#that something is Very Wrong with his world

[anniflamma]

AnniFlamma, we all love your fanart and animatics of Epic: The Musical, please don't let a few shitty people demotivate when 100x those people love and adore the stuff you make, along with all other animators!

Stay safe and take care, we will always be here and I can't seem to repeat this enough but we love your art

Thank you and everyone for reaching out to me. I will be honest with you all that what happened did upset me a lot, but I am very lucky to have people to go to for support. I will even blame some of them for making me cry, my friends, I mean, because if I am upset and if someone asks me if I am okay, I just break down. 😅 But I used our little server as a ground to vent, and right now I feel much better now.

But I will still be honest that I meant what I said that my interest in making Epic fan content has reduced a lot. I still love Epic, and I still really want to do the whole Ithaca saga, but I have also realized that posting content about it has caused me to feel anxious.

An example is when I finished The Challenge animatic, I felt an extreme wave of anxiety when I was going to press the upload button. And the worst thing? My anxiety confirmed the fears. I have gotten tiktok comments saying that I am a freak for drawing Penelope nude despite it being in a non-sexual way. Apparently, I have to be constantly reminded that female bodies are icky and the world hates women. Aaaaaaand then to get hit by that TikTok video of thousands of people shitting on me, Duvetbox, Gigi, Mircy, Neal, and so many more…

If you have noticed, I have posted less, all types of content for Epic. I don’t do my headcanons anymore, I never wrote that full review of Epic, I feel less keen on drawing fanart, let alone joking about shipping here online. I remember when I made a joke about shipping Aphrodite and Athea because they were the only female characters interacting with each other (ignoring Hera), and then I took it as a critique that Epic failed the Bechdel test. After that, I got plenty of anonymous messages about how I am an evil person for shipping those two goddesses… Just say that you don’t know what the Bechdel test is and block me... 😑

I also hate how my first negative experience with the Epic fandom was pure homophobia toward my Bible animatics. Like, they used negative language toward gay people to tell me to make Epic content instead. There is this weird obsession where people expect me and other artists to only do one thing, which is Epic, and if we dare to do something else, we get punished or infantilized, like we didn’t have any say when Casper commissioned us for Stories of Styx. Don’t get me started on how fucking awful people were to Casper and Teagan….

I hate how people easily tell others things, only for them to unquestionably believe everything said about me. Like the amount of "Anni made Ody/Circe porn, uwaaaa!!" And then, the moment someone questions them and forces them to realize I never made such a thing, they double down and say that I shouldn't have made Circe nude in the original animatic "cuz female bodies are icky" or the classic "Well, I haven’t seen the porn video, but someone told me it existed, so I’m going to believe it exsits." Like, you could tell these people that the sky is green, and they would believe you.

Then there’s that whole "Anni supports rape" or "Anni felt bad for the suitors and wanted Penelope to get raped" insanity. Those quotes stems from ppl was crashing out when I made a post criticizing Epic’s way of addressing the topic of rape. In that post, I was suggesting that I would like the story better if Odysseus were actually morally ambiguous when killing the suitors. How could anyone even think Ody was in the wrong for killing the suitors because he wanted to protect Penelope? How can he be a monster after that? I don’t know, I support a husband protecting his wife from gang rapists, but I guess that was the worst thing for me to ever say, huh? Like, how dare I criticize their almighty Jorge…

It’s insane that I have an easier time handling hateful Christians compared to TikTok Epic fans. 😅

Oh well... I’ve had so many bad experiences with the TikTok Epic fandom over the past two years. And eventually, you just want to log off.

I’m thinking of stopping posting Epic content at all on TikTok as a first step. If TikTok Epic fans hate my fanart that much, then I’ll do them the favor of never seeing it from my account. I will, however, continue posting my Bible animatics there. And if I continue working on my Hold Them Down animatic and if I ever finish it… I will only be active here on Tumblr and on YouTube.

And so, at this moment, I will take a pause from Epic. It probably won’t be that long because, despite everything, I love that musical. But I also have to remind myself that, despite there being so many negative remarks toward not only me but the other artists, there is a lot of love from you actual fans. I have about 138K subscribers on YouTube. That’s 138K individuals who love my work so much that they want to see more of it. THAT IS TOTALY INSANE! And I will never forget that! And I am so thankful for all of you and your support. Thank you and I love you guys! 💕

I’m also planning on making a better-formulated post about this another day. All of this is just me ranting and want to take a short break, focusing on something else.... Maybe... Venice the musical? 😅

[spiteful-opossum]

I’m gonna go with dead tired just cause that’s my favorite.

