#thank you anon ;)

[reigningm4x]

Max over the summer break with Antonio Felix da Costa's father

[k6tzie]

oh my goodness ive had so many ideas running around my head about sub! & virgin! ghost and im so in love with your depictions of sub him.. just imagine he being so confused on why hes so painfully hard and he doesnt know what to do, he just wants his mommy help him out so desperately, and hes so confused why it feels so good when she wraps her hand around his length.. 🤭

ive never actually been an anon on your page before so hii

hii my lovely anon thank u for this request, read this and started gnawing on the bars of my enclosure this is so good YES! 💯 sub!virgin!ghost who never had or has time to rub one out, he doesn't know how to 'do it', per se, and he doubts it feels that good anyway - always cynical. he's far too busy to even think of anything like that and he doesn't wanna sit there and just rub it like he's stroking a dog or something. what if it doesn't feel good? what if his hands are dirty and he contracts some illness? he's always overthinking whilst he suffers another night of his painfully hard, fat cock straining his pants as he scrolls through your social media, seeing your pretty little smile and the clothes he's convinced you put on for him to see like minx. and here he is again, back at square one as he thrusts his hips around in his sheets, not daring to touch himself. and next thing he knows, you found out about all this and wanted to take care of your sweet boy. you are the only female figure in his life after all, why not help him? by this point, he's begging you to sit on his face, dominate him, ride him until he is an overstimulated, stupid mess. he's babbling how good your hand feels rubbing his lengthy cock whilst his eyes twitch in pleasure and his pretty brown eyes cross.

you don't let him cum, no not yet. you don't just wanna feel his warm cum drip down your fingers, what a waste. you wanna feel it drip down your belly, or the crease between your boobs - not just on your fingers. instead you climb atop his red leaky cock and sink down right onto it whilst your gummy walls stretch to accompany his girth. his eyes lock onto yours in pure adoration whilst his cock twitches and stretches inside your gummy walls. he loves being fucked by his mommy, a smart one you are. so experienced huh?

and each jagged, awkward thrust he pounds into you is followed by a weak; "am i being good for you? is this good love?" in need of reassurance. so when you cup his face, pouting and reassuring him, "yeah baby," his cum shoots right inside you :(, feels good having his mommy take care of him. but he feels so bad about coming without telling you yet, he was just so overstimulated with emotions he didn't know what to do or say, so he apologizes profusely and offers to get you off with his mouth until you're trembling against his tongue with your juices spread on his mouth, cheek and chin as he holds your waist longingly in hopes you'll say yes. (inspired by this video<3)

[ouidamforeman]

Crowley is Barbie. Has multiple jobs, is very fashionable, has weird feet

This Barbie works for Satan Our Master!

[graytodd]

Oh my god Jaybin in Dicks cape- im sobbing 😭 can i perhaps request a continuation with Dick dressing Jay in a custom Nightwing suit for 'undercover purposes' because "someone might get suspicious if you dress as robin" but we'll all know the real reason 😗 maybe discowing if you like the suit or think Dick could handle Jay going anywhere like that 😅

I just enjoyed this way too much, thanks for this request anon!♡ Naah, Dick would never let Jay go around in a deep v neck costume 🤣 but I love the idea of jaybin as nightwing sidekick ~

[frownyalfred]

evil pennywaynes au (i think it’s the right one 😅) where for some reason Martha and Thomas come back to life/get summoned as ghosts for a bit, and see that their son and grandkids see their employee-with-benefits as family. And that’s how Bruce finds out they never really loved Alfred. And he’s so upset with his parents, and Alfred is living through the rejection all over again, and the kids are pissed at the Waynes and trying to shield Alfred, and Martha and Thomas and so disappointed and upset because he replaced them.

And Alfred didn’t replace them, he loved the so much despite everything, and tried his best to preserve their memory, by planting Martha’s favorite flowers every year, and using Thomas’s favorite dinner set on special occasions, and telling stories about them. But they don’t see that, they just see that he is loved in a way they never got to be by people they should have known but never will.

And then Martha and Thomas disappear into the afterlife again, and the living are left to pick up the broken pieces.

[wakayrd]

Thinking about Loop and Phantom of the Opera similarities. Does Sif and/or Loop make those comparisons and jokes about it? (i love your theatre au so so so much its so fun)

I went a bit of a different direction with this ask because I was thinking about it from Siffrin's perspective (plus I love doodling hehe). Loop probably has made lots of references but doesn't refer to themselves as a phantom. It's kinda too on the nose in a way.

The most helpful phantom ever!! They spend all their time at the theatre, they might as well clean up and make sure things go smoothly!

... That look, just for a moment.

The next day, Loop was back to normal, Siffrin won't make references to The Phantom of the Opera anymore, but Loop will from time to time. Siffrin doesn't know why this happened, nor how to ask if joking about Loop having a "Christine" was what caused them to react in such a way. Maybe they lost something, or had to give them up... Little bonus doodle, Siffrin's paint clothes:

[lu-twilights-pup]

pls may we have more young bastard!Time? pretty pls owo

I lost my bastard-becomer-stick so he’s just baby faced rn

[uhohdad]

any thoughts on slasher!konig?

(if not or if that’s too dark you can ignore this!! :))

he’s suuuuch a cliche slasher <3

SLASHER!KÖNIG X READER

It’s your fault, really. For thinking you could enjoy a relaxing weekend away from everything. All you wanted to do was hide away in an isolated, peaceful cabin in the woods. Enjoy nature, read smutty stories, and not be bothered by another soul for 72 hours.

Apparently, that’s too much to ask.

The dingy little cabin was hardly well-maintained, smelling of mildew and decorated with furniture that looks like the eighties puked all over it - but it was cozy, and it got the job done.

You’re still breathing life into the cabin long after the sun set, long after you should have been tucked under the covers and snoring away. Your phone blares songs you wouldn’t dare play in front of anyone else, humming along to your guilty pleasures with a wiggle in your hips. The inviting aroma of a sneaky late night snack wafts in the air, warm light pouring from the lamps and out of the windows, illuminating the surrounding woods.

