trying to let the darkness and quiet lull him to sleep. just as he felt himself drifting off, the door creaked open. beomgyu’s eyes snapped open, and he held his breath. mr. lee stood in the doorway, a look of confusion quickly turning to annoyance on his face.

“hey! what are you doing in here?” mr. lee barked.

“shit,” beomgyu muttered under his breath. he scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding. “sorry, i—uh—i got lost?”

mr. lee narrowed his eyes. “out. now.”

beomgyu didn’t need to be told twice. he quickly slipped past the janitor and out into the hallway, feeling his face flush with embarrassment. so much for that.

places to (possibly) sleep 1) janitor’s closet 2) library

next, beomgyu decided to try the library. it was usually quiet, and he figured he might be able to find a secluded corner to catch some z’s. he made his way to the library, the scent of old books hitting him as soon as he stepped inside. the librarian, mrs. tanaka, gave him a stern look over her glasses, but he ignored her and began his search for the perfect spot.

the library was mostly empty, with only a few students scattered around, hunched over their books. beomgyu walked past the rows of shelves, looking for a place where he could hide from prying eyes. he found a spot in the back, behind a tall stack of books on astronomy. it was quiet, and he could hear the faint hum of the air conditioning.

he sat down on the floor, leaning against the wall, and pulled his knees to his chest. the cool air and the silence were soothing, and he felt his eyelids grow heavy. just as he was about to drift off, he heard footsteps. he peeked around the stack of books and saw a group of girls walking towards him, giggling and chatting.

“great,” he thought. “just great.”

the girls didn’t notice him at first, but as they got closer, one of them spotted him. she nudged her friend, and they both started whispering and giggling even louder. beomgyu felt his face heat up with annoyance and embarrassment. this was definitely not going to work.

he got up, brushing the dust off his pants, and made his way out of the library, ignoring the stares and whispers of the girls. “too many people and out in the open,” he thought. scratch that idea.

places to (possibly) sleep 1) janitor’s closet 2) library

beomgyu trudged on, defeat clinging to him like yesterday's gym clothes. he formulated a mental list in his head, each possibility crumpling under the weight of potential interruptions. the rooftop? too exposed. the music room? a rogue trumpet could shatter any hope of sleep.

his weary eyes scanned the familiar halls, a sliver of hope flickering as he rounded a corner. there it stood, a solitary figure against the twilight sky—the astronomy tower.

the tower, a relic of a bygone era of scientific exploration. its once-gleaming silver exterior was now weathered and rusted, the windows dark and vacant. It had been years since anyone had ventured inside, rumors of asbestos and ghosts swirling around it like dusty cobwebs.

but for beomgyu, in his desperate search for a haven, the tower's isolation was a siren song. no students lingered in its shadow, no teachers patrolled its perimeter. in that forgotten corner, a flicker of hope ignited. it might be dusty, it might be creepy, but it could be perfect. as he neared the tower, the details became more pronounced: chipped tiles forming the entrance walkway, a rusty weather vane groaning in the faint evening breeze, and the peeling paint revealing the faded inscription "ad astra per aspera" - "to the stars through difficulties." an odd prickle ran down his spine. the inscription felt oddly fitting, a challenge on this day of immense hardship. could the tower, in its own dilapidated way, be his path to the stars? to sleep, the most elusive star in his current reality? the door was old and creaky, and it took a bit of effort to push it open. just as he was about to reach for the door handle, the bell rang, signaling the end of the school day.

“fuck,” beomgyu muttered, feeling his shoulders slump in defeat. the observatory would have to wait. he decided then and there that he would check it out tomorrow during his free period. he turned and trudged back down the hallway, the prospect of a good nap tantalizingly out of reach.

⋆˚࿔ taglist! @flowzel , @izzyy-stuff , @inkigayocamman , @beombeomlovesme ⤷ want to get notified? click here!

© 2024 seoulzie

[atlaswav]

ACE! ➷

INFO: 3246 words, oikawa x fem! reader, olympics au, timeskip SYNOPSIS: In the heat of the competition, you find more enemies in the Olympic dining hall, rivalling for the last infamous chocolate muffin, the social media sensation. WARNINGS: none. AUTHOR'S NOTE: i wrote this ages ago when the Olympics were still happening and just finished it so uh....... ANYWAY!!! this is my attempt at a crackfic because it makes sense. Writing quality and pacing may be off sorry BUT IT COUNTS RIGHT watch this flop because the haikyuu fandom is dead

There are few things left in this world that still hold unequivocal beauty. Few things can exist with such suffering and turmoil. Few things, too, could quell this hopelessness, and in sleepless nights, scrolling on your phone with blue light illuminating the room in eerie shadow, you’d come to see the legendary Olympic chocolate muffin as one of these beautiful things.

The night was quiet, and the dining hall was almost empty as you walked up to the dessert stand. 

There was one muffin left,  molten chocolate glowing under the warm lamplight, oozing with liquid bliss, illuminated in a halo of gold.

But where there is beauty, there is also ugliness. There was someone in the way of your pursuit of enlightenment. You could only dream of the bliss of sweet chocolate ganache dissolving on your tongue with angelic grace, only imagine the taste it would leave lingering in your mouth. But now – as womankind may always find – there was a man in your way.

“Excuse me.”

“Huh?”

As he turns around, your heart drops into your stomach. The giant of a man lays his hands on the muffin in front of you. All hope you had for humanity diminished in one touch. 

“...that was mine.” you mumble. 

The shuffling of sandals on the ground echoes through the empty dining hall. His gaze awkwardly flits between you and the muffin. 

“...Sorry? Finders keepers??” He replies in the same language – almost perfect English. He shrugs. A giant movement. He was taller than you’d have liked, towering over you as you attempted to argue for custody of the muffin.  It didn’t help that his dark brown eyes seemed to glint with challenge, and you felt yourself indignantly rise up to this unspoken provocation.

“What happened to chivalry?”

“Guess its dead, sweet heart.”

“You’re not even gonna attempt to be a gentleman?”

“You’re not ladylike, so I won’t be a gentleman.”

“So you’re admitting you’re a douche.”

“At least I’m a douche with a muffin.”

You sigh dejectedly. First, your first loss in the preliminary games – crushing, really, losing by two points – second, the massive specimen of a man standing in front of you with his hands on your consolation prize.

This was going to be your last straw.

Well, at least the asshole was handsome. The ‘Argentina’ scribed on his uniform, however, didn’t make sense. He looked Asian, and yet he spoke English fluently. He was confusing, but one thing you knew for sure was that all those guys on the Argentinian men’s team were jerks, based on the few of them that snickered at your team as you exited the stadium following your loss in the prelims. 

“Fuck you. I hope you lose your next match.”

“Oh–”

You storm away before he can get another word in.

This was your first encounter with Tōru Oikawa. Maybe an overreaction, but you really didn’t care.

The following day, your warmup is interrupted as the Argentinian men's team decide to enter your warmup stadium, raucous and impossible to miss. 

“Do they have the wrong court, or something?” your coach murmurs, tearing his attention away from the practice game. 

“Oh! It’s you!” a distinctive voice calls. 

You turn from your rally – a mistake – and see the handsome thief from the day before staring at you, carrying a sports bag, wearing a light blue jacket with a white stripe down the sleeve. So he was an Argentinian player. Why was he here, though?

“Wait! Ball!”

You turn back to your rally just in time to get hit in the face with a volleyball, nose aching, eyes bleary with tears, reality tilting on its axis as you fall on your hands.

“Hey! What are you guys doing here?” the coach yells, distinct through the cacophony.

“This is our court, isn’t it?” the thief says. His voice is smooth like honey – like a liar. 

“No, It’s ours until noon.” 

“Is it not a quarter to noon?” 

“Exactly, so get out. You’ve already injured one of my star players.” He swears in Japanese, and you hear the thief snicker, saying something back. Is he Japanese?

You don’t know what happens next, except being hoisted up, braced on someone’s arms and being sat on a bench. Someone hands you a tissue for your watering eyes, and you feel a biting cold on your nose, wincing as someone gives you an ice pack to hold to your face. 

“I always hated those Argentinian volleyball players. So cocky.” your teammate says. 

“Their captain is a handful. I wouldn’t want that bastard on the Japanese team either.” your coach echoes. 

So he was their captain. And Japanese. And an asshole.

How dare he? 

This is how you, in your head, earn the right to one of Oikawa’s apologies – how you find him in the cafeteria once again, nose lightly bandaged, lined up for dinner, and are intent on getting a “sorry” from his perpetually smiling lips. 

“Oh, you.”

His lips twitch into a half grimace, half smile. “Me.”

“Are you going to apologise?”

“I – for what?”

“Are you being stupid, or an asshole right now?”

“Neither. I don’t see what I need to apologise for.”

You mutter something under your breath about “Stupid, hot Argentinian volleyball players.” 

“What was that?”

“Move up. You’re holding up the line.”

He shuffles forward, but turns around again to continue your exchange. “It’s not my fault you were too slow.”

“Which incident are you talking about? The muffin, or today?”

“The muffin, obviously. What, like it's my fault you lost concentration?”

“Mother–”

“Hey, can you guys quit arguing and move along? You’re holding everyone up.”

You both shut up and collect your dinner, parting with scalding glances toward each other. 

“...you okay?”

“Does it look like it?”

“Is it that Argentinian captain again?”

You groan, stabbing your lukewarm mashed potatoes with your spoon. “I hate him.”

Your teammate casts you a sidelong glance. “Okay, whatever you say.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Your third encounter with the Argentinian captain is when you file into the stadium, teeming with people decked out in red and white, to watch a preliminary game of the Japanese men’s team – your competing country. You’d been scouted for their women's team, but you were never able to witness the men’s team in action, only heard about their strengths. 

“What the hell?” 

You turn, and behind you is Oikawa. He wears a cap with a sports logo on it, and sunglasses that are almost comically large. You find it within yourself to resist a howling laugh. 

“What? Why are you here?” you ask – slightly too loudly, as people cast their attention toward you. He shrinks down in his seat in embarrassment. 

“I’m scouting the enemy, of course. What, are you stalking me or something?” he mumbles, glaring at you past the rims of his sunglasses. 

You scoff. “Of course not. I’m watching my country play, obviously.”

“Really? You’re Japanese?”

“I’m a citizen. Aren’t you?”

He crosses his arms, huffing. “And I thought I’d tanned when I was in Brazil.”

You scoff at his childishness. “Brazil? Why aren’t you playing for Japan?”

“I need to crush them.”

You let out a barking laugh at his antics. “Really? You have vendettas that need fulfilling?”

“Don’t laugh, you’re drawing attention.” he sighs, leaning forward as if passing on some great generational secret. “But yes. I do.”

“I can’t begin to imagine who could ever be your enemy.”

“Well I sure can.”

This man has to be a social experiment. “That was sarcasm, captain.”

He pouts, and you turn straight ahead for the national anthems to play and the first serve. 

The first server is the Japanese setter, Kageyama. The stadium’s volume seems to drop slightly as he prepares to serve, making the impact of the ball with his hand even louder than it would’ve been. The ball hits the other team with frightening speed, ricocheting from their libero’s arms into the spectator’s stands. 

The Japanese supporters begin to cheer, and you applaud with them, before you hear a scoff from behind you. 

“What, is he one of the guys you need revenge on, or something?”

He turns away, but you see his pout. 

You laugh. “Afraid he’s better than you?”

“Of course not. I’m better.”