Tim was having a stressful day. He’d had a rough patrol the night before. He then woke up later than he should’ve, which was still really early for him because he had a virtual meeting with a team in a different time zone. The espresso machine at the only coffee shop that would give him 10 shots of espresso was broken. And to top it all off he had to deal with a new board member who was trying to convince him get rid of the company’s robust maternity/paternity leave program to increase “shareholder value”.

So to sum it up Tim’s day had been stressful but not unbearable. But that was all over now. He was finally done with work for the day and wasn’t scheduled to patrol for the night. He was gonna go home and have a nice, relaxing, entirely average evening where nothing big or important or unexpected was going to happen. The idea of spending the night relaxing with his boyfriend, Danny, was the main reason Tim didn’t try to kill the new board member.

When he finally got home and opened the door he was greeted by the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen, Danny. Danny was currently doing homework for one of his classes on the couch. Tim went to go take a quick shower and get changed into something more comfortable before making Danny take a break. He’d learned the hard way just how much Danny can get consumed by his astronomy homework. His passion for astronomy was something Tim loved about the guy, but sometimes he could lose track of time.

When he came back he was not expecting Danny to have finished whatever he was doing and moved to the kitchen table. He must’ve taken longer in the shower than he thought. But when he went over to his boyfriend to say hi he got concerned by the expression on his face. His usual relaxed and unserious expression that he even maintained while being kidnapped was gone and replaced by a very serious one. Tim was officially alarmed because in several years of dating he’d never seen him like that.

“Danny? What’s wrong? Is everything okay?” Tim couldn’t help but asking. Every worst case scenario in the world and how to deal with them was running through his head right now. It only got worse when Danny looked at him a bit concerned and had to take a deep breath. He was also fiddling with something that he couldn’t quite see as it was covered in a paper towel.

“Tim we need to talk.” Danny said “i have some big news, you should probably sit down for this.” And Tim did as he was told taking a seat next to Danny at the table.

When Tim sat down he put his hand on Danny’s arm and said “Whatever it is I can handle it.”

“I really hope you mean that,” Danny responded before taking another deep breath and continuing, “I know we’ve only been together for a couple years, but they’ve been the best years of my life. But I don’t know how you feel about this and I’m worried how you might take it.” Then he pushed whatever he was fidgeting with towards Tim. When he unwrapped the paper towel he was shocked. He didn’t know what he was expecting but it certainly wasn’t this. It was a pregnancy test, a positive pregnancy test. He picked it up and just stared at it for a few seconds, then back up to Danny wanting to confirm he was seeing this right.

“You’re pregnant?” He asked not bothering to hide the hope in his voice.

“Yeah,” Danny started, “And I get it if you’re not quite ready for this, I know I’m not, but I want to keep-”

Tim didn’t let him finish that thought before pulling him into a tight hug. “I love you, and I agree. I’m definitely not prepared to be a dad but I’m going to try to do my best to try anyway. This is great news and no matter what I’ll always be right beside you.”

Accidental Parenthood

DP x DC Prompt

Danny's life is pretty good right now. His parents have accepted him as Phantom. Vlad remains a Thorn in his side that won't go away. The Justice League had tried to put him on one of their young hero teams after his parents flagged them down about the GIW and the Anti Ecto Acts. He refused them because he's petty that they ignored the calls he and his friends made whenever they thought they needed help on something that looked out of their control. He's accepted to just being a person that they call on for help whenever they need it.

He's only in Gotham now, after he graduated high school and the whole business of the Justice League trying to get him to be part of their little group, because it has the only university that's crazy enough to enroll a Fenton.

He's found a balance between his university life, his Ghost King duties, and the Justice League needing his aid on a few occasions. He had to deal with a few unexpected instances where he was mistaken for a Wayne, but those were handled when he was, reluctantly, saved by the Batfam (he's still got the pettiness in him from being ignored for most of his high school years).

That might have been where his life started to change, as he soon found himself in a secret relationship with one of the Wayne boys, who even accepted him when he told them that he's Trans.

Near the end of his scholarship at Gotham University is when he learns of something that will definitely be a turning point in his life.

He's in the Far Frozen, having Frostbite check up on him because he's been feeling pretty weird the past couple of days. And it's here where he's told that he is pregnant.