The piercing ringing makes you jump, wide eyes darting to the phone. An old rotary nicknack you hardly noticed, and certainly wouldn’t have thought of as functional if you had. The ring slices right through you, high-pitched and grating. As your tensed shoulders relax, your lips twist in unease. Hesitantly you pause the music, making uneasy steps to answer the call.

“Hello?” You ask softly, not bothering to stifle your confusion.

No one speaks, but there’s someone on the other line. You can practically feel the deep, heavy breaths tickling your ear.

“Hello?” You repeat, brows furrowed and an index finger nervously twirling around the phone cord.

“Do you always vacation all alone?”

The voice on the other end is harsh, dangerous. Intense and deep with a purred condescension stitched in, it sends a shudder straight down your spine.

Your body stills, mouth turned cotton.

“Who is this?” You ask, an unfortunate break in your voice.

“Such a dangerous thing for a little lamb to do.”

You scoff, a smile creeping on your face, “Very funny.”

You laugh, pinching the phone between your ear and your shoulder, “Who is this?”

You rattle off a list of the usual suspects, your cheekiest friends and family members in hopes to get them to break character.

“It’s like you’re inviting trouble in.”

You give a nervous laugh, eyes flicking around the cabin, “Uh-”

Prank call or no, your heart is pounding in your chest. You swallow, parting your lips to speak but you can’t seem to find the words.

“Your dancing was endearing, though, little one.”

Your face drops, a chill wrapping its fingers around your spine and frosting you from the inside out. Feet made of lead, body still except for the rise and fall of shallow breaths.

The line goes dead before you can find a response, an even dialtone in your ear as you try to steady the heart pounding against your ribcage. When your thoughts catch up, fumbling fingers scramble for the rotary wheel, but the even tone cuts off as the lights go out, the life suddenly sucked from the cabin.

You pull in a sharp breath, slamming the phone on the receiver and backing away from it as if it’s a feral, bloodthirsty animal. Your head swivels around, eyes adjusting to the dark and eerie cabin. The adrenaline is coursing now, pulse pounding against your temple and knuckles knocking together.

A loud thud on the outside of the cabin makes you jump, snapping your head in the direction of the noise. A squeak leaves you as a blurred, shadowy figure passes quickly by the window. Your panicked mind is blank, frozen in your place, just barely able to fend off hyperventilation, but not at all the violent trembling.

You’re muttering objections under your breath, pleading desperately with your unwanted visitor to leave you alone, for them to reveal this was all just some big joke.

The furious jingling of metal echoes throughout the cabin, the doorknob rattling threateningly as your visitor tests the lock.

Your fingers come to your lips, wide eyes darting around before you scramble for a hiding spot. The best you can manage is a coat closet, pressing yourself flush to the wall to keep yourself steady. Weak legs ultimately slide to a sit on the stained carpet, arms tightly embracing your knees, pleading with your heavy breaths to quiet.

The first thud makes you crawl out of your skin, a deep, heavy crash against wood. Your hand comes up to your mouth, muffling your squeaks behind sweaty palms.

Another thud has you pinching your eyes shut, every muscle tensed and trembling.

The third busts the front door wide open, shards of splintered wood crashing to the ground as the doorknob slams into the cabin walls.

The whines creep up the back of your throat without your permission when you hear the sound of heavy, confident boot steps, rubble crunching under the soles as they enter.

You shake your head, lips pulled back and tears springing down your face as the slow, commanding bootsteps near. He knows exactly where you are, and he’s dragging out your torture by making you anticipate his painstaking arrival. Toying with his prey, cornering you and making you cry from pure terror. Teasing you, making you feel dumb for thinking you could even hide from him in the first place, reveling in each flinch he knows you’re making behind that door by simply walking.

How powerful he must feel.

An involuntary hiccup escapes you as the closet’s doorknob turns. You’re deafened by your own heartbeat, the door creaking open agonizingly slow, unable to stifle your sobs as he reveals himself in all his glory. Domineering frame towering over you, a hood draped over his face, a butcher knife at his side.

He tilts his head as he looks down at you - what a pathetic thing you are, teeth chattering and sobs stuttering on each breath.

He lowers himself into a squat, apathetic, half-lidded icy blue eyes studying you.

“That was too easy, little one.”

He sticks the flat of his blade just under your chin, tilting your head up to get a better look at you.

His eyes crinkle as his soaks in your sprung, glossy eyes, your tear-stained cheeks, your shivering bottom lip.

“What do you say I give you a minute head start, ja?”

He pulls a squeak from you when he meets your stare again, applying more pressure to your delicate skin with his blade. He creeps forward, closing the gap between your faces to plant a gentle kiss on your forehead through the soft fabric of his mask.

He keeps his face inches from yours when he pulls away, his deep, gritty voice lowered to a whisper when he speaks.

“Run, little one. I’ll meet you in the woods.”

✧₊⁺ abusive!könig ✧₊⁺ stalker!könig

[allimili]

Hello! I hope you are doing good! Take some water and eat your food as alwaysss

May I request a Y/n Cookie kissing Pure Vanilla? Feel free to ignore this, Atleast I tried 👌

"Wanna kiss- Oh !!?"

[ynbabe]

LOGAN FIC REQ!! (i love your messages au smmm btw THEYRE SO GOOD AHH) ok anywayssss

can you pls do logan x super super famous!reader.(preferably an actress but i don't mind any) so both of them are dating but are trying to keep it a secret since they've only been dating for a short amount of time. one night they decide to go on a date but paparazzi was there and it was going VIRAL. reader regrets not double checking if there would be any paps. sooo then everyone starts investigating on logan as the internet does and since everyone doesn't watch f1, they only see logan crashing and blah blah blah so they see him as a "bad driver" and he starts getting A LOT of hate because people think reader deserves better. they also start comparing him to reader's "more better and famous ex". reader and logan take time off social media and people think they broke up until reader releases an instagram post defending him and yeah a lot of fluff and hurt/comfort.

idk if this made sense but pls feel free to change anything!! again i love your work sm 💕‼️

Hiiii, omg thank you so much! Love love LOVE the fic idea and without any further ado- here's the fic, it isn't exactly as the prompt but I hope you love it-

Keep my wife's name OUT YOUR DAMN MOUTH ୨୧ Logan Sargeant x famous! reader

As a celebrity, you don’t often have the privilege of privacy. The cameras seemed to follow you everywhere, from outside your house to the restaurants you ate at and even to private celebrations with your friends and family.