“Hey, you know what, why don’t we switch seats?” Oikawa’s teammate suggests from beside him. The captain looks completely betrayed at his teammate’s suggestion, but he can’t rebuke before the teammate gets up, crossing the stands. 

You decide it’d be fun to mess with him, so you comply. 

But you don’t forget that he owes you an apology. Two. You’re not growing fond of him, either. 

The crowd erupts into cheers as Japan scores another point, and you applaud with them, but Oikawa only sinks further into his seat – now beside you – narrowing his eyes and lowering his sunglasses on his nose, only to glare at the court. 

“What?”

“I hate that guy.”

“Who?”

“The one who just scored.”

“...Ushijima? Why?” 

“I hate him.”

“...sure you do. Should I ask who else you hate, or will we be here all day?”

He ends up listing every wrong Ushijima had done to him since middle school, going on an angry rant about how he failed to bring his high school team to victory because of Kageyama. You can see his inferiority complex showing by the end of this. By the end, the game had reached the second set that Japan was also about to win. 

“...Okay, wow, a lot to process.”

“So yes, I have a vendetta. Thought you should know.”

“That was a really big dump on some stranger you haven’t even known for a week.”

“You asked.”

“No, not really.”

He rolls his eyes, and you both go back to watching the game. What you don’t realise is that he’s smiling. 

And despite himself, he is clutching the edge of his seat as Japan gets to the game point in the third set, locked in a deuce with their opponents. The score climbs higher and higher, neither team willing to let up. 

“Oh my God, I’m going to throw up.” you groan, watching the next server prepare. 

“Want a throwup bag?”

“You look like you could use one too.”

“I’m not nervous, unlike you.”

“I can see the sweat on your shorts. You’re not subtle when you wipe your hands on them.”

“Damn you–”

“Shut up, they just served.”

Maybe it's the adrenaline running high from the match, or from the ceaseless energy of the spectators, but you both nearly cry in relief when Japan finally pulls away from the deuce, securing the game. Despite his grudge for the entire Japanese team, it seems, he pulls you into a side embrace as you both cheer. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be ‘scouting the enemy’?” you say through laughter. 

“I am. This is all a disguise.”

You roll your eyes, but as you begin to file out of the stadium with the rest of the stadium, he decides to linger, signalling to a man on the Japanese team – tall, muscular, handsome, spiky brown hair.

“Really? Leaving just like that?”

“I have a friend on that team.”

“You?” 

“Shut up.”

You shrug, smiling as you turn to leave. “Bye then, muffin thief.”

“That’s Toru Oikawa, to you.” 

“Muffin thief,” you call over your shoulder as you disappear into the crowd. 

“Oikawa.” 

“Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi’s eye twitches, but he grins nonetheless, pulling Oikawa into a hug. “Was that your girlfriend?”

“What? Huh? Really? Is that the first question you ask me after so many years?”

“Nah, she probably isn’t. She’s too pretty for you.”

“Mean.”

But nothing had changed, and he was grateful. 

It’s only late into the night with the fan whirring beside his bed that he can’t help but think about the prospect of you as his girlfriend. He was truly delusional. Especially since he somehow reached the conclusion that he wouldn’t mind it if you just so happened to fall to his charms and confess his love. He’d expect that much, at least.

You barely remember your fourth encounter, but it’s during your final game of the preliminary matches – the one that you have to win, else be cut from the competition. 

You could think of no moment more stressful than serving at a time when you were at game point for the fifth time, and your opponents were creeping up behind you, waiting to snatch the game from you with one mistake. 

It was deafening, the way the spectators roared as you prepared to serve. 

You wished they’d all go quiet. 

The whistle blew, and you let your serve fly, watching as it barely skimmed the net, landing in their court just short of the metre line. 

Your teammates cheer, patting you on the back, but you don’t hear them. 

This is when your coach calls a time out. 

You stand to the side, breathing deeply, the air thick with noise and sweat and air so hot it becomes suffocating around your skin. 

Distantly, the buzzer sounds for the end of time out, and you return to the service line, drowning your thoughts in the noise. 

“Don’t lose concentration!” you hear from the stands behind you. Despite it all, you turn around, searching for the heckler. 

Oikawa sits in the row closest to the front, having lost the cap and sunglasses, waving his arms like a madman. 

“What the fuck,” you mumble to yourself. 

“Look closely!”

“I’m losing concentration because of you, you absolute –”

Then the whistle blows for you to serve, and you abruptly turn back to the game, the insult dying on your tongue. 

What did he mean by ‘pay attention’? He’d just broken the laser focus you were in, and now you didn’t know where you were going to serve. 

Except, there was a massive hole in the opponent’s defence. 

They were now accustomed to your short serves that just landed within the metre line. 

You make a mental note to thank Oikawa if your serve went in, and slam your serve so hard that their defence has no time to register the change. 

Your serve lands on the line, nearly out of bounds. 

Your team sighs in relief, finally pulling ahead of the deuce, securing the match. 

“Japan takes the win! That’s their star player for you, landing service aces all across the court!”

“I told you!” you hear from behind again. 

You turn around, meeting his eyes. 

His smile is endearing. Dimples, and his nose slightly scrunched. It’s contagious. 

You smile back, waving, then become crushed underneath the weight of your team as they jump onto you, screaming and laughing and crying. 

He helped you make it to the finals, and somehow, it was better than an apology. 

The fifth time you meet – and one of the last – you’re, once again, in the cafeteria, craving molten bliss in the form of one of those chocolate muffins. You hope the Gods have heard your prayers, and that there would still be some left, even at this late hour. 

“Oh, you’re here?”

“Yeah, why are you?”

“Is that the first thing you wanna say to me?”

“...yes, why would it be any other way?”

He smiles, rubbing the back of his head. Averting your eyes. “Muffin?”

“Huh?”

“This was the last one.”

“Are you okay?”

“What?”

“What have you done with Oikawa? This isn’t the whiny, vengeful guy I know.”

“And you’ve known me for, what, a week?”

You shrug, snatching the muffin from his hands before he changes his mind. “Thanks.”

He sighs. Sits down at one of the tables. You follow suit. 

“So, why Argentina?”

“Really?”

“What? It’s awkward with silence.”

“...I looked up to Jose Blanco.”

“That’s surprisingly sweet.”

“Hey, I can be sweet.”

“I wasn’t talking about you, I was talking about the muffin.”

“..Oh.”

“Sorry. You’re alright too, I guess.”

He pouts, but you can’t care less as you bite into the muffin, savouring the chocolate as it melts onto your tongue. 

“Thanks, by the way.”

“Huh?”

“For today. Game point.”

“Oh. Why?”

“Shut up and take my thanks.”

“Alright, fine, fine.” He tilts his head, watching you with his sharp eyes. “You didn’t need my help though. You were good enough on your own.”

“Thanks.”

Quiet lapses in the empty dining hall as you sit, the rows and rows of chairs and tables almost eerie in the dark. 

“Well, I’m going to bed. Too tired after today.”

“Rest up, you deserve it.”

“Seriously, you need to stop.”

“Stop what?”

“This niceness. It’s off putting.”

“I can be nice.”

“No, you can’t. It doesn’t feel right.”

“Fine, I won’t.”

“...right. Goodnight.”

“Night.”

The night carries a chill in it, a cold bliss as the breeze brushes against your skin. Nostalgic, with the moonlight’s glow. 

Oikawa regretted many things. Many of those included not working hard enough, not being fast enough, not being strong enough, but that night, he regretted his cowardice. 

The sixth and final time you meet is after his finals game. You barely see each other after your late night encounter at the dining hall, and you’re both too busy with training now that you’d both qualified. After being knocked out of the competition in the running for second place and barely winning your third place match, your team is exhausted, and your spirits are still high. 

The air of the Olympic village is thick with lethargy and simultaneously the buzz of relief and excitement, cheering echoing across courtyards and buildings. You mill about the front entrance, watching people come and go, waiting for him. You don’t know why, but you feel obligated to congratulate him, your heart still spiralling with the spirit of the stadium. 

You vividly recall his plays, the way he moved as if the world made space for him, the efficacy of his movements and the focus in his eyes that had Japan by the neck. 

“Oh, it’s you.”

“It’s me.”

“Did you watch my game?”

“I did. Congrats.”

He smiles, and your heart melts a little. “Thanks.”

You smile back, and quiet fills the space between you once again. 

“Are you staying in Japan for a bit after the games?”

“I’m planning to.”

“That’s good.”

“Are you? I mean, you live here, but–yeah. We should play together”

“What?”

“I could set for you?”

You burst out laughing, hunching over, and don’t see as Oikawa's face flushes profusely. 

“Sure. I’d love to see you try to pick up one of my serves too.”

“Wanna bet? I could easily pick up every one of your serves.”

“Sure, pretty boy.”

“No aces, you owe me another muffin.”

“Huh? How does that work?”

“Figure it out, loser.”

You indignantly narrow your eyes, crossing your arms. “And if I do score an ace on you?”

“You get a muffin.” 

You roll your eyes at his childlike antics. “Sure. Just make sure you’re ready to go bankrupt.”

You wake the next morning to your team manager banging on your door, slamming it open, and shoving her phone in your face. You blink blearily, abruptly pulled from senseless dreams and the warmth of sleep to a grainy photo of the unmistakable tall, broad shouldered figure of Oikawa, and you beside him, laughing together. 

“Care to explain? Why are there dating rumours? What do you think you’re doing?”

You grumble, turning over. For now, you’d relish in your dreams of a certain volleyball player and glorious chocolate muffins. 

written by @atlaswav , published 28th of January 2025

[scary-grace]

among the wildflowers - a shigaraki x f!reader oneshot

You were raised to hide your magic, but Tenko didn't learn about his until it was too late. When it erupts with deadly consequences and splits the two of you apart, you turn to your own magic for a solution, even knowing that it could change you for good. If it brings Tenko back to you, it'll all be worth it - no matter how long it takes.

This is a slightly late submission for Challenge Friday over @pixelcafe-network, for which I received the prompts 'striped carnation' and 'stock flower'! I decided to combine them into one fic, which naturally got sort of long. 7.1k, lowkey medieval au, magic, flower symbolism, setting-appropriate violence, pining, etc. dividers by @strangergraphics.

Once upon a time, you were a little girl who lived with her mother in a small cottage at the edge of a great estate. Your mother tended to the estate’s vast gardens, sometimes accompanied by the lady of the house, and you followed at her heels, speaking only when spoken to but learning by watching the rest of the time. You don’t remember the first day you set out with your mother and a handcart full of tools and supplies. It was what you always did.

You remember the day you met the lord and lady’s children, though. As though it was yesterday. All you have to do is close your eyes and think back, and suddenly you’re there again – sitting up in the wild section of the gardens mere seconds before Hana and Tenko could trip over you. Hana stopped in time. Tenko couldn’t. He knocked you over completely and the two of you sprawled out in the dirt. Hana fell down, too, but only because she was laughing so hard. “I warned you, Tenko! I said to watch out –”

“I couldn’t see,” Tenko protested. “The grass was too high. Are you all right?”

You nodded. Your mother had told you not to speak to the lord and lady’s children unless spoken to, and while Tenko did speak to you, you didn’t need to answer out loud. Tenko scratched idly at the side of his neck and peered closer at you. “Where did you come from? Are you alone?”

“She’s not alone, silly. Her mother is the gardener.” Hana smiled, offered you a hand up. Not taking it would be rude, so you took it. “What are you doing out here?”

“Listening to the flowers,” you said. For some reason, you were more comfortable speaking to Hana than Tenko. Tenko made you shy. “They can talk.”