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

"are you trembling for god, or for me?"

part I

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Angel!Reader

Summary: Ben never thought he'd like innocence this much... he wants to see how far he can twist it.

Warnings: 18+!, Soldier Boy is a warning, language, corruption, religious reference, violence, innocence, smut (dirty talk, dry humping, corruption kink, praise kink), I may have missed some.

Word Count: 5,853

Ben hated waiting. Especially for those assholes.

The safehouse was hot, dusty, and stank of something sweet and rotten—probably whatever the last squatters left in the fridge. Or maybe MM's shitty protein shakes. He paced the living room like a caged dog, boots creaking on warped floorboards, jaw grinding as he chewed the inside of his cheek.

They were late.

Again.

And Butcher's last text—got somethin extra, stay fucking put!—wasn't helping.

He scoffed under his breath. "Better be a goddamn nuke."

Outside, gravel crunched under tires. Ben rolled his eyes and dropped onto the arm of the busted couch, leaning back with a sigh just as the door swung open.

Butcher came in first, blood on his sleeve and that usual sour look twisting his face. "Christ, that was a fuckin' mess," he grunted, tossing his gun onto the table. MM followed behind him, eyes sweeping the room with military precision. Hughie was limping. Kimiko had blood spattered across her cheek.

And then—

You.

Barefoot. Wrapped in someone else's coat—Hughie's, maybe. Your face was drawn, pale. You looked... wrong. Not in a monstrous way. Not like a supe. Just—

Fragile. Quiet. Too quiet.

Ben froze. The air changed. He sat up straighter as you crossed the threshold, your steps hesitant, like each one needed permission. You kept your arms close to your body, your fingers twitching like they weren't sure what to do without chains.

You didn't look at the others. You looked at him. And he stared back. Hard. But you didn't flinch. Didn't look away. You studied him. Wide eyes. Calm face. Like he was a puzzle to solve, not a weapon. Not a threat.

It unsettled him.

"What the fuck is that?" He muttered, voice low.

Butcher dropped into the nearest chair with a groan and unceremoniously cracked open a beer. "That," he said, nodding toward you, "is the reason this whole thing went sideways."

Ben didn't break eye contact. "Looks like a deer caught in a goddamn bear trap."

"Yeah, well, she's Vought's little secret. Kept her underground for—what'd Frenchie say—six years? Seven?" Butcher waved a hand. "Some angelic-class prototype. Supposed to be a healer. Maybe a nuke. Who the fuck knows."

"A what now?"

"Angelic. You know. Wings. Light. God complex. That kinda bollocks."

Ben scoffed. "You're kiddin'."

"Do I look like I'm in a joking fuckin' mood, cunt?"

He didn't respond. You were still staring at him.

And it wasn't scared. It wasn't reverent. It wasn't even curious. It was detached. Like you'd been dropped into a world that didn't make sense, and you were trying to find a shape in the noise. You looked at him like he was a radio station that kept cutting in and out.

Ben stood up slowly, letting the weight of his presence fill the room like smoke. He walked toward the kitchen, keeping you in his peripheral vision, and grabbed a beer from the fridge. He popped the cap with his thumb and took a long, slow pull. Still, you watched him.

It wasn't until you spoke—soft, almost unsure—that something in him twitched.

"Are you the loud one?" You asked.

The room fell quiet.

Ben raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"You're the one I heard. From the van. The heartbeat." Your voice was calm. Tired. "It was very loud."

Butcher chuckled darkly from the couch. "Told you. Fuckin' weird."

Ben didn't laugh. He took another swig of his beer, then turned his full attention to you. You didn't back down. Just tilted your head again. Like a bird listening for rain.

She's not scared of me, he thought. That's gonna change.

He meant to forget you. Really, he did.

Meant to write you off like the rest of the weird shit The Boys dragged back from the edge of hell. Meant to file you away as some broken Vought pet project—another fucked-up science experiment with glass bones and too much light behind the eyes.

But the thing was...

You didn't do anything. You just were.

You wandered the safehouse like a ghost in someone else's body. Always barefoot. Always quiet. You'd trail your fingers along the walls like you were feeling the pulse of the place. You watched the toaster with reverence. You flinched when someone raised their voice but never spoke up. You didn't eat much. Didn't sleep, either.

And Ben—who wasn't subtle, wasn't patient, wasn't nice—found himself watching.

At first, he told himself it was because you were a liability. A Vought ticking time bomb wrapped in soft skin and borrowed clothes. He was just being careful. Keeping an eye on you.