Your last relationship had gone south exactly because of the paparazzi, making assumptions about the seriousness of your relationship and even spreading pregnancy and marriage rumours, scaring the man away.

You had wanted to take it slow, heart broken from your previous relationship but then you met Logan and for the first time in a long time you felt like you could breath, like you could do what you wanted without being judged.

You knew who he was and he knew who you were and that was perfect.

The both of you had spent a perfect week in your villa in Bali, it had been risky but no one caught on, surprisingly.

You thought your luck would continue and you threw causation to the wind, not asking your assistant to check for paparazzi at the sushi restaurant you were going to in Shanghai.

Unfortunately, you were caught just as you were leaving the restaurants waking up to a host of notifications, some good and some gut-wrenching.

Logan on the other hand tried not to throw up, his eyes wide, you could tell he was scared. Would his team drop him? No, no. Why would they? Right? Oh God.

"Logan, Logs, baby are you okay?" You called out, dropping to your knees and cradling his face in your palms.

f1waglife

f1waglife Y/n nation how are we feeling tonight? Logang? How are we? This was definitely not the couple we expected but is this the couple we deserve?

Username OH HELL NAW- WHY IS THIS FLORIDA MAN DATING QUEEN Y/N?????

Username Y/n come home the kids miss you

Username Omg mans is in love

Username Get someone to look at you the way Logan looks at Y/n

You saw some of the comments and while some made you smile, some made you want to slap a bitch, unfortunately, a scandal would not help, so you called up your PR manager, and the post was gone within a minute.

Logan's race had gone sour, with him getting an unfair penalty and points on his licence. The already poor start to your day had turned even worse when you saw Logan tiredly storm into the room collapsing on the bed, burying his face in his pillow.

"What... the..... fuck?" He screamed into the pillow making you smile a little. The small habit he'd picked up from you, screaming into the pillows as a way to think, one that you had picked up from one of the characters you played a long time ago.

"Why do people even care about who's dating who? That's so stupid." He rolled his eyes.

"Don't we binge Keeping Up with the Kardashians every Monday?" You asked.

"That's not the same though-" He paused and switched his phone off, he already didn't have access to his own Instagram, having given access to his manager a long time ago, he now didn't even want to talk to his friends or colleagues many of whom just wanted an autograph from you along with an explanation how he could be with you.

He turned around, pulling the blanket on him, tired from the day.

You pulled up Twitter as a habit but were greeted with a terrible chain of tweets judging every aspect of your relationship and even worse criticizing Logan without even knowing anything about the sport.

"What the fuck-" You cursed out loud, you knew your fanbase was slightly (an underestimation) larger than your boyfriends but how could they call themselves your fans, when you have been a fan of Logan's since his first season in f1? All your co-stars American or not knew your borderline obsession for the man, every race week you'd be posting Williams on your story, how could they still hate on him?

You looked next to you, where your boyfriend was sleeping a small scowl on his pretty face.

PR be damned, he didn't deserve this.

y/nl/nofficial

y/nl/nofficial To anyone who calls themselves my fans and talks shit about my lovely boyfriend, UNFOLLOW ME ASAP. Logan is the kindest, sweetest, most talented man I've had the pleasure to know and he deserves better than the bullshit he gets from some assholes who don't know anything about him. To quote my friend Will: KEEP MY WIFES NAME OUT YOUR DAMN MOUTHS-

username oop sis snapped

username you tell em girl

username LOVE a gf whos rabidly in love with her bf

username now why would y'all try and shame Mother's boyfriend when all she does is post about him for race weekends??

username fr shes been a logan fan before logan fans have been logan fans

Williams We stan a protective gf 😮‍💨

username admin you'll always be famous y/nl/nofficial Cant help it he looks really pretty in blue 🥰 username oh she in love love

username shall we start calling him Father?

The way I was struggling to write this fic cause I had to write bad things about Pookie Bear Logie is insane. But- I hope yall like it, please do let me know in the comments or reblogs!!!

[ghostly-groves]

Hear me out

It would be funny I promise (og post)

[reigningm4x]

Max at a restaurant in Tokyo tonight

[skillissue71]

Can you draw Rochelle realizing she bisexual?

(ignore if your uncomfortable with that request)

bipanic

[pastellpeachz]

Do you have an Aeolus design?

I do now (´・∀・)

[slowd1ving]

Hiiiii can u write Kim Dokja x Goth!Male!reader this sponsor constellation is Apollo and The reader is a simp for Dokja ( I love this man )

LOVE LIKE BLOOD ・゜゜KIM DOKJA

“The life is short, and I’m running faster all the time, Strength and beauty destined to decay, So cut the rose in full bloom.” By chance you meet him, by chance you become his friend, by chance you stay by his side; until it cannot be called fickle, capricious chance any longer, but an example of the inevitable law of universal attraction between two starving masses. art by @ 1L9l2Aa8UCL0IGJ (blackbox) on x! also thank you anon this ask was so big brained I yapped on for like 5k words (very sorry if you wanted headcanon/drabble form I got the most profound inspiration for this at like 3am :3) also damn you have no idea how many song titles I was perusing trying to find a suitable one for this... pairing: kim dokja + male goth reader warnings: pretty graphic metaphors, child abandonment/implied parental death, child neglect + abuse, alcohol, smoking, depression + bullying, hurt/comfort, injury, violence (as it's orv), does 10+ year long pining and oddly tense homoeroticism need a warning, anon I hope you ENJOY reading because I enjoyed writing wc: 5.6k (YAP because i love this silly man, I've never written so much for a request before lmao)

ORV MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Fundamentally, you and him are the same. 