“I knew it! That’s why we’re here.” Tenko produced a book, one that looked far too frail to be dragged out into the garden. “This says flowers have their own language, and if we can learn to talk in it, we’ll be able to send messages without anybody else understanding. If you already know it, you can teach us!”

“And talk to us, too!” Hana beamed. She was still holding your hand, and when she sat down, she pulled you down with her. Tenko sat down on her other side and handed over the book. “It’s all right if you can’t read. Tenko can’t read yet, either.”

“I can too –”

“I’ll read it out loud,” Hana said importantly. She opened the book, flipped through it to a certain page, and started reading. “Abecedary. Volatility. Abatina – that’s fickleness –”

“Those aren’t good,” Tenko said, frowning. “I don’t even know what those are.”

You didn’t, either. “I know all the flowers in the garden, but not those. Keep reading – please.”

You only remembered please at the last second, remembered you were talking to nobility far too late, and cringed in expectation of a punishment. Even the village children, confident that they were your betters, were always quick to reprimand. But Tenko was nodding in agreement, and Hana kept reading, as requested. “Acacia – friendship. Do you know that one?”

You did, and you brought back a sprig for each of them. That was how you made your best and only friends.

Sometimes they both came to find you in the gardens, but as the years passed, more often it was Tenko alone, fleeing his father or already banished from the house. He brought the book with him, and sometimes his dog, too, and no matter where you were in the gardens, they always found their way to where you played. Tenko could read by then, and you were learning, a little. Enough to read about the language of flowers, and the meaning of each bloom you and your mother tended to.

“You said you could understand the flowers,” Tenko said to you one day, and you nodded. “You didn’t mean it like this.”

He tapped the book. You nodded again. “I can hear what they say to each other. I can’t always understand it, but I hear.”

Tenko’s dog was sleeping in the grass a few feet away, snoring. Tenko watched you with bright eyes and a smile that still made you shy. “Tell me what they’re saying.”

“They gossip and chatter like hens in a henhouse.”

“Or like my grandparents at tea,” Tenko said, and laughed. “Do they talk about us?”

The flowers really only have one thing to say. “They want Mon to stop watering them.”

Tenko laughed harder, and beneath the sweet, raspy sound, you could hear the flowers whispering. Urging care, urging caution. “Don’t tell anyone, please.”

“I won’t. I swear,” Tenko said earnestly. He held out his hand to link little fingers and swear, and you crooked your finger around his. “Tell me when they say things about me.”

“I will,” you promised. “Keep reading?”

Tenko turned the page, still clumsier than Hana ever did. “Alyssum – worth beyond beauty. Amaranth – immortality and unfading love.” He stumbled over the next few, his mouth tangling around the syllables, until his lips split and he worked it out. “Ambrosia – love returned. Oh, no –”

His lip was bleeding. “Let me,” you said without thinking, and you ran your fingertip over the split, coaxing it to heal quickly. Tenko froze beneath your hand. “I’m sorry –”

“You fixed it,” Tenko said. He raised the hand that had been scratching his neck and nudged your hand aside, tracing over the healed split himself. “You’re magic –”

You shushed him hurriedly. “Don’t tell anyone about that, either.”

“I won’t,” Tenko said. “Not even Hana. She talks to Father, and Father doesn’t like magic.”

You knew. You’d heard shouting from the manor, heard a few details from Tenko himself when he came running after the latest fight. Tenko’s grandmother, long dead by then, was a witch with tremendous power, who abandoned Tenko’s father to be raised by strangers so she could pursue an old enemy. Hana and Tenko weren’t supposed to know about that, and neither were you. “He says magic makes people selfish,” Tenko said. He looked at you with something like awe. “But you aren’t.”

“My mother says magic doesn’t change who a person is. It’s all about how they use it.”

Tenko smiled again, and a different split opened in his lips. “What are you going to use it for?”

You sealed the new split, too. “This,” you said, and almost immediately you felt his lips stretch into a wider smile beneath your fingers.

Your magic is the magic of wild places, of things that grow and change, and you had only small uses for it until the summer of your twelfth year. That was the year plague swallowed the countryside, scoured the village, and left the manor house untouched. It left your cottage untouched, too. Your mother went to the village one day, leaving you home to tend the gardens, and never returned. A messenger brought word that she had fallen sick. Another brought word that she had died, not half an hour later.

Tenko’s father was not unkind to you. He ensured your mother was laid to rest properly, at his own expense, and when you begged an audience from him with tears still drying on your cheeks, he granted it and let you make your case for why you should be allowed to take on your mother’s role rather than being cast out. “I have followed her since I was able to walk. I know all that she knew about the gardens, and I could learn more, for I can read. I am a diligent worker. I will ask for nothing. Only – please, do not send me away.”

“You’re still a child,” Tenko’s father said, almost dismissively. “How do you expect to care for yourself alone?”

“I know what to do,” you said stubbornly. Even though your hope was fading, you held firm. “I can tend to the gardens, and to myself.”

It was quiet for a moment. “Due to your inexperience, you’ll receive half your mother’s previous wage,” Tenko’s father said. “And you’ll take your evening meal here, at six o’clock each evening. Do you understand?”

It was more than you had hoped for. You nodded enthusiastically, smiling so hard your face hurt, and at your first meal with the Shimuras, you spent most of it staring down at your bowl, tears slipping down your face. Hana walked you home, with a bundle of food from the cook for your breakfast, and although you looked for Tenko, he was nowhere to be found. Hana was long gone and you were lighting the candles when he dropped something on your doorstep and ran away.

“Tenko?” you called out. “Tenko, come back.”

He was gone. On your doorstep was a bouquet, tied messily with twine, and as you sorted through it, you named the flowers one by one. Evergreen thorn – solace in adversity. Everlasting – never-ceasing remembrance. Marigold – grief. It made for an awkward bouquet, but you did not love it for its appearance. You replanted the bouquet in dark soil and coaxed them back to life, and many years later, you sang to them until they grew into a strange hybrid tree, one with thorns and flowers. It grows still. If anyone asks you, you could show it to them.

You mourned your mother. You would mourn her forever. You were always lonely, but the evenings you spent with Tenko’s family were peaceful ones. Looking back, you think that your presence kept the worst of Tenko’s father’s temper quiet, simply because he did not wish to misbehave in front of a stranger. Lady Shimura was always kind to you, and Hana and Tenko had been your friends for many years by then. You were never foolish enough to think you were part of their family. You were grateful for the time you had.

The night the Shimuras died, you’d retired early. You felt ill, and ill at ease, and you couldn’t explain why. Whenever you came upon a feeling you couldn’t explain, you were apt to blame magic, and you thought it wise to experience whatever was about to happen out of sight. You were correct to believe that magic was at fault for the discomfort and unease that swept over you. It just wasn’t your magic that caused it.

The legends say that Hell woke within the Shimuras’ house that night, wrecked it from the inside out until nothing but the foundation was left. If a piece of damnation came through, it left Hell far from empty behind it. You heard screams and terrible sounds, and the flowers whispered to you of what had happened at the manor house in the dark of the moon. They told you all they could see and all they had heard. By the time Tenko fell heavily against your doorstep, you knew most things.

Most things, save one. You brought him inside, cleaned blood off his hands, resolved to say nothing – and even as you were so resolved, you were opening your mouth. “Did you mean to do it?”

“No.” Tenko shivered, in spite of the blanket you wrapped around his shoulders. “Not all of it.”

“Your father,” you said. Tenko nodded, cringed away from you when you reached for him again. “Let me help.”

“I could hurt you.”

“Your magic needs time to build back up. Mine does, when I use a lot of it,” you said. “It’s safe, for a little while.”

“Why don’t you hate me?” Tenko looked at you. His grey eyes had gone red, his black hair gone blueish-grey. There were fresh cuts over his eye and lip. “I killed all of them. Why aren’t you scared? Why aren’t you sad?”

You were. You’d show it more, later, once you finally wandered up to the ruins of the manor house and saw what had befallen the people who’d been kind to you. In that moment, all you could see was your best friend in front of you, bleeding and frightened and alone except for you. “I know why it happened,” you said to Tenko, and his shoulders stiffened beneath your hands. “It’s your magic, but there’s something within it. I can see it. Like corruption or root-rot. I could draw it out –”

“No.” Tenko recoiled from you. “It’s not safe.”

“If it’s unsafe for me, it’s unsafe for you, too,” you argued. “Please, Tenko. Let me help you.”

Tenko hesitated for a long moment. Somewhere in that moment, you reached for him, tracing your finger along the cut over his eye and healing it closed. For the first time, it didn’t heal smoothly. What happened to Tenko the night his magic erupted would leave a scar. It was the same with the one on his lip, too. He spoke before you could pull away. “In the morning.”

“In the morning,” you agreed, and as easily as taking the next step down on a staircase, you leaned in and kissed him.

In a love story, a true romance, you would have made love all night, and he would have left something behind with you – a child, maybe, with eyes like his used to be and your life-magic in its veins. The truth was simpler. You kissed your best friend and he kissed you back, his hands shaking and his mouth uncertain against yours. You led him to your bed and the two of you slept in each other’s arms. Slept, and nothing more. Tenko fell asleep within moments, wrung dry by the horror he’d been part of, and you stayed awake a while longer, sensing the corruption within him, planning how to draw it out when daylight came.

When you woke in the morning, your bed was cold, and when you went in search of Tenko, he was gone. The plants told you he had left, gone far beyond your reach, and if you had entertained any thoughts of chasing after him, they dissipated when you saw what he had left for you: A striped carnation, white with red edging the petals. You knew he knew what it meant. You could hear it in his voice as he read from the book – striped carnation, refusal. Tenko was gone, and he didn’t want you to follow him. You were alone.

It was a full day and night before you ventured up to the manor house, and even then, it was out of obligation. The Shimuras had offered your mother proper funeral rites, so you owed them the same. As you walked, you saw that sections of the gardens had begun to die, a black stain spreading across the grounds towards the ones that still lived. Corruption, the same as that which infested Tenko’s magic. An infestation that would only spread. You could have helped. Why wouldn’t he let you?

You reached the manor, and you saw why. You did what funeral rites you could, but there was barely enough of the Shimuras left to perform them for. Even Mon hadn’t been spared. You thought of what the flowers told you, of how terrified Tenko was as his magic slipped from his control and turned wild, and your heart broke again. It was easy to imagine why Tenko had fled rather than allow you to try to heal him. If it hadn’t worked, you would have died. Just like your best friend’s family did. And because corrupted magic corrodes and decays, it had begun to spread. It would consume the Shimura estate, destroying all your hard work and your mother’s, erasing every place you and your friends had been happy, leaving nothing but a wasteland.

You sat down in the midst of it all and wept – for their loss, and soon, every loss you had ever felt. Tears splatted down into the stinking dirt and crushed flagstones, but you paid them no heed as you mourned Lord and Lady Shimura, Hana and Mon, your mother and the garden she’d loved, and for Tenko. Tenko, who left you to save you. Tenko, who left you here, amidst the ruin of everything either of you had ever loved.

It seemed as though you wept for an age. When your tears ran dry and you wiped your eyes, you found that something strange had occurred in the places where your tears struck the ground. The dirt they’d soaked into was no longer rotting. It was black and cool to the touch, loamy when you picked it up to crumble between your fingers. The Shimura estate was devastated, yes. But there was no law that said it must remain that way.