But then you tilted your head at him one morning—like you were listening to a song only you could hear—and smiled. And he knew he was fucked.

It was late afternoon now. Too hot. Too quiet.

He sat on the windowsill, one leg propped up, watching the hallway like it owed him something. The rest of the team were out getting supplies. He'd stayed behind to "rest." Translation: he didn't feel like playing nice.

And there you were.

Walking slowly down the hallway, your hand brushing the wall, bare feet whispering over the scuffed floor like you weren't sure gravity applied to you yet. You stopped in front of a painting—ugly, generic motel art in a fake gold frame—and stared at it for a long time.

Then you said, softly, "Why is that tree on fire?"

Ben blinked. "It's fall."

You turned, startled. Then you smiled like he'd said something kind.

"Oh. I thought it was a warning."

He stared at you.

Who the fuck talks like that?

You walked toward him slowly, like someone approaching a wounded animal. You weren't scared. You were just... careful. He didn't move. You stopped a few feet away, folding your hands in front of you.

"Do you like it here?" You asked. No context. No explanation.

Ben raised an eyebrow. "Do I look like someone who likes anything?"

You tilted your head again. That damn bird look. Thoughtful. Soft.

"You don't have to, you know."

He scoffed. "Don't have to what?"

"Pretend to be angry all the time. It makes your heart beat too hard."

What the fuck.

He stared at you like you'd grown a second head.

You smiled, barely. "I can feel it when it's too loud."

That made his jaw clench.

"You feelin' me right now, sweetheart?" He asked, voice low.

You paused. Then nodded. Softly. Innocently. "Always."

Ben looked away. He didn't trust what his body was doing. Not his breath. Not his pulse. Not the coil tightening low in his gut.

You weren't flirting. You weren't trying to get a rise out of him. That was the worst part. You didn't know. And that made him want to bite something in half.

Later, the sun dipped low, painting the walls of the safehouse in bruised orange and peeling gold. The shitty air conditioning buzzed overhead, doing a whole lot of nothing. Somewhere down the hall, Butcher was yelling about someone eating his last protein bar.

Ben ignored him.

You were in the living room, cross-legged on the carpet, watching the tiny TV like it held the secrets of the universe. Some rom-com flicker of mid-2000s sap, all fake city backdrops and orchestral swells when the guy finally realised the girl was his entire goddamn reason for breathing.

Ben stood in the doorway. Arms crossed. Shoulder leaned against the frame. Watching you watch the movie. He wasn't even trying to hide it anymore.

You tilted your head the same way you looked at everything—curious. Quiet. Like you didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so you settled somewhere in between. There was a half-eaten orange in your lap. Your fingers were sticky with juice.

Ben didn't think he'd ever seen someone look more out of place and more made for a moment all at once.

"You ever seen a movie before?" He asked gruffly.

You didn't look away from the screen. Just nodded.

"Do you like it?"

Another pause. Then: "I think it's nice." You said it like it meant something.

He huffed. "Romantic shit always look that dumb to you?"

You blinked. Then turned your head, slow and deliberate, to face him. Your eyes held no edge, no sarcasm—just a soft kind of interest.

"I don't think it's dumb," you said. "It seems kind."

Ben didn't answer. He didn't move. Something sharp twisted in his ribs. You held his gaze like it was easy. Like you didn't know what it meant to make a man like him look away first.

He clenched his jaw. Then, before he could stop himself:

"You ever been kissed, angel?"

You blinked again, slower this time. Like you had to process the question. Your mouth parted, just a little, and Ben's hands twitched at his sides.

"No," you said.

He swallowed.

"Why?" That word. Soft. Curious. Not defensive. Not shy. Just you.

Ben stared at you. He didn't answer. Didn't trust himself to.

You turned back to the screen, unfazed. Like the question hadn't meant anything. Like it didn't split something open inside him. As if he hadn't just hurled a brick through the stained-glass window of your innocence and expected you to thank him for it.

Ben stood there for another beat, staring at the slope of your neck, the curve of your cheek, the way your lips parted in thought like you were tasting the word kiss without knowing what it meant.

And just like that—no warning, no control—

He got hard.

No buildup. No fantasy. Just you. Sitting there barefoot and honest, asking why. He shifted where he stood, jaw tight, swallowing back a groan like it might choke him.

Jesus Christ.