There’s a sense of loss that’s too heavy for either of your bodies to comprehend. Rather than a heart, there’s a black hole right where the organ lies; so greedy, so hungry for acknowledgement. Born blue into this world—deprived of oxygen yet wailing, screaming for your voice to be heard—it’s little wonder you’ve always been avaricious for the love your parents could never give. The hands cradling the babe were never loving; they were clinical, they were covered in sterile blue gloves and they smelled only of caustic antiseptic. There was no kiss on your slimy, puckered forehead. There was only the sting of alcoholic sanitiser. 

Kim Dokja is similar, yet his parents wouldn’t (rather than couldn’t, for in your embittered mind the two concepts were so different as to be alien) spare him scraps of care. Rather than press a kiss to their son’s awaiting cheek, only bruises blossomed where the love should’ve been. No flowers were given for Children’s Day—only oily blood spilling and macerating against his chubby hands as a last, vibrant gift for their son. 

These two black holes sputtered on their axes while they spun round each other: gluttonous, esurient for care that didn’t come with bruises and wailing grief. 

Seoul had been unusually cold; blue afternoons spanned across the school rooftops. They were frigid and foggy—perfect for avoiding detection. Thus, the boy without kisses (only contused skin) encountered another like him on the rooftop that day. Against the haze, your own cigarette smoke had dulled the edges of what he saw—a boy canted against the railing with rippling earphones and a head tilted so far back he could taste the polluted mist. 

A merger had occurred. 

And though neither of you said it, there was an unspoken recognition of each other’s greed in that moment. Your eyes, ghosting over his injuries while the heavy bass played and the prussic wisps trailed around him: deep reverberations sounding a bit too like his careening heartbeat—as he made sure no one had followed him up here, that he was safe. And his umbrous eyes—honed in on the cigarette wedged between your lips, now stained black from the gloss decorating your humourless smile.

Maybe it was just that inherent feeling of kinship that came with avariciousness: a snarling sort of camaraderie that snagged at your skin with its claws. The wounds left behind were tender, but tender was precisely the adjective you were looking for—as was he. 

And so, Kim Dokja found himself coming to this particular rooftop the next day. When his breathing came ragged and his vision began to swim, he instinctively sought the numbness the frigid azurine firmament would bring. Like a wounded animal, he sought safety. Flight over fight—a lesson he’d learnt too late. Bruised fists would never save him. 

There you sat—eyes closed and lips still glossed in modest black. There were silver rings on your hands; rings he’d seen flashing before his eyes before he was hit, that those people no longer sported. Quietly, he matched up the scrapes on your own knuckles to the ones decorating their faces: to their unusual sullenness today. They’d furtively sequestered themselves in a club room all break, touching their swollen lips and eyes with bruised fists. Bruised fists. Like trophies, the achromatic metal glinted against the cobalt haze, and for once, his heart didn’t skip any beats at the sight of the gleaming metal. Neither did you acknowledge his presence nor their sins, but still, he sat on the same bench you were sprawled upon: hugging his bag to his chest while he scrolled the hallowed pixels of Ways of Survival. 

There was no grand exchange of words, no heartfelt conversations between Kim Dokja and the boy with a messed-up uniform. 

This was how tentative company was kept for a fragile week. 

Tuesday was the day that fragility finally shattered. He still remembers every detail about it—down to the particular cigarette brand you’d purchased that morning, down to the chips in your dark nail polish, down to just how many rings you’d worn on your left hand (three—it was three rings). Tears had spilled down his cheeks that afternoon; they warped and distorted the words that had saved him thus far, evoked from the pain in his purple ribs and his empty stomach. Somehow, the salt he’d kept tightly bound had been coaxed by your cold presence—perhaps, knowing your indifference made it easier to cry pathetically in front of you. 

You still didn’t speak, but you did hand him a tissue. You still didn’t speak, but you did press your shoulder to his own trembling one: smelling of caustic smoke, and something rich and sweet lingering beneath the plumes. You still didn’t speak, but your rings clinked on your left hand as you unhooked the earbud in your pierced ear and offered it to him: fingers brushed against his palm as he was forcibly shocked out of crying any further, like a blubbering child faced with such a conundrum that their little brains focused entirely on that rather than the reason for their tears. 

Melancholy had streamed out of the device. Doleful chords twined against threnetic voices—which he could not translate nor understand but could feel in pulsing waves. 

In that short whorl in the great machine of time, in the chill of the blue hour, he could not help but feel warm.

And thus, that Tuesday changed the trajectory of this merger somewhat. A deafening hum had finally blossomed from the gargantuan event; your presence could no longer be described as distant. 

When he went to class the next day, you were in the seat next to him: a mirage brought on by his lack of food, no doubt. He limped to his desk, but there your corporeal form remained: this time with silver chains lining the base of your throat and a dry, sharp grin decorating your face. Sure, he knew there was a student that never showed up in his class, but he wasn’t expecting it to be you: your name now a permanent fixture in his mind. 

There was a new name for this phenomenon: friendship. 

The boy, with the pensive music and trophies stolen from Dokja’s tormentors, smiled up at the reader staring at him. It was an inviting gesture: the proverbial hand reaching out, the hand which he took.

You weren’t a particularly talkative friend at first: preferring to simply share your music rather than speak much. That was fine with him—it wasn’t like he wasn’t used to reading alone. Then, you started bringing boxes of food alongside your cigarettes: containers that lacked the refinement of store bought meals. One for you, and one sheepishly thrust out to him with a smile bright as burst yolk and as messy as it too. Consequently, he returned a wobbly, unsure smile back at you—not mentioning that the vegetables were slightly burnt, slightly too salty. But that was fine. The more lunches you brought, the more skilled your hands became—until he never felt truly full unless he was eating what you gave him. 

In return, he cracked open his soul: pried its rusted walls with bleeding fingernails in a gesture never before seen, not since his childhood when he still knew what hope meant. Dokja for once didn’t blubber apologies and pleas for mercy—but became a teenager rather than a groveller. He complained about teachers, he discussed Ways of Survival at length (noting how you listened even when you showed no particular interest in reading it), he finally developed his own, modest aspirations for his own life. Lying in his bed in his lonely apartament, it suddenly didn’t feel so claustrophobic (yet somehow far too big for one) when you were there with your shoulder just brushing his own. 