You thought of how far the corruption had already spread. How much it would continue to spread as you worked against it, one small patch at a time. Restoring this place to life would be the work of a lifetime, or of several – and yet, it would be worth doing. It would be worth doing even if Tenko never came home. But as you sunk your hands into the next patch of ruined earth, biting the inside of your cheek against the sting and letting your sorrow bleed through, you hoped that he would. That he would come home, and find a place that had healed, just as he could.

The work of a lifetime, or several, but you were thinking in terms of a human lifespan, and with every day you spent using your magic to its limit, your lifespan shifted. A year spent clearing an area the size of a single garden plot was nothing to you. The ten years or more you spent breathing life back into a single tree flew by, barely missed. The years changed you, but not in the way they should have, and still, you kept count of time. You spent a century repairing the corruption before the corruption began to fight back.

It was a living thing, the darkness that had twisted your best friend. It thought to wear you down, to force you to leave in defeat. But you fought it every day, not tirelessly but ceaselessly, for every square foot of soil, until at last it gave up the areas you had reclaimed as lost for good. You were not fool enough to think that you had won. The corruption had left the bounds of the Shimura estate many years ago. It was abroad in the world, and it needed its strength for a greater purpose.

Although you fought your hardest, there were some scraps of corruption that you could not eradicate, some scars in the earth that could not be healed. So you drew them up instead, weaving them into the roots of the trees, shaping blossoms resilient enough to stand the rot. Those plants were wild and dangerous, but part of your garden all the same. You tended to them just as you tended to the others, and soon they stood proud among the rest.

All around you was proof that the corruption was not irreversible, that it could be survived, that one could carve out a life in the aftermath of destruction. When a great darkness arose on the far side of the world and people fled before it, some of them found their way to you. Your garden had spread far beyond the bounds of the Shimura estate by then, too, and they dwelt in peace at its edges. The heart of the new forest was the Shimuras’ old house. No one ever ventured there.

You rarely allowed yourself to be seen, but when you did, it was to learn of the outside world. When you asked the new arrivals what had driven them from their lands, they all gave the same answer, under different names. Destruction embodied. The Lord of Evil. The Demon King. The Symbol of Fear, Shigaraki Tomura, a dark magician whose life meant death for everyone he touched. Old beyond counting, eater of souls. The enemy of all that was good.

“He will destroy this world,” an old woman said to you solemnly, her voice devoid of hope. “All life is his enemy. He’ll come for you.”

Your forest teems with life. Life bursts into being every day, every second. You were not sure whether she was telling you to flee or simply relaying your doom, but you knew you could not run. You were making this place for proof, for a boy who must have been long dead, a man who would never come to see it. See, you wished you could say to Tenko, it’s healed. It was hard, but it’s healthy now.

You vowed then that you would stay. As more refugees fled into your forest’s embrace, as the Symbol of Fear crept slowly across the land, you held true. You will hold true until your own death, or until Tenko comes home for good.

“I grow flowers,” you say to the boy who’s come to the Shimura house to speak to you. “Entire gardens of them. They would tell the whole of the story I just told you, if anyone still knew to read their meanings – or knew how to listen.”

“It’s said that art was lost long ago,” the boy says. He leans forward, his eyes bright with interest. “Can you teach me?”

“Izuku,” the man who accompanied him says uncomfortably. He’s tall and rail-thin, scarred by the battle against the corruption, his years of fighting long past. “Ask the question.”

They explained who they were to you, but you knew already. The flowers had brought you warning of them, and you needed to look at them only a moment to understand what was happening here. The old man can fight no longer. He’s entrusted all to the boy. This boy is meant to slay the Symbol of Fear. “How old are you?” you ask, and the boy stammers out an answer. “Fifteen. I was that same age when the estate fell into ruin.”

“Was brought to ruin, you mean,” an even older man tells you. This one is short and stooped. “No matter what you have done to it, this is still the birthplace of the evil we face.”

“The boy who carried it was born here, yes,” you allow. “But he was not its source.”

The old man lets out a short, sharp bark of a laugh. “Was? Is. Shigaraki Tomura lives still.”

Your heart goes still for a moment, and once more, the flowers whisper to you – urging caution, urging care. “It’s my job to defeat him,” Izuku says to you. He shows you the sword he’s carrying – a mighty blade, almost too heavy for him to lift, woven with the magic of seven sorcerers before him. “Will you help me?”

“Defeat him? Or kill him?” You watch the older men exchange guilty glances. “I can help you with neither.”

“But you’ve stood against him all this time –”

“I have been waiting for him,” you say. Tenko still lives. Magic has changed you, lengthened your life – why would it not have done the same to him? “I want him to come home, so he can be healed.”

“Healed?” the old man scoffs. “The Symbol of Fear knows no peace. The rest of us will find it only in his death.”

The younger of the two old man puts up an argument of some kind, and beneath it, Izuku turns to you. “You would heal him?” he asks. “How?”

“You see this place?” You gesture around at it. “It was once wracked by the same corruption that troubles my friend. Evidence of it still lingers. What happened here will never be forgotten entirely. But it has healed. So, too, could he be. If he chose.”

“I have faced him before,” Izuku says. There’s a strange, hopeful light in his eyes, faint and flickering. “I saw what haunts him. He looked as if – as if –”

You wait. “As if he was asking to be rescued,” Izuku says, and although it’s been many years since you cried, a tear slips down your cheek. “I don’t want to kill him, if I could save him instead.”

“Then we shall not kill him,” you say. “When the Symbol of Fear comes to us, we will face him together. You will not need your sword.”

“But –”

“Your sword has done what it needed to do. It brought you this far,” you tell him. Izuku nods slowly. “Now your heart must lead you.”

Izuku’s heart must lead him, as your heart has always led you. As Tenko’s heart, what remains of it, leads him home.

You know when the Symbol of Fear reaches the forest, because the refugees who have settled there begin to flee inwards. Once, armies rode with him, but they long since turned against him, fought him or fled. Now only a few dark magicians ride at his side, each bearing their own wound that will not heal. That has not healed yet, you remind yourself, as the flowers sing to you of their coming. There is always a chance for healing.

You had feared you would lose pieces of the forest to the corruption as Shigaraki Tomura traveled through it, either to his purposeful efforts or to the dark magic grown into them, reverting to its original purpose. But you had not counted on life, on hope. Growing alongside the darkness has made your forest resilient, has made it wily and strong. Although the corruption sinks into the earth with every step Shigaraki Tomura takes, it spreads no further.

When he’s close, but not yet within sight of the ruins, he comes to a stop. You sense him there, even if the flowers were not whispering of it, and when you realize where he’s stopped, your heart lifts. You rise to your feet, and Izuku scrambles up, too. “Is it time?”

“Yes,” you say. “Remember what we spoke of.”

“I remember,” Izuku says – but still, he brings along his sword.

You hear their voices before you see them. “Why are we stopped?” one says irritably. “The heart of the forest lies beyond.”

“Give him time,” another says. “Perhaps something important lies here.”

“What could be important? This place has been abandoned for a hundred years.”

Longer, unless you’ve mistaken your count of mortal time. It would appear abandoned to their eyes. You come into view of your old cottage just as a shadowy, white-haired figure steps out of it. In his hand, he clutches a striped carnation. “That flower was cut recently,” one of the dark magicians observes. “Someone still dwells there.”

“No.” Shigaraki’s voice is painful to hear, because it’s Tenko’s voice, pierced through with shards of glass and dragged over rough stones. “This has been here for a long time.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s magic, silly,” a female voice says. “It’s – oh!”

You don’t see what startled her, but Izuku must, because he neglects his feet and snaps a twig. The sound echoes sharply, and Shigaraki Tomura’s head snaps up, and as you meet his red eyes for the first time in hundreds of years, you’re overcome with feelings you couldn’t describe even if you had all the flowers in the world to spell them out.

He’s terrifying to behold. Wreathed in darkness shot through with bloodred, his hair long and wild, his face scarred. His hand is missing a few fingers and his stance is uneven, as though he’s prepared at any moment to lunge into battle or topple to his knees. The corruption writhes beneath his skin. His lips are dry and cracked, and as he studies you, his mouth splits into a smile more horrific than Tenko ever wore. Still, he bleeds the same.

“I saw the fairy-story written in the flowers,” he says. “You must be its author.”

“I am.” You incline your head. “What did you think?”

“Foolish.” The corruption has ahold of Shigaraki’s jaw, making it move awkwardly. “I never trifle with such useless things.”

“The language of flowers is long forgotten,” you say. “When did you learn to read it?”

“When did you?”

“I’ve always understood them,” you say. “You were the one who taught me to read.”

For a moment, you believe you see him falter; then he lets the striped carnation fall, and draws his sword. “This forest resists our efforts, and you willed it to life. Our position will be much improved when I kill you.”

“Kill me if you must.” You stay Izuku’s hand as he reaches for his sword. “First, I must show you something. Come with me.”

Putting your back to Shigaraki is dangerous, but he remembered enough for the cottage to stymie him. Maybe he remembers enough for this. You let Izuku walk ahead of you when the path narrows, and soon enough, you’re standing in the same field where you first met Hana and Tenko. “Do you remember this?” you ask. He looks blankly at you. “Then this, perhaps. The first flower I ever brought to you.”

“Acacia,” the Lord of Evil says after a long pause. “For friendship.”

You keep walking. A glance over your shoulder shows you that the dark magicians are inspecting the field, trying to divine the magic that made it what it is. Shigaraki Tomura marks your steps closely. “You are an illusionist,” he accuses. “This place was ruined long ago.”

“What does your heart tell you?” you ask, and he scoffs. “Do not tell me you have no heart. I hear it beating.”

His hand rises to his chest, rubs at it as though he’s in pain. “You should be more frightened than you are. I intend to corrupt this place so thoroughly that nothing will grow here ever again.”

“You will have a hard time with that,” you say. “It’s happened before.”

The flowers are descendants of the first flowers you woke out the ground, but the trees are old enough to have survived the corruption. You show the Symbol of Fear the veins of assimilated dark magic running through their trunks and in the veins of their leaves. He scoffs. “You call this healing?”

“What happened cannot be forgotten,” you say. “But life continues. It can grow. It can be good once more.”

You keep walking, Izuku at your side, the Symbol of Fear following, and his allies following further behind. “You are a fool,” the Symbol says to you. You ignore him, and he changes targets. “And you, brat. We’ve fought before. What nonsense has she filled your head with, to make you stay your hand?”

“I do not stay my hand,” Izuku says. “I promised I would try her way first.”

As far as answers Izuku could have given, it could be worse. You stop walking and turn to face the Symbol of Fear, who barely stops walking in time to avoid knocking you over. It was otherwise the first time you met, and based on the expression that flickers briefly across his face, he recalls it, too. For a moment, the shadows seem to lift, and you see the man Tenko’s become beneath them. If you die today, as well you might, at least you saw him one last time before the end.

On the walk to the old house, you pluck flowers from the ground, collecting every flower you remember Tenko reading aloud to you, every flower he offered. Marigold, everlasting, evergreen thorn; alyssum, amaranth, ambrosia; a bouquet that makes no sense save as part of a story. The flowers hum to you, and when you check over your shoulder again, you see the female magician picking a few flowers of her own, passing them to the others. For study, you think, until you see her tuck hers behind her ear. Oak-leaf geranium – true friendship.

“Your friends are young,” you say to the Symbol of Fear. “Their wounds are fresh compared to yours.”

“They could still be healed,” the Symbol of Fear says. You sense Izuku’s eyes darting between the two of you, shocked into silence. “If you heal them, and keep them here, perhaps I will leave this place untouched.”

“You know better than to think you can do that,” you say. “This is still your home.”

“It was never home,” the Demon King insists, and yet, he keeps walking. “Why do you delay the inevitable?”