You were not as cold as you seemed: though this was always obvious from that fateful Tuesday. You made fun of and empathised with the eternal regressor; you diligently stood at his half-broken stove frying meat and vegetables; and you talked at length about whatever band you were currently into—“I’ll take you to one of their concerts when we’re older,” leaving your lips, for your dense black-hole hearts did not conceptualise a future where the other was not present. He saw your loneliness—heard the rumours of you bouncing around from orphanage to orphanage, roaming the streets and working nights rather than return to that boreal home. 

So, more nights than not, he woke up from his nightmares to see you sleeping on the small couch in his home—legs just about peeking over the armrest, for your avarice didn’t only cover the abstract but the heaps of food you swiped from the canteen (and over the past two years he’d known you, you got your growth spurt far more obviously than he had). It partly contributed to almost skittish aversion his tormentors had of him—one you never did acknowledge, and so he learnt quickly to not mention it either. In this way, he too never mentioned why he invited you to sleep over more nights than not. And so, neither of your selfish hearts ever spoke a word of pity, but rather conveyed an unspoken understanding that bound the two of you in this merger. 

This routine continued.

He enlisted after graduating from the local university, and so did you—suffering the eighteen months of hazing with the smoke lingering on your skin and that same, humourless smile he first saw on your face. Frigid mornings turned his own lips as blue as the sky, yet he found it was harder to feel the chill when he saw you. Just like back then, you wore the same smile that brimmed with such colour it was practically incandescent with its heat. 

Two outcasts. It was hilariously terrible. Two outcasts, still sharing a pair of earbuds that had seen better days—blaring out the dolorous music that had grown on him, that described this situation perfectly. Stars were strewn in the fabric enveloped around you: memories that would continue to shine even after the world slowly marched towards its apocalypse. 

In that cramped bunkroom, it had been just like school—blue nights with the moon just barely peeking through the window, with your leg still hanging off the side of the bunk and within his field of vision. And he still found the steady rise and fall of your breathing far more comforting than any white noise: like a guard dog, almost, you still shielded him by his proximity to you throughout the brutal eighteen months of mandated service. 

Adulthood had crept up unbidden. In his single-room apartment, he sat on his couch with your legs sprawled just as lazy as they had been eight years prior. Though, your appearance certainly had changed—beneath the loose material of your tank top, he could see the ink seeping and decorating your skin. He’d gone with you to the underground artists right after the discharge: worriedly biting his lip while you simply grinned at him as if there wasn’t a needle pressing into you. And despite his initial concern, he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away—sneaking glances even as he browsed through job sites since the winding patterns under the fabric and silver jewellery was oddly entrancing to the eye. 

In the end, he applied to the same company you had done on a whim: Minosoft, where you carefully wiped off the black residue on your lips and the smudged pencil round your eyes. You still shared your earbud with him on the subway (though you’d sent him your playlist aeons ago), you still smoked the same brand you did eight years ago, you still occasionally put on those rings you’d kept as prized trophies, you still made two sets of lunches for work. You still listened over drinks while hammered Dokja updated you on the latest update of Ways of Survival. You still angled your body just so, so that you would bear the brunt of Han Myungoh’s scolding rather than him. 

You hadn’t changed. 

But in some ways, he could no longer see the same boyish guy who’d awkwardly offered him his earbuds nine years ago. The look in your eyes was far more intense, the messy smiles splitting your cheeks were sharper, more overwhelming, and there was no longer any clumsiness in your movements from your sudden growth spurt from years prior. Even the very hand that occasionally clasped his shoulder, even the legs that you still casually flung over his on his beaten old couch, were far more scorching than he remembered. 

You had changed. 

And in the end, it was him who was left behind. 

Eternal loser, Kim Dokja. 

Though, he could never find fault with you for that. Not when you leaned over the tangle of limbs on his couch, not when he caught the thread of oud lingering beneath the smoke on your throat, and not when you thrust your phone screen at his face with that stupidly boyish grin that only peeked out when you brimmed with excitement—with a “look, I finally got us tickets for this festival!”. And he knew at that moment that you weren’t leaving him behind: stretching out your rough palm just like you had more than a decade ago. 

He let you tousle his hair to give it more spikes. He let you dress him up in your clothes—they sat too large on his frame, but he found himself unconsciously burying his body in the fabric that smelled like your laundry. He let you slip your rings onto his fingers: slender digits jolting at the sensation of the cool metal and the action itself. 

Finally, he let you rub your dark pencil on his lashline—lids fluttering up at yours while he did his best to not avert his stare. His gaze traced the bold lines of your brows and eyes, and finally onto the dark stain on your lips as you bit them in concentration. “There,” you’d murmured, gently grasping his chin. “That looks pretty.” 

And just like the loser he was, he felt his chest tighten at the casual compliment, for seemingly no reason. 

Over the din of the hall, he could barely hear the ebb and flow of music. Goth chords jostled him, weaving past the throes of post-punk and metal as band after band took the stage. In this crush of people, he was more focused on how your index finger threaded through his left-most belt loop; linking the two of you just enough that he wouldn’t get thrown into the mosh pit. No doubt the buzz of cheap liquor contributed to his distracted train of thoughts—he never was the best at handling alcohol. His hazy gaze distorted his view of your side profile; in the dim lights, obviously the wide smile (yolk-like, as was your grin years back) couldn’t possibly be that bright. 

It was at this moment that sentimentality got to him. He was thankful that his friend had stuck by his side for so long: gazing so softly at your happy expression he was unaware of his look himself. 

This was the night before the apocalypse began. 

When the crowds trickled out, when the reverb of bass still played through the club, you hugged him tight for coming with you. Outcast with the outcast, you’d thought introspectively. There were cheap spirits clouding your mind that night—a hangover would surely strike you come morning—which was why you weren’t as reserved as you usually were. As you leaned down to press the man into your arms, your lips had brushed past his cheek accidentally, and you could feel the black hole in the centre of your chest constrict. 

Profanities had whirled through your mind when the dark smudge remained on his cheek, and especially so as he made no move to wipe the umbrous gloss off on the subway back. Or maybe he just hadn’t noticed—not with the flush on his cheeks from the alcohol in his system. There was a terrible, discordant crescendo to your pulse as you gazed at him. The gloss, from where it smeared slightly past the boundaries of your lips, burned your skin. But you made no moves to wipe the corners either—for this night only, there was something linking Kim Dokja to you. 

Thus, for the first time since he was a mere babe cradled in his mother’s arms, there was a kiss planted on his cheek that wasn’t from a fist. An accidental one, but one that could not be considered devoid of affection. And though neither of you remembered it after the hazy stupor faded, it did not change the fact that it happened nonetheless. 

A small snippet of joy in the bleak landscape. A caesura found within the long, winding elegy of this world. A reprieve before tragedy. 

It was a fitting conclusion for the night before the end. 

✦ . 　⁺ 

[The free service has now been terminated.]

Back in the carriage, wedged between Yoo Sangah and Kim Dokja, the two of you had shared a glance confirming the unspoken truth. Minds intrinsically linked together—he did not need to speak for you to understand his thoughts immediately. And Yoo Sangah had recognised this—as did she remember the devoted gleam in your eyes whenever you spoke to or of the man seated adjacent to you. Yet ultimately, her lips would remain closed. 

When the scenarios began, it was Kim Dokja’s turn to repay you. He would be your shield moving forward—protecting your messy smile even as the world burned away. He vowed this to himself, and though the promise was heard only by him, it did not change the fact that the constellations watching him and his companions could see the oath brimming from him as he put you first. 

[Almighty Sun has sponsored you.]

Even when Apollo chose you as his incarnation, even when you were just as capable as you had been before the cataclysm occurred—he could not help but feel his fists clench as you put yourself in danger. 

“Hold on,” you’d murmured, rings flashing as you’d caught his wrist in your firm grasp. Even with his coins improving his stats, he still felt so much weaker than you—still the boy who ran to the rooftops while your fists bruised against the faces of those who tormented him. 

Had your touch always been so scalding?

Privately, he thought Apollo had chosen the right person—smile bright as the sun, skilled fingers deft enough to play the electric guitar you’d bought on a whim, presence practically a healing balm for his soul. 

“You’re injured, Dokja-ya.” And the words had made him shiver as the syllables ghosted over his flesh—your face was too close to his chest where he’d been slashed by a monster, while the affectionate tone added to his name made this situation far worse than it was. Secluded like this, in an abandoned corner of the station, it was easy to misread the situation; this was the only reason his face flushed red. His friend was far too close. When those aforementioned fingertips brushed over the wound—just grazing the wounded flesh—he jolted. From the pain, of course. 

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire has sponsored 200 coins.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire would like to see more action.]

“Steady.” You eased him against a pillar while ignoring the message—ignoring how your pulse was now leaden in your mouth, how the golden gleam stitching flesh back together seemed far more shaky than usual. Though, you couldn’t ignore the pain you felt as you saw the rise and fall of his torso grow shallow; you were useless when it counted—arrows meeting their target far too late. 

“Dokja-ya,” you breathed, sweeping the hair that plastered to his clammy forehead. He didn’t meet your eyes, and the heavy feeling in your chest grew more burdensome. He was supposed to tell you what was wrong; as his best friend, you duly heard his complaints and dealt with them where you could. More often than not, you could intuitively tell what bothered him; much like you had from the very first day you saw him all those years ago. And as time passed, the object of your adoration only grew easier to read. 

But he was never avoidant like this. 

What happened? As you watched him leave with heavy steps and not a glance spared back, you could feel the crushing weight of the sky drop back down on your shoulders. Fuck. Burying your face in your hands, you barely registered the message that popped up. 

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire expresses her sympathy.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire says she knows how the two of you can make up.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire sponsors 69 coins.]

[The Almighty Sun tells the Demon-like Judge of Fire to not be stingy.]

[The Almighty Sun sponsors 6969 coins.]

[The Almighty Sun empathises with a lover’s quarrel.]

“Shut up,” you seethed, and the bad mood carried on late into the night. It was obvious to anyone with eyes; the conjured lamps lining the perimeter of camp had seethed with you. Gold had been interspersed with bleeding red—crackling like true fire, though it was anything but. Even the tattoos that lined your skin had begun eroding into ember-like patterns, as though lava was breaking through the dermis of your skin. 

Unsurprisingly, it was Yoo Sangah that had approached first: past the harsh glow of your lamps, gracefully weaving through the brightness with the light steps that belied her nebula. She’d taken a glance at the incandescent splintering of your body, your hands furiously working away at the guitar plugged into your practically-bulletproof earphones, and finally the imposing frame of Yoo Joonghyuk only a few metres away as he stood guard tonight. 

But when you paused, when you hastily yanked the buds from your ears, she could also see the wobble in your lip. The furrow in your brows wasn’t angry, it was anguished, while the fearsome glare in your eyes contained only pain. If she was being honest, it was hard to approach you at work and even nowadays—with ease, you picked off enemies from a distance and your longbow conveniently morphed into two curved daggers when it came down to it. You were a maelstrom with the capacity to take lives—stained with blood as you bared your proverbial teeth at any threats to Dokja. But it was precisely that that allowed her to see your stupidly blind adoration of this man. 

(“Your devotion will only hurt you,” she says, as if that will dissuade you. You’ll take whatever feeling he gives you: greedily swallowing each and every morsel of emotion. Tender is your heart, but tender is good. It means you aren’t going mad over the situation you’re in.

“Yoo Sangah, I appreciate the advice,” you reply politely—you do respect her, after all. “But I do not mind that.”)

Yoo Joonghyuk had bemusedly watched as she left: staring the the dim red tattoos strewn across your body as if they could possibly help him decipher the fool in front of him. His Sage’s Eye flashed as golden as your lamps for a brief moment—detecting that your statement had, in fact, been true. 