“I do not delay,” you say. You pluck one last flower, round one last turn. “This is what I wished to show you.”

The Shimura house was destroyed down to its foundations, the earth turned hot and poisonous, such that nothing would grow there again. It took you a long time to work the darkness free of it, and longer still to coax seeds to take root there. Longer than that, even, for them to grow tall, and when they grew, their branches formed the outline of the house that once stood here, without your knowledge or your will to guide them. Shigaraki stops cold, stares. The shadows that surround him writhe and whirl in your peripheral vision. “It’s still here.”

“It’s not as it once was,” you admit, “but it is still here. And so am I.”

“I am not.” Tenko’s voice is rough and bitter. When you turn to face him, you find the shadows peeling back, enough to see his scarred mouth, a glimpse of his cheek. “There is nothing left of me but horror.”

“I don’t believe you,” you say. “And even if I did –”

You meant to give the bouquet to him whole, but you change your mind. Instead you pluck a single flower from it and hold it out. “Do you remember this one?”

The shadows begin to creep over his mouth, but he raises the hand with the missing fingers and claws them away. They attack his hand instead, and you see them biting into his skin. Izuku sees, too. He draws his sword. Tenko speaks in that same rough voice. “Stock flower,” he says. “You will always –”

He breaks off, staring at you. “You will always be beautiful to me,” you complete the sentence. “You’re home now, Tenko. Let me help you.”

“I can’t.” Tenko loses his grip on the shadows, and they swarm back over his face, leaving his hands raw and bleeding. “It won’t let me.”

You reach for him, but Izuku stays your hand. He steps forward, sword drawn, and looks into Tenko’s eyes. “It’s my task to save others from you,” he says. “But I see before me someone who needs saving just as much.”

“There is no salvation for me,” the Symbol of Fear says. The shadows are consuming Tenko’s body. You can see it. “Only destruction. Yours, and everyone’s.”

Izuku’s grip on the hilt of his sword tightens, and your heart seizes with it at the thought that all is lost. A twig snaps behind you, and when you look around, you see that while most have fled, some of the refugees have been drawn in to witness. The Symbol’s magicians are poised for a fight in turn – and rather than stepping forward with a swing of his sword, Izuku speaks. “What afflicts you? Show me.”

For a moment, all is still and silent – or it must be, to all but you. The flowers hum and the trees breathe in and out, and the people who stand amongst them swarm and throb with life in their turn. You feel the unevenness of those who are wounded, the fog that surrounds those who are sick at heart. Tenko’s companions are both, and so is he. You see it for a split second, when he tears himself free of the shadow entirely and casts it aside.

It wounds him. You see skin rip, blood spurt. But the corruption is gone from him, separated completely for the smallest of moments. Within that moment, there’s more than enough time for Izuku’s enchanted sword to decapitate it where it stands.

The corruption does not die cleanly. It screams, a sound that shreds your eardrums and makes the flowers mute, a sound that the rest experience only as a gust of rotting wind. Even in pieces, it still lives. Tenko’s magicians cast their spells upon it, breaking it apart again, but it’s Tenko who delivers the blow that scatters it to near-nothingness for good. You’ve never seen Tenko’s magic, corrupted or otherwise. It’s snow-sky grey, the way his eyes once were, and its touch is softer than you thought it would be. Under his power, the corruption dissolves into pieces your forest was born to absorb.

The forest is Tenko’s, too. You know by the way it bends towards him as he falls, the life within it surging to meet him. One of the dark magicians races forward to catch him, and you catch him, too. The two of you lower him to the earth together.

Tenko is terribly wounded. The corruption tore away pieces of his flesh as he pulled free, and his magic is overtaxed. Even if none of those things were true, his body is still rent by old wounds and poorly healed scars. To survive this will ask a great deal from him. All your skill and power will mean nothing if he does not wish to live on. You touch your best friend’s face for the first time since he left you, heal a split of his lip with a single trace of your finger, and pray that he will try.

His magicians have surrounded you, Izuku shoved thoroughly to one side. The magician who caught Tenko with you meets your eyes, his features contorted with fear and confusion. “Will he live?”

“He may,” you say. “Time will tell.”

The corruption no longer lives in this world, but its effects remain, and there are lesser wounds, lesser evils, that abound. There is only so far your forest can spread by your own will. At some point, others must take on the task alongside you. Those who wish to return their homes carry seeds and saplings from the forest with them. Wherever they plant them, they will grow alongside the darkness, and grow strong.

One day, you’ll walk past the edges of the forest and see things for yourself, but that is a long time away. You determined to renew this place for Tenko, should he ever choose to come home. It took a long time to heal, and so will he. So will his friends, with their own wounds and sorrows, but time is something you have in abundance.

“I studied magic,” Tenko tells you as you lay on your backs in the grass, staring up at the sky through a canopy of leaves and a scattering of clouds. “It’s not meant to do this.”

He gestures at the two of you, using the hand that’s missing two fingers. You take his hand, raise it to your lips and kiss it. “What do you mean?”

“It should not have cast us out of time,” Tenko says. “Magicians live and die like anyone else. Or at least they should.”

“I never studied magic,” you admit. “Perhaps I broke some rule in renewing this place. I don’t know.”

“If you had broken a rule, you’d feel it,” Tenko mumbles. You glance over at him and find him grimacing. “I feel it daily.”

You’ve heard tell of the terrible things Tenko did in the throes of the corruption, and what you haven’t heard in tales, he’s told you himself. You know what it cost him. “Does it itch or hurt? Or ache?”

“Today it aches. Like the cold of a grave.” Tenko edges closer to you, and you close the gap until you’re lying in each other’s arms once more. “You need not use magic to make me feel better. I always felt better with you, even when we were children.”

When the two of you lie this close, it’s always an effort not to fall asleep. It’s as if your body intends to make up for the centuries of nights lost as quickly as possible, even in the middle of the day. You kiss Tenko’s hand again and burrow a little closer against his side. “This is where we always met up,” you say. “It took me a long time to make it grow again. What do you think?”

“It’s different,” Tenko says. His hand turns in yours, holding it securely against his heart. “But it feels the same as before.”

The two of you lie there for a while in silence, and you cast your mind out, seeking the edge of  your forest, seeking the saplings and sprouts that have been planted far past its boundaries. Someday, when the world has long forgotten Shigaraki Tomura, you and Tenko will venture out to visit them. You’ve spent so long in your small corner of the world. You’d like to see more of it. And you know Tenko would like to see it with unclouded eyes.

The corruption may be gone, but it haunts him still. His body rattles sometimes with the memory of pain, or else his skin crawls at the phantom sensation of a force outside himself, peeling up his skin and making him itch. Sometimes, when his body rebels, he drowns himself in you. Other times, he can hardly bear to be touched. It frustrates him, more so for the fact that he thinks it frustrates you. It doesn’t. You know better than anyone else that healing takes time.

“We were always here,” Tenko says aloud, after a long time. You nod into his shoulder. “I always asked you what the flowers were saying about me.”

“I always thought it was funny that you never asked me to teach you.”

“I was worried I couldn’t,” Tenko says. “And I knew you’d tell me the good things.”

You laugh. Tenko’s voice takes on a hesitant note. “What are they saying now?”

“They say that I love you, and that you love me.”

“I do.” Tenko’s cheek is flushed when you kiss it, and he turns his head for a longer kiss, too. “What else do they say?”

You tell him, in between kisses, as life continues around you – a life that looks different than it did before, a life that will never be the same. A life that has changed, and still a life worth saving. A life worth living, too. You and Tenko are a long way from an ending, if one even exists for the two of you. But if you were to close the tale here, you know you could call it a happy one.

[your-local-uwu-artist]

it was suggested I post this to the tags as well >:D

fuck it ima tag @transcendence-au as well because tbh I'm very proud of my silly little animation

some me being a nerd under the cut!

okay so this all started when I read the original post this was inspired by and though 'wouldn't it be silly to add some art to this 3 year old post?' but then I decided to animate it for funsies!

and gosh I sure do love animating!

So I got the base sketch and then got into the lineart animation for each component!

i don't have the sketches/wips saved at all sense this wasn't really a project and it took less than a day to complete. but here's a peak at the timeline

I animate entirely in my ususal drawing software: clip studio paint. It's just what's easiest for me.

all of these layers outside that folder are just the sparkles! after I finished I added some sparkles for fun! there's a lot of them because it involved a lot of copy and pasting sparkle layers

the bottom folders here are the wings body and facial expression! for everything like the wings arms and flags I was able to just copy paste, reverse, and then align the timing correctly in the timeline

one thing unique about this animation is that the lineart and colors are in separate layers! I tend to do line and colors on the same layer but this time I was using a brush that doesn't have the same lack of anti-aliasing and sense it's a small animation I wasn't as worried about keeping a minimum of layers like usual.

also the movement of the body is only 4 frames! and one one of those is just the hat shifting position

initially I wasn't going to have the second facial expression but when I got stuck on animating the flags I added the second facial expression while taking a break.

the arm animation is just 8 frames! honestly the only tricky part in this is the flags, everything else was pretty simple, which made it super fun to work on because I got both a challenge and mindless therapeutic drawing out of it.

NOW THE FLAGS there was 3 throw away attempts before I got it: you see the thing that made this tricky is finding the balance between believability and visual appeal. a big part of animation is creating the illusion of physics, this is the 'believability' part, I need these to look like flags that are moving and made of flat fabric, HOWEVER if I animate these one-to-one with realistic physics: it won't look good! I can't apply wind to the whole drawing because then the hair would have to react, and wind goes one way, and I wan't the flags to be pointing opposite directions. so without wind the flags would be laying down flat, but that won't look good at all! and furthermore realistic physics would have the flag not being all nice and front facing most of the time. so the trick here was figuring out how much physics to apply to make it look believable, while still making it look good.

one trick I did to help me animate the flags is I actually made a plan rectangle flag as a guide so that the general mass/volume of the flag would stay consistent, this is something i highly recommend when animating! like having a circle guide along a characters head to keep their height and proportions consistent.

after I finally found the balance with the flag lineart coloring wasn't too hard! sense I just had to follow the lines, and THANK GOODNESS the trans and aroace flag have the same number of stripes: saving me time!

and then it all comes together to make a satisfying perfectly looping bundle of cuteness >:DDD I feel like the tau fandom doesn't have as many artists with particularly cartoony/chibi art styles so I've gotta play my part in spreading the joy-whimsy-adorable-sillys >:D

anyway! hope you get to see a cool beetle today :D

[lilanette]

My designs for Reverse!Lilanette, drawn by the wonderful vercilla!

While I get what they were going for, the whole emo aesthetic just felt a bit too on-the-nose, so I repurposed the skirt and striped socks design from Marietta instead. I did keep the thorn design from OG Reverse!Marinette's jacket, but I ended up adding it to Marinette's usual flower motif.

Redesigning Lila is always a bit of a challenge, mostly because I actually really like her original design and colour palette. In the end I went for an opposite colour palette for her, green instead of red, and dressed her down so she looked a bit more casual instead of "cool".

Lore rambles under the cut :D

Marinette's characterisation doesn't change much from canon, I like to headcanon that her family is a lot more successful (ofc, canon already states they're renowned in Paris, but in this case it's more akin to the Agreste family's success), and unlike for our Marinette, Tom and Sabine were not as loving of parents and think Marinette's fashion aspirations aren't worth pursuing, so she dresses a lot more boldly to defy their demands of a respectable daughter, especially after the Supreme chose her.