Fool, he’d said as your hands flew over the fretboard once more. Fool, as you disappeared up the stairs to the rooftop. Fool, when your lips had pressed together tightly against one another. 

You did mind, even when you thought it was the unequivocal truth that you didn’t. 

Maybe it was futile to even think it, but he thought that idiot didn’t deserve the long-standing care in your hands, and the veneration in the timbres of your voice. It was pointless to get attached to someone like that—especially when the end of the world was upon you. 

But you wouldn’t know that, since you could not read his mind. But you wouldn’t know that, since he would never explicitly say it. But you wouldn’t know that, since you’d long-since accepted your self-torture as perfectly and utterly a part of what came with knowing Kim Dokja for as long as you did. 

The rooftop was like all other rooftops. Similar. The same. Azurine fog was at your fingertips: just like that day all those years ago. Except this time, Kim Dokja was not in your sights, and you were left alone with wisps of smoke trailing from your lips and no other company save the glowing stick in your fingers. Just like it had been; before you met the boy with a heart as greedy and all-consuming as yours. Before the merger between two black holes occurred. Before he ran up to the rooftops with bruises on his face and placed new stars in the endless vacuum of your universe. 

There was no charge in your phone, but the song that played that day still rested heavy in your neurons as you sprawled out on the bench. Mindlessly, you summoned the lyre-turned-guitar: doleful chords germinated, flourished and withered away once more under distressed fingertips. It was a night between scenarios; another caesura in this ceaseless tragedy. Though those days were filled with an empty stomach and an endless struggle, they were your halcyon days. 

Just like that time almost twelve years back, it was a blue Monday once more. 

Just like that time almost twelve years back, you didn’t hear the heavy run of footsteps through the heavy burr of music. 

Just like that time almost twelve years back, Kim Dokja’s black hole heart pulsed with each discordant twang of chords—though this time the link was acutely clear to him. 

The boy who once tasted the mist and tilted his body into oblivion was no longer there: replaced by a man who’d faithfully stayed by him for more than a decade. Though you hadn’t changed, not at all; not when he could still see the rings you took off his bullies, gracing your fingers just as they had back then. A trophy, dedicated to his protection. When his plans involved his sacrifice, you were the first to reach him. Your face was the first he saw, tears brimming from your lash line. For despite how you’d grown into your looks, you wore your emotions clear on your face. Your heart had been taken from the cavity in your chest and replaced with a dense core that greedily always wanted; yet it had been sewn messily onto your sleeve rather than discarded. 

Kim Dokja suddenly remembered another interlude. A club, where the amorphous ebb and flow of bodies could not sweep him away from your side—since you kept him there, treasured his presence enough that you hooked your finger firmly into his belt loop and rooted him there. An anchor: you’ve always been the rock beneath his shaky feet, after all. He remembered that, and not the endless churn of music that made your face glow with happiness. 

(A black smear of gloss left on his cheek. His hands, carefully wiping eye pencil away yet not touching the remnants of your lips—not until it smudged away on its own, forgotten for all of time but this day.)

A sun of his own. The reader trod his slow orbit around you long before he could conceptualise the gravity that drew two masses towards each other. Newton’s theory of universal gravitation be damned; you were the only centre of the universe, the only body that ever existed to draw others towards your brilliant light. 

His eyes flickered over the smoke in your lips: the dim embers of a glow from the lines in your skin made it seem as though you were alight yourself. Instinctively, physically, he was compelled towards the patterns just like he had been all those years ago: your music, your stupid piercings and your stupid discussions about bands and the stupid way you listened attentively to his yapping about Ways of Survival. Stupid, because why did you do that? Why did you convince him to make a shrine for you in his heart? Stupid, because why is it only now that he can see what exactly lays atop the stone altar?

“Kim Dokja,” you spoke through your plumes, formal in the way he knew you spoke when you were upset and trying to keep it together. He swallowed, and he could feel the same pitter-patter of his pulse as he did all those years ago—heartbeat colliding loudly in his ear drums while he steps towards you, unsure. You didn’t let up with the strum of strings: electric in the drizzle of rain and wind and cold Seoul air. 

For once, he was the one looking down at your impassive face. He was the one brushing his fingers through your hair, he was the one whose hands made themselves comfortable on shoulders—for it’s always been you wrapped around him, you whose legs wedge on top of his domestically on his shitty couch in his shitty studio flat. 

“It’s Dokja-ya,” he corrected: tongue thick and leaden. It constricted his larynx and made his cadence oh so small at this moment. Tentative. Because he was your close friend and you his. He was the one who knows all your expressions—even the ones you deliberately tried to hide from everyone. He was the one who’s been with you the longest: always staring up at the muscle of your back while you act as his shield. He was the one who’s been blind. 

Your fingers halted against the strings and the instrument dissolved into the wind; the concert for two had reached its conclusion, just like it had all those months ago. For despite being packed full of people, the club only ever had two people in it for him. 

Lazily, those same hands that have bruised for him—but somehow had a touch that was far more painful than any torment that was physically inflicted on him—wrapped round his own that rested neatly on your shoulders. 

“Dokja-ya,” you answered, and the axis the world tilted on is finally righted. This man, Dokja thought—and his umbrous eyes traced down the warm lines of your face, stopping on your lips. Bittersweet. 

“Don’t leave me,” he all but begged—voice only a whisper. Don’t die on me, the black hole wanted to say instead; selfishly wishing for you to always be by his side so he doesn’t see you depart this world first. That would end him more than anything else. 

“I can’t leave you,” you murmured, and oh, the hand brushing his tear-stained cheek suddenly made more sense. “Dokja-ya, I should be telling you that.”

He pressed his face into your warm palm—scorching even with the boreal damp settling over his skin. There was something twisted within him that revels in your admission: that you, too, feared him abandoning you just as he feared you leaving him behind. 

“Idiot.” And he twined his fingers in yours, seeing the surprise on your face bloom—for he’s already established that you’re ever so easy to read. Idiot, because it’s ludicrous to even think that he’d ever willingly walk away from you like that. 