I think, in this AU, Marinette isn't very sociable and doesn't have any friends, though it's mostly through her own choice. Initially, Chloe isolated her, but after Marinette gained the Ladybug Miraculous, she fought back, and due to the Supreme's favour and connections, got away with it. As a result, people are mostly scared of crossing her, and she has a lot more arrogance than our Marinette, because she thinks the power she wields and her favour with the Supreme means she's above everyone else. She's initially very loyal to the Supreme for giving her power, magical and mundane, but will eventually realise the cost of abusing her Miraculous.

Lila in this world I think was already exposed for her lies before coming to Paris, so she's a lot more humble and just trying to stay on everyone's good side. I think she'd be a lot more like the fanon Lila people thought about during the S2 hiatus. She hides a lot of herself in order to be liked and avoid getting into trouble, but a part of her still wants attention and to be accepted, so she doesn't have much of her own opinions on anything.

Lila admires Marinette for being so fearless, and initially tries to cozy up to her in order to win her over as a friend. Marinette isn't having any of this though, but eventually recognises the facade Lila is putting on in order to be liked and feels a tiny bit of kinship for someone who's also putting on a front, and that eventually spirals into something bigger.

I'm still working out exactly how Toxinelle and Griffe Noire operate in their world, so I haven't thought too much about the identity dynamics at play here. I do see Lila eventually joining the Resistance though. Maybe I could make a kamikotised design for her.

[apolaskiart]

Frost and Gricko's tattoos for the iasuw au! Moving on to the kinda complex designs that made me have a bit of a crisis (legit), these ones are just as fun to make but relatively challenging to the previous one in terms of "what do I even put?".

I'll be yapping on my thoughts/headcannons regarding these below, so feel free to dive in! A warning that it is quite lengthy because of said crises-induced reflecting session (a proud citizen of yap city indeed)

First off, we have to talk about the technicalities of Frost's tattoos. It actually put me in a crisis when making this because the first question that came to mind when finding inspo was was "how the hell do you put tattoos on a tiger?"

Aside from the issue of tattooing onto fur, there is the presence of stripes that make it difficult to create a design in the first place. So for this a.u's sake (and my well being) we can treat fur like skin where tattoos can easily be applied and expressed, but would have a shorter lifespan, aka fade quicker, as a con so retouching would be more often. It can also overlap the patterns of the natural fur if designed as such (as I did with Frost).

With this, characters who have fur (e.g. Jornir) could possibly be given tattoos designs in the future while side stepping the technical issues to avoid putting to much focus on it. This could apply to other characters who may have leathery or feathery skin types.

Now of to the designing part. Unlike Gideon and Torbek, the aesthetic/style of the tattoo was not apparent at first and took a bit of a backseat to the actual design elements for Frost. Originally, using a purely geometrical style did not feel satisfying. After revisiting his canon for some ideas, an illustrative style was added to contrast the geometry which then seemingly worked out.

"Frost's design is built mostly of geometry (circles, squares and triangles) to reflect the motion of balance between familiarity and change, logic and unpredictability, comfort and discovery. Strict in pattern and position, most are simple as to take into account the stripes of his fur.

"The only complicated design, a dragon circling a tower and followed by a koi fish, was inspired by the legend of a koi travelling an upstream waterfall to turn into a dragon, signifying strength and perseverance. It is also a sign, that behind a rigid demeanor is a fiery passion waiting to be unleashed." -> The connected yarn was to give the idea that Frost can weave this path of his, but a connection as well to my other hc that it is his main reminder of his home in Yulong.

Things also mostly come in eight (resembles infinity as well as signs for wealth and success)! It was quite fun determining how to add this in as well :D

For the actual main inspo, IVE's "HEYA" has been on the forefront. Combined with another inspired by the phrase "When tigers used to smoke…" (which is the literary equivalent of "once upon a time…" and what has "once upon a…" in their name?), I must say that culture took the reigns in directing Frost's design and imho I would say that, compared to others, his was more appropriate to have strong semblances of his home as a remembrance (e.g. yarn, temple) during his travels.

Also I used a green coloring scheme because literally all other colors did not look as good as i intended. Fate really wanted him to have a green-orange scheme.

Now we got Frost out of the way, its Gricko's turn! Despite being challenging as well, Gricko's design had assistance from punk/heavy metal aesthetics. Though the only idea that I really had mostly was the logo of different band names

I will gladly argue on why Gricko's college band name should be "Goblin Deez..." Imagine, you can say nuts if you are being funny or hands if you want a fight. Anything really, which is liberating at its finest.

From here though, the main idea really that bloomed after this was that most of his tattoos were going to be personal too him!

"Aside from the egregious tattoo of his band name, the tattoos all over him speak of his journey. A pinup of a lady troll and a crown from the hit tv series game of chairs, for his childhood dreams of being a king and bagging a hot troll. A scale and guitar for his college pol. sci days. Others speaking of his collected hobbies and knick- knacks throughout a particularly challenging adulthood. Yet on his chest is his most cherished, his center and everything, which is none other than Hootsie."

The covered half sleeve tattoos on his arm ? That's to cover up the name of his exes (Headcanon that Gricko was just as much a womanizer as Gideon, but mostly in his college to early adult life. He slowed down once Hootsie entered the picture). Also its just more badass looking with designs of the monsters his canon self uses lol.

ALSO ALSO PAINTED NAILS, I'LL ARGUE WITH THE WHOLE COURT ROOM THAT HE AND HOOTSIE PAINT EACH OTHERS NAILS AS A HC!!!!

End of yapping session. Meeting adjourned!

[dovalore]

trainer evbo wants to battle!

go check out @rhymeswithchronic's post about this pvpciv au!

time for some design thoughts

from this point forward in the post, i'll be referring to evbo as boey!

so this all started because i thought, "haha, his headband would have a pokeball design on it" and now here we are like two whole hours later (not counting the amount of time it's going to take me to yap about this design)

everything else was like, "okay, how can i make his design call back to jirachi" since that's his partner pokemon

the music i went to for his vibes were nemona's regular battle theme and zame's remaster of barry's battle theme! he feels like someone who'd have an animation where he jumps into frame before the battle actually starts

it's a little hard to see here because of how they're positioned, but the ribbon part does share the same wavy edge as jirachi's... tail? thing? i'm not sure what they are. also i feel like i say this at least once each time i start yapping about my designs, i should probably work on that lmao

the pouch on his hoodie is meant to somewhat resemble an eye

his hair does flair out a little bit at the ends since jirachi's head is a star, but i didn't want to make it too over the top so it's a lot more subtle than that

obviously his pouches, pockets and bag are filled with things he's picked off the ground

... don't ask me what his bag looks like beyond what's shown here because i didn't really think that much about it

yes the little bit of text on his hoodie says "360" because he makes references to parkciv in the source material and i was like, sure why not (pokemon 360 is wynaut, which does kinda work out in retrospect if you consider that it's fate is to evolve into the pokemon equivalent of a punching bag. one that can fuck you up, but a punching bag regardless)

the pokeball being upside down is intentional on my end, boey... not so much. guy's just too excited to battle to notice

boey you're gonna trip boey

i think it would be funny if his treecko had unburden as her ability, so she's here unburdening boey berry pouch lmao

gave her stripes because boey has stripes, that's about all the thought that went into that element

treecko's actual eyes make them look so serious, so i made them round here. she can be a silly little guy as a treat

jirachi's pretty much just your standard jirachi, the only difference here is that i made their eyes green instead of teal

i think the last time i drew either of these pokemon was when my friends and i were challenging each other to draw them from memory, which i would be down for again! drop an ask about drawing a mon from memory if you make it to this point or something idk

[fatesundress]

⭑ life of the party. tom riddle x reader

summary. when one game is ruined, another begins.

tags. explicitly fem afab reader, smut with as minimal plot as i can physically allow myself, minors SCRAMMM, loosely implied hogwarts university au as always, flirting via mutually assured jealousy, impeccable communication skills, established relationship, the guy the reader is talking to gets annoyed she doesn’t want him but he doesn’t do anything, religious undertones that might have accidentally become overtones, party setting (background drinking & general degeneracy), probably the meanest tom i’ll ever write and i still tried making him nice, fingering, piv, a little degradation but that's life, fawwwk the weeknd but the song this is based on is so sexy, etc

note. Me writing this: nightguard: ON, religious themes: RIFE, shame: ABOUNDING. i am so embarrassed by this. have i mentioned smut doesn’t come naturally to me? i don’t even know how i got here. i’m on heelys at the proverbial skatepark and everyone else apprenticed under tony hawk. Do you understand? ok.

word count. 4.5k

request. yes!

He is what he is. Stoic, sacred, silent and then verbose. You knew he had his fixations before you knew him at all — no one made top of every class without a shadow of obsession to contrast the glint of their excellence — but you could not anticipate how that obsession might translate when applied to a person. You’re not sure he had either.

He is what he is. The muggle world taught him religion and in it he learned only the tenor of devotion. When his fingers take your jaw, trace slow at the stripes of your thighs, steady your hips from under you and hold tight, there’s reverence in it. His kisses don’t wane with the months gone by; they soften with purpose. They rouse with hunger. His eyes don’t waver. Should a good man gaze upon his altar? Should he smile like sin when he gets on his knees? 

He does.

Tom Riddle is what he is and you solemnise in equal part.

You don’t come to these things often, taken aback by the sight of the Slytherin common room in ribbons and banners tattered within the first hour of the night. Bottles glow green in the lake-light on every available surface, scattered about the place and spilled in sticky puddles. 

You’re a wallflower tonight, though not for lack of options. You observe from a comfortable distance the drunken antics of new adults, free to carry their liquor in hand rather than hidden away in pockets and pillowcases. There’s something vaguely entertaining about it, intoxicating where someone else might mind their business and actually get intoxicated, but you see no harm done. Whispers fall on your ears before the rumours make their rounds, couples slink away in the darkness where someone in the crowd might not notice, and the night’s first instance of someone hurrying up the stairs in tears comes barrelling right past you. You invent a story for why to keep yourself busy. 

It’s all just buzz.

Now, if you don’t come often, he certainly doesn’t.

Tonight, he has, and for reasons explicable but few, you’ve found yourselves on opposite sides of the room.

It began on the green couch by the window with a chess set spilled across the velvet — a bet you made with him upon arrival; you find wizard’s chess trite, Tom finds it feckless, but it makes for a good challenge. 

What else could convince a man so perpetually controlled to pour himself a drink? And you imagine, from his perspective: what else could convince a woman so determined to outwit him?

It’s for no nefarious reason — to slight him or see him stumble — but because you love the fractions of relief that colour him, soften him, temper him. It’s because he loves you in every shade, in every pliancy, in each and every fervour. But mostly it’s because you love kindly to best him, and he loves mirthfully to best you.

So you play. The game is slow and teasing, hard to see in the ripples of the lake, and toppled over in the final moves (which you’ll insist you were winning) by the same swaying body that spills its drink down the front of your dress. And so you’re up, brushing your index finger over the corner of Tom’s sudden scowl. You whisper like a joke not to kill anyone but he’s so quick to look like he might that you consider repeating yourself with more conviction.

You poke at the spot where his jaw is tense. “I’ll be right back.”

Drying liquor from lace is a matter of precision even with magic, and this is half-gelatinous like someone raided the kitchen’s supply of jelly and steeped it in something offensively alcoholic. You utilise the clearer light of the Slytherin girl’s lavatory, wetting your dress before evaporating the water from it. There’s the matter then of transforming the stained fabric back to its original colour, and you huff in the mirror at having a game you thought you didn’t care much for ruined so close to its end.

You care about Tom, though. The omphalos of your issue resides there.

(It is fair to say most of your issues reside there.)

With only minutes gone by, the common room crowd looks doubled when you return, and though you wade through you’re pushed back like debris caught in a tide, the bodies more stubborn rubble than you. So you retreat, stand flush at the wall with your arms crossed, and wait for Tom’s eyes to land on yours. To, perhaps, open your mind and let him in, tell him exhaustedly from afar that the game is at rest and you’re ready to leave.

But even he’s hard to find in the bodies unified in breath, flux like a big set of lungs —  and nothing about Tom blurs into the background.

So you wait. You wallflower. You pour yourself a drink.

The moment stretches on longer than anticipated, and after many detached observations of the room, someone else finds you instead. He’s tall, blond to Tom's inkwell black, kissed by summer sun even as autumn soothes its blister. Your gaze wavers back to him a few times though his own is uncertain for all its focus. He seems to be waiting for you to stop, perhaps for the silhouette of someone else to slip by and prove you were looking at them instead. When no one else comes, he traverses the crowd with a straightened inch of pride, stepping through new colours until he’s close enough to you that the light settles emerald-black and you can see the great chasm of his beauty up close. 

His freckles are carefully dusted, his structure strong, all squarish, rugged lines and shades of August.

The chasm is not a lack of allure, per se, it’s just a lack of him. One man’s August to your adherent’s December, the intention of his warmth, a thing that does not come to him like everything else but that he makes and makes and mends when it lapses because he does not want to see you cold. The singular reward of a rarity like that.

“Hi," you say, glancing over a broad shoulder.

“Evening," he responds. He takes you in with a look of (unappreciated) appreciation. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“No, we haven’t.”

He extends a hand. “Oliver Belby.”

“Pleasure.”

You don't offer much in the way of conversation. He’ll vie for your attention regardless of how much of it you offer. So you lean against the wall where the buzz of sound prickles your hair, let him talk, let his hand come up to rest beside your head, and you find Tom.

He’s right where you left him, a new clearing in the crowd making space for your eyes to meet.

His are ice even at a distance. As if you proselytise — as if you could — kneel for another man or let one kneel before you, all of your trysts together faithless.

They aren’t. He must know they aren’t.

But you put yourself here and standing at the target of his gaze has never been marred by the severity of it.

You decide then; when one game is ruined, another begins.

In truth, you can’t deny the element of theatrics in the way Tom denies everyone but you: his soft, penitent smile, the apologetic cant of his head, how his eyes can find you in any crowd and whoever is clinging onto his every word that night will follow his gaze and deflate when they discover you at the end of it. Sometimes it’s harsh. Final. He lacks the patience of pretence. 

Sometimes, the week is dull. Sometimes, the whoever is undeterred. Sometimes you’ve pushed him here. 

No — You’ve never done that before. This is new.

So it’s one of those weeks, and one of those whoevers, on an anomaly you may as well have directed the encounter yourself, and Tom is half-indulgent as he forces his eyes away and you force yours to stay. 

You watch him from across the room as the woman drapes herself across the arm of his chair. There's a furious blush on her cheeks even in the dark, a pretty disarray to her shoulder-length hair, skirts pleated over knees she faces toward him. She smiles and offers him a glass of something, and you know for certain Tom understands this game because he accepts it, eyes flicking back to you as he swirls the glass in contest. 

To that you take an inappreciable sip of your own.

“ — Which is why no one has even attempted to kill one in decades. And capturing one is another thing entirely. My mother works with the Greeks on occasion, and the nearest she came to a den was in the twenties. If she had gone any nearer I wouldn’t be here.”

“Hm?” You look back at the man in front of you. His lips glisten with having licked them between every phrase.

“The manticores,” he says, undeterred.

“Right. Five-X beasts, aren’t they?”

“That’s what I said. I heard from one of my mother’s colleagues that — ”

The woman is whispering something in Tom’s ear, her hair on his cheek. He’s looking at you as if you had said the words. You don't shy away when Oliver leans in to whisper too. It's a strange, fractured language. Too intimate while too detached. Whispers from across the room, desire from another in the place of desire for each other. But the strangeness should not surprise you anymore. This is Tom: beautiful and wicked and the one you chose.

“ — And Nundus are worse. Deadliest creature there is — ”

She’s laughing about something, the woman. Half-reserved, she’s angled toward the party despite her leaning on his shoulder and the dissipating inches of distance.

“ — They stalk in silence. Think of the size of one, right? They’re apex predators… so commanding and still they could be in front of you one instant and gone the next.”

You engage with detached interest. “Really?”

And now Oliver barricades your view, his other hand coming to rest on your other shoulder.

“Do we have any classes together?”

You blink up at him. “No.”

“No, right,” he says, eyes darting to your lips. “I’d remember you.” 

His hand comes up to cup your cheek, and you wonder if for some men one-sided discussions of class five beasts qualify as foreplay.

You place a hand on his chest, eyebrows raised and half a startled smile curled. 

“You’re not going to kiss me," you inform him.

His face falls, but with it, at least, does his hand.

“Did you hear me?"

“It’s loud,” he decides suddenly. “Can we go somewhere else?”

You’re not sure you believe that. 

You duck under an arm and search the crowd again. The woman is on the arm of the chair looking thoroughly dismayed, and for good reason —

Tom is gone. 

Your breath is caught.

“This isn’t… You’re not going to…?”

You flash Oliver with a glare. “So you did hear me.”

He makes a pathetically sad face, and you think: it’s a wonder he made it this far when his courtship evidently hinges on the subject of his affection not listening to a word out of his mouth.

“Goodnight, Oliver,” you say tersely.

“What was that for, then?” he asks, and it comes out practically whined.

“That was talking.”

“But you’re —”

“Belby.”

He is what he is. It shouldn’t surprise you when he appears beside you all fatal rage on a quiet lead, narrowly fixed to you. 

Tom’s cold is his median temperature, yes, but in moments like this it’s as much for you as his handmade warmth. He’d pluck the fingers off a boy like Oliver. The digits would string eaves like icicles.

Oliver is looking between you and Tom like something terrible has dawned on him, hands urged to his pockets to soothe the flames your unveiled ties to a man seemingly singed him with.

“Riddle — Mate, I didn’t… I didn’t know she was…”

Tom’s voice is flat, edged with something that makes his monotony sound merciful. “Pity. If only you knew as much as you talked.”

Oliver’s mouth opens and closes and opens again, but wisely he settles on silence instead of excuses, and wastes no time fleeing slowly into the crowd. 

The instant he's stolen by the wave Tom's eyes are on yours and they’re molten. You move to say something but his patience was for show — he’s dragging you by the arm out of the common room and into one of the dungeon's empty classrooms without giving you the chance.

“Tom —" You start to protest, mouth twisted in a scowl. “Tom, you're being —"

He shuts the door behind you and locks it with such delicacy your breath catches at the question of how badly he's holding himself back right now.

“I'm being what?"

“You're…" It's hard to formulate an answer when he's like this. “It was a game. Don’t pretend you weren’t playing too."

Tom inches in, chest rising with angry breaths. “A game, was it? Did he know that?"

“Did she?” you hiss.

“It certainly became apparent when she was discarded so that I might retrieve you.”

“It was as apparent to Belby, judging by the way he was left gawking.”

“And with great restraint I let him. A mercy I didn’t take his eyes so he was left without the ability.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, now I understand; the problem wasn’t the game, it’s that I played it better than you.”

He looks at you for a long time before casting a silencing charm on the room.

Oh.

Oh — your heart barrels off somewhere. You’re without it for a moment, breathless in the wake of the implication of a spell like that.

“Tom," you say politically, “It was hardly a matter of rescuing.”

He nods imperceptibly. “No, it wasn’t.”

“So we’re in agreement.”

He hums a non-answer.

Each step he takes forward, you take back. It's a peculiar way to have a conversation, but part of the game, you suppose.

Interesting he’s still playing.

You still gasp when you inevitably hit the wall, hands going to the carved edge of a windowsill.

“You’re terrible when you win,” he whispers. His lips brush your ear.

You shudder, mouth dry as you press against his shoulder. “You’re worse when you lose.”

His mouth drags down your jaw but he refuses to kiss you, still withholding something, still holding back in some terrible, electrifying way. Instead one of his hands starts to dip down your side. You shiver as he grazes the skin of your breast, exposed by the cut of your dress, and continues down your waist. His mouth traces your bare shoulder as his tongue makes a slow pass, skin beneath leaping at his careful ministrations.

With long, slender fingers he's pulling your dress off button by button, torturously slow, and you feel mocked to have cleaned it earlier. You feel foolish to have left knowing the night would have ended like this regardless.

“Tom,” you say. His name is followed by staggered breaths. Your fingers are clutching the windowsill.

The air is thick as he watches you, flesh exposed by each undone catch. And still he will not kiss you, even as his lips trail along your collarbone and you start to tug instinctively at his belt. He makes the barest sound of disapproval and spins you to face the window, your hands urged on instinct to press against the glass.

“Tom...”

He hikes your dress up your thighs. It clings to your hips, a meagre two buttons left attached to keep it from falling.

Your wand clatters as his fingers work the clasp of your bra and his teeth skim your shoulder, leaving little bites he laves at softly with his tongue. You shudder, arching into him, searching for friction. His touch traverses the shape of you and stops feather-light between your legs.

“Tom —”

“Quiet," he admonishes, a little tut.

Your skin jumps at the caress of his fingers tracing deceptively timid up your thighs, like he hasn’t done this before, like it’s care and not punishment. His favourite oxymoron: the gentlest torture, the cruelest succour.

His index draws upon the lace of your underwear and tugs it aside with a tenderness that makes you gasp. Is there a way to press harder to the glass without breaking it? Is there ever enough to grab onto when he gets like this — so singularly focused on ruining you? 

One of your hands latches onto the arm half-disappeared in your skirts instead, clinging steadfast to the white of its sleeve, your body swaying as if at sea. He keeps you steady, but this is his crown achievement: that he is all there is that can do it when you’re so singularly focused on being ruined by him.

The sinews of his forearm work imperceptibly under your fingers as he appreciates the newly unfettered flesh, two digits sliding between your legs, and he makes a satisfied sound against your shoulder at the wetness he finds there. 

You’re swallowing air with a moan stuck in your throat; too dry, you realise, and feel like you’re choking when he starts to move, gripping his arm somehow tighter.

As a rule, you know how much he loves this, but it’s tenfold under his jealousy and you think deliriously, probably wrongly, that for how much he enjoys pushing you you enjoy pushing him to get here. You’re his and he’s yours, there’s no doubt in it — but what he can reduce you to — this desperate creature, writhing and panting, trying in vain to satiate herself with a simple finger — this is the translation; the fruition of his fixations put to a person rather than a subject. This is what it is to be his.

Tom’s mouth opens in a smile at your throat, and there it feels more like bared teeth, a smile that is as animal as it is pretty. 

And still he whispers with all the affection of a lover, your name peppered between kisses.

His fingers inch inside you and curl. You’re wedged in the perfect balance of his discrepancy; your disciple and your devil. He worships you in white. He ruins you in it too.

Now his name comes out in a babble, wet, half-drooled. A nip pinches the little space beneath your ear and you clutch impossibly harder to his wrist, your free hand squeaking down the window pane as you grind on his palm. He crooks his fingers against a spot that has you seeing stars, thumb pressed to your clit in a subtle motion, and you feel yourself tip off into an unknown he aquaints you with often. In a blurry, flickering moment, the light gleams somewhere beyond the stained hues of the window. And that should be it. The edge is at your heels and you should be falling. But the sinful press of him at your back commands you to lurch against him, and when you moan for more he pulls his fingers free.