“You’re the idiot,” you whispered as your phantasmal hand ghosted from his cheek to his collar, yanking him so he fell onto the firm sprawl of your legs—in a way he’s never felt. So warm, he thought through the haze as he straddled your languid body—fit so right against you that there was none of the tension nor the anticipation that he might’ve felt. His hands splayed out onto your chest, feeling the steady beat of your heart, tracing the glowing lines he adored on your body. 

So warm, he thought as your hands gently cupped his face—for you’ve never been anything but soft with this stupid man perched on your lap. 

So warm, as your lips met his and he melted into your body. He could taste the acrid smoke on your tongue, but he could also taste the food you’d prepared earlier for him, and the traces of whiskey you’d scavenged. All traces of you; his insatiable heart could not help but want to merge into you. 

So warm, as your tongue melded against his and he could feel the seam of his mouth against yours grow ever more ragged and messy. His hands desperately curled into your shirt, and he could feel your palms pressing harshly against his waist and canting his torso into yours more—something which his avaricious heart eagerly swallowed. 

On a blue Monday just like this one, two boys met for the first time once more on a rooftop just like this one. 

Again. Like and like created a merger for the second time, or perhaps it was already the third. Or fourth. Or the thousand-eight-hundred-and-sixty-third time this has happened—over and over and over and over. 

Fate has a funny way of bringing people together, or maybe it’s just the intrinsic law of gravitation that binds two black holes in a binary system. 

Blue Monday. What a silly notion, when the man beneath Kim Dokja is as warm as the brilliant sun. 

✦ . 　⁺ 

Fellas is it gay to pine after your best friend for over ten years and have oddly homoerotic moments with them

✦ . 　⁺ 

EXTRAS

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire returns from her work and asks what she missed.]

[The Almighty Sun keeps his lips shut.]

[The Abyssal Flame Black Dragon stays silent.]

[The Prisoner of the Golden Headband, perhaps not fearing his imminent hair loss, opens his mouth.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire promptly goes catatonic and explodes.]

[qtkoshi]

Maybe gn!Reader and Hobie adopt a kitten and the other three (Pavitr, Gwen, and Miles) come to see the kitten? Maybe a orange kitten gn!Reader wanted to name Spunk or Spike while Hobie gave them a spike collar? Would be cute lol

i luv ur brain anon

"you got....a kitten?"

- ok ok idk if this is what u meant, but u can feel free to run this with the bubblegum reader + hobie bc i think it fits alright :-) - also get a little deep with describing relationship,, but it’s necessary for the plot ! (...) - also!!! tysm for the requests; i am very excited to get into them, but will prob wait till tmrw to release bc it is my birthday today <3 much love to you all

──★ ˙ ̟ to the stars ！

general headcannons

alright first of all: hobie with a kitten? i’m in tears. 

i love the hc that hobie has a soft spot for cats and the fact that y’all got one together? bye.

NAPS WITH THE KITTEN JUST NESTLED BETWEEN BOTH OF YOU

this cat is gonna be SPOILED in attention i tell u rn

hobie isn’t as obvious ab it as u, but the amount of times u see him chilling with the cat just perched on his shoulder?? (why are u taking the baby swinging across the city hobie; wait a min now–)

how u got him

imagine this: ur walking past an alley and hear this small little meow; after further investigation you find this tuft of orange fur crying outside the dumpster and

now u gotta take it in what r u talking about!!

bringing him home immediately ; hobie's spidey senses prob picked up the cat's presence before you got in the door.

'baby what's that.' 'c'mon spiderman we got saving to do'

man can't even argue with you

hobie not naming the cat himself bc he doesn’t wanna enforce socio-constructed labels on an unsuspecting creature that can’t consent

u can tho.

and while you very much want to, you tell hobie you gotta think on it for a bit – it has to fit just right!! (tbh he rlly doesn’t mind the cat being nameless, but he’s kinda whipped and will kinda go with what u want if it helps give that pretty lil smile to him again)

spider-squad finding out ab him

the besties r wrapping up something with a fight and hobie’s all k gotta leave and check on the cat and the rest are like ????? 

pav absolutely floored bc how dare did u not mention this sooner hobie

'so you lot wanna come see him?' (inter-dimensional travel ensues) – also never gonna complain ab coming to hobie’s house they all think his place is dope

i’m sure we all know orange cats are fucking crazy and that does not exclude the little gremlin jumping off the walls of your flat rn

hobie ofc is smirking bc his son the cat is a little agent of chaos and he couldn’t be more proud 

you, on the other hand, are just a little tired trying to get the fucker to stay still for a second so u can put on the damn flea medicine

everybody loves him are u kidding (miles a little hesitant tho, he still has beef with the last spiderman-variant cat he met :/ ) 

“so whats its name?” miles was watching with wary eyes as the little ball of fur darted around. with a heavy (and definitely not dramatic) sigh, you walk over to the group “still haven’t picked. we just found him yesterday.”

luv the idea of hobie looking at u anytime ur in the room (stay with me now) — can’t help it u just grab all his attention, maybe stop being so lovely idk

speaking of your relationship: he has spent years battering against everything life throws at him that having your love in the palm of his hands? something to protect not in the way he does as a hero, but in the way to cherish as a person?? give the man a break, he deserves to admire you whenever he can.

anyways hobie’s looking at you before going ‘oh yea’, just grunts and pulls out this little collar with little spikes and their matching and oh my that is so cute

says he found it in some garbage, most def made the collar with some scraps like he did his own (gotta keep it cool yk)

you giddy and putting the collar on the little heathen and just all ‘omg wait a min’

promptly lifting the cat up and “THIS IS SPIKE.”

cue golf claps from the squad with some ooo’s and aah’s

more gen headcannons

remember when hobie and the cat were swinging around the city? yea he's taking that mf everywhere. puts him in his pocket like a little surprise

hobie loves to play fight with the cat

spike is the perfect mix; got hobie’s energy and your brightness it’s a win-win

i could write more but i'll stop here for now 🕸️

⊗