You stumble weakly into his chest, startled.

“What… What?”

“Ask me for it,” he says, his voice hoarse, markedly wanton in spite of himself. But there is hunger and there is greed. There’s a sacrificial lamb and there’s a hunted one— there’s religion and there’s Tom. He invents something that demands greater devotion.

And the sound of leather rasping serge and metal clinking metal reels your conscience in. There are no stars. There’s just him. His belt is coming undone.

“Tom.” You swallow. “I told you —”

“And I want you to ask.” He cups your jaw in his hand, thumb tracing your lower lip. “Nicely.”

Your mouth opens for him and you shiver, pressing further back for contact he doesn’t allow. Instead another small tut is whispered at your neck, relinquished to a kiss.

His finger brushes your teeth when you speak. “I want you.”

You feel him shake his head and you all but whine.

“I want you inside, Tom — need you — please.”

“Please?” he echoes mockingly.

“Please,” you say in an uneven voice, and when your tongue grazes his thumb he eases it further into your mouth with an appeased hum.

And so his zipper comes down and you hold your breath with the weight of your dress at your hips.

He pushes inside you with minimal pause, slow still, to relish the way your little pants hitch, stop, and shudder out in a broken moan; the way your breath is guided by his rhythm, how you’re shaped by him, fitted around him. You careen forward and your palms flatten on the window, trembling at the first thrust. Your fingers quiver down the glass.

Tom pulls you into him on the second, patience abandoned. His lips chase your pulse. His grip on your jaw tightens as his thumb pops free with a string of spit. He nudges deeper at a new angle, your body forced as far as it can lean back, gasping heavenward when your head falls helplessly onto his shoulder.

It’s profane. Your ears almost dull to the sound of his hips snapping against yours, the obscenity of your skin on what he offers of his, but you waver between earth and something else, brought back to him by the torturous sight of the edge he stole you from. Always brought back to him. 

He’s gripping your jaw in one hand as he pushes deeper, and your fingers are lost for purchase on his forearms, trembling to hold onto something.

When he pulls out of you at your brink again, you practically cry out. But you understand when he spins you around again, hiking you up against the windowsill, your shoulders hitting the cool glass with a gasp you barely register in the fog of your desperation. His eyes are dilated to midnight rings. The weight of his desire is frightening. The insistence to claim you better yet.

He wastes no time before slamming into you again, pausing at the hilt to watch your eyebrows wrench together before resuming his pace. When your mouth falls open, he swallows the noise that tries to come out of it.

It doesn’t feel like a kiss. It feels like the prolusion to a bite.

His fervour is all the reminder of how you got here in the first place; the teeth, the force, the grip on your waist. There’s a rough sound he makes in your mouth that you taste more than you hear. The vibration of him is everywhere. You’re too hot and it only occurs to you because your fingers are clawing at fabric instead of skin that he’s fully dressed and your last button has finally snapped, lace pooled on the classroom floor as he fucks you. The thought is consigned to oblivion as quickly as it came. It doesn't matter.

You're clutching at his shoulders, the nape of his neck — trying to kiss him back, but you feel torn in two by the intensity of his ministrations, a low, immolating pressure building in your abdomen. He’s proving something with you, and his is a relentless, unending appetite. You don't really stand a chance. You think you've known that from the start.

Tom is all-consuming. Tom is a force of nature, a whirlwind that sweeps over you. He leaves you breathless and somehow needing more as he wraps his hand around the small of your back and seizes you in place.

Still you find yourself wanting to be held tighter.

“T-Tom —" you sob through the kiss but he doesn't give you enough air to do it. He pushes harder, a rasp at the back of his throat, some carnal thing. He’s not withholding your release now; he’s spurring you towards it.

When he withdraws his lips from yours, his brows are furrowed in concentration. There’s a fine lustre of sweat on his forehead, stray curls pulled across dark, wicked eyes. The sight of him alone is condemnable, but it isn’t for you.

He likes to watch you like this. When your moans dissolve to the torn syllable of his name, again and again. The veneration. Your choked litanies.

You give them to him.

Sleeves drawn up by your body’s baser instinct for skin, you’ve carved a canvas of praise into his arms, marked up to his elbows where your fingers had jerked upward to rake at his back. This time, when you find the cliffside, nothing stops you from teetering off its edge. Flames dance across your skin in an explosion, your collar damp and bitten, your waist in Tom’s vice-like grip. One hard thrust and you’re falling.

The stars are blinding. You decide then they were made by him.

Your head lulls back as shocks of pleasure course through your body, the coil snapped, the hard shape of him inside you demanding impossibly for more. You stumble through the light, vision blurred, praying and praying and praying. His grip comes to find your jaw again.

You keen, addled through the ecstasy, barely conscious of the way his panted breaths hitch at the sight of you in his hands, soft-eyed and puddy.

He always comes apart soon after you, but it happens rarely that your body is so taut on the wire of rapture that his twitching inside you takes you with him. 

This time it does.

You sink against him, thighs numb and wet, one hand slipping dumbly from his figure and swiping across condensation-foggy glass. The second orgasm is an aftershock of the first. It’s slow. It feels like being caught from the last fall. You land in Tom’s arms and they’re holding you through whitened knuckles. His eyelashes flutter, ink-dipped twines of quills, and he steals the shaky sigh from your mouth by pressing it to his.

You kiss lazily and softly. The room feels sheeted in static. The electricity lingers on both of you.

It’s hard not to fall against the window when he slides out of you. You slump on quivering legs into his chest instead, heaving, spend trickling down your legs.

Tom holds you close, adjusting his trousers before sinking down to settle you on his lap. He wipes the sweat from your face and presses his lips to the feverish skin it plastered. Forehead, cheeks, nose, chin, whispers of your name down your jaw like a prayer answered. Your eyelids flutter shut and he kisses you there, too. His lashes tickle.

You love him more than you worship him. You think he likes that more.

He grabs your forsaken dress from the floor and slips it over your bare shoulders, summoning the snapped button back in place before he begins to meticulously clasp the rest together again. His mouth leaves a path at the skin under each one before it closes, and you hum in dizzy gratitude.

“That was,” you say in a very worn voice, “a terrible way to reinforce not making you jealous.”

He glares at you from one of the lowermost buttons and you giggle sleepily, curling a hand into his hair. “Don’t look at me like that. You liked it too.”

He leans back up at that, tipping your chin with his fingers, gaze darting over the wrecked state of you with a pleased gleam in his eyes. “You liked it? What a modest interpretation.”

Now it’s your turn to glare.

He is what he is — pursuit of buttons forgotten as you’re laid down on the moonlit floor to be reminded just how much you liked it.

taglist. @lyis @indimoss @poddzi @esolean @d1anna @maripositanoctruna @mentally-in-northern-italy @ronniemaximoff1234 @moobell55 @jaerang @ramayantika @saltwaterbythesea @acube07 @togenabi @adazito @kitcat334 @blaurghhh @shutupfinn @jaymeeshayden @lilu842 @leaosee @garfunkelworld @definitely-not-captain-america @multiplefandomstan @mangoesareorange [ note: inexplicably, a bunch of my tags aren't working. i tried to fix it but if you didn’t get a notif i’m sorry! ]

[ddejavvu]

for mvm can you do fratboy anakin ? i know he's horny absolutely all the time and i need him so bad 😭 maybe just hanging out with him and he can't keep his hands off of you ? thank you !

today is multiverse monday, send me any au you can think of! :)

lmk if anyone wants a full fic/part two to this where they actually get the dice in the mail and use them !! thank you for changing the wiring of my brain fratboy!ani is now all i think about every day - please send more anakin requests especially if they're fratboy!ani!!!!!

this post is 18+, minors dni.

It's not uncommon for Anakin to have his hand down your pants. One of them is there now, while you lay in the small twin bed of his dorm room, still where it rests sandwiched between your thighs. It's not wandering, though you're sure he'd like it to be, it's merely resting against your skin. The lace on the hem of your panties must be itching against his wrist where he's snuck his hand through both your pants and your underwear, but it never seems to matter enough for him to withdraw his hand.

He's spooning you from behind, his arm stretched over your hip to slot itself between your legs while you decompress from your day. You're online shopping, or rather, online window shopping, browsing through countless products you know you'll never buy and scoffing at the more ridiculous ones to Anakin.

His face is resting against the back of your neck where he's planting soft, sticky kisses to the skin there, and you've got your phone propped up on a pillow so that he can see the screen over your own head. You're scrolling lazily while he pampers you with affection just the same, but a glowing green picture catches both of your droopy eyes.

"Look at those," He murmurs, his breath coming in hot against your neck, "Sex dice."

They are, in fact, sex dice.

They're glow-in-the-dark cubes stamped with words like 'lick', 'suck', and 'bite' on one die, body parts listed on the other: 'tits', 'thighs', 'neck'.

You can't see all six faces of either die, but you're sure they're equally filthy. You snort as you feel his hand squeeze into the pliant flesh of your inner thigh, his lips still pressing sloppy kisses to the back of your neck.

"Ani, we don't need those. You already do all that shit, you don't need dice to tell you to do it."

"Look," He gestures to the screen again as the picture of the dice changes, displaying a shot of them in action.

"'Suck navel,'" Anakin reads in a snicker, "Babe, I've never sucked your navel before."

"Do it." You challenge him, but when he immediately pushes himself off of the mattress to dive for your stomach, you roll over onto it, "No, don't do it!"

"Come on!" He laughs, collapsing atop you where you lay on your belly on the mattress, "You told me to do it!"

"I was kidding!" You shout, muffled into the pillow, crushed by his weight, "Anakin, you're not allowed to suck my navel."

"Aw, you're no fun." He chuckles, prodding at your cheek and slipping his hand beneath it as he turns your head, offering him access to the side of your face that isn't still pressed against your pillow. He puckers your lips by squeezing at your jaw and he kisses the side of your mouth, slightly sloppy and uncoordinated.

"What about that other stuff, hm?" He asks, your face still held in his grasp while you lay beneath him on the bed. "Can I do that other stuff?"

"What other stuff?"

"'Lick thighs'," He reads off of the picture, now changed once more to show different faces of the dice, "Can I lick your thighs?"

"You can lick my thighs," You hum bashfully, hyper aware of the slight tingling beneath your stomach at the mere thought of Anakin's tongue dragging wet stripes up your legs. He grins devilishly at you, pressing one more sideways kiss to your mouth before releasing his hold on you and pushing his weight off of the mattress. He pries at your side and you turn over at his command, neck craned to watch as he slinks down to the end of the bed.

"Come here," He seems to be talking more to your lower half than to you as he drags your stretchy pajama pants down, leaving your lace-lined underwear on. He hums dramatically, stuffing his face between your pillowy thighs to muffle the sound.

"Fuck yeah," He groans, the words morphing into an open-mouthed groan as he licks a thick, sloppy stripe up your inner thigh. The tip of his tongue ghosts dangerously close to the hem of your panties around your legs, and he hears the way your breath hitches in your throat at the feeling.

"Thanks, babe." He mumbles, licking another line of saliva this time towards your hip. He hoists himself up with his arms to reach for your navel and you recoil slightly, but he catches your sides to lean down and press a firm kiss to your belly button.

"Buy those dice," He instructs you, sinking back down between your thighs to jam his tongue between them, "Use my card, I don't care. Just get them."