He hadn't been that hard in years. Not even during the real thing. This wasn't lust. It wasn't even want. It was hunger.

He turned and left before he embarrassed himself. In the hallway, he braced a hand against the wall, breathing hard.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

But he already knew. You were untouched. And now, he was fucked.

Ben didn't talk to you the next day.

Didn't look at you, either—not directly. Not when you drifted into the kitchen with that quiet grace like your feet barely touched the floor. Not when you tilted your head at Frenchie's joke and laughed like you didn't understand it but wanted to, anyway. Not when you gently pressed your fingers to Kimiko's temple after a headache and the girl visibly relaxed in your hands.

He didn't look.

But he felt you.

Every time you were near, the air changed. Like something holy was crackling just under the skin of the world, threatening to tear it open.

Ben kept to himself. Grunted when spoken to. Smoked more than usual. Tried to convince himself it was nothing. Just another freak in a long line of freaks.

But then the call came in.

A low-level Vought squad spotted across the city—unregistered supes doing damage, maybe a trap, maybe just cleanup. The team loaded up. He didn't ask why you were coming along this time. No one did. You just went where they went.

That was your thing. You followed. Quiet. Soft.

Ben sat in the back of the van, bouncing his knee, jaw tight as you stared out the window beside him. You didn't ask where they were going. You didn't ask why. You just watched the city blur past like it was a painting you weren't allowed to touch.

He told himself he wasn't going to protect you. That if things went sideways, you'd be fine. You had power. You could handle yourself. And if you couldn't? Not his problem.

Not his fucking problem.

You reached the target building around dusk. Grey light bleeding into alleyways. Frenchie and MM took the left flank, Butcher and Kimiko circled right. Ben moved dead centre—no orders, no backup. Just fists and fury.

You stayed with Hughie near the van, hands folded in front of you, waiting like someone told you to stay put and you still believed in rules.

The first hit came fast.

One of the supe bastards barrelled out from behind a stack of crates and slammed into Ben like a goddamn freight train. He didn't go down. Just grunted, spit blood, and swung back. Another one tried to jump him from behind—missed. Kimiko caught that one midair and threw him straight through a van windshield.

Chaos. Sharp and sudden. Concrete echoing with grunts, gunfire, the static of suped-up comms.

Ben was in it—fully, brutally in it—until he heard it. You. Screaming. Not a human scream. Not fear. Not pain. Something higher.

He turned before he could stop himself.

You were surrounded. Three of them. Closing in fast. MM was too far, Butcher pinned behind debris, Hughie unarmed. And you—barefoot, bleeding, breath hitched in your throat—you looked so damn small.

But you didn't run.

You stepped between one of the attackers and Hughie like you were made of steel.

Ben's blood roared in his ears.

"HEY!" He bellowed, already moving, too late to get there in time.

And then it happened. You raised your hands—trembling, bloodied—and screamed again. The air warped around you. Not like an explosion. Like a miracle.

For a split second, the sky went white.

Your wings burst into view—not solid, not whole. Like smoke and sunlight caught in motion, burning at the edges. Feathered shadow outlined in divine fire. They didn't flap. They didn't stretch. They just existed—blooming behind you like vengeance and purity all at once.

And above your head, a flicker. A ring of gold. Not bright. Not clean. Holy.

Ben stopped moving. His heart slammed into his ribs like it was trying to break out.

You moved faster than he thought you could—one hand out, a pulse of something unseen knocking one of the supes back twenty feet. Another charged and you touched him, palm to chest, and he dropped like a stone, eyes rolling back.

You turned to the last attacker, and for the first time, Ben saw your face twisted with something real. Rage. Sorrow. A divine kind of devastation.

Your halo pulsed brighter. Your wings burned.

And Ben didn't duck in time.

One of the remaining bastards clipped him hard from the side—a pipe or maybe a bat, he didn't see. Pain exploded across his ribs. He hit the ground with a curse, teeth clenched, vision blurring.

The fight blurred around him. Distant shouting. A body hitting the pavement. Concrete under his palms.

And then—

You. Kneeling beside him like you'd always been there.

Your hands hovered, unsure. "Ben," you whispered. "Ben, you're hurt." Your voice shook. You were crying.

He blinked up at you, his vision stuttering over the faint gleam above your head, the scorched shimmer of light curling behind your shoulders. Your wings were fading, flickering, like the moment was too much for the world to hold.

"Don't fuckin' touch me," he growled—weak, hoarse.

You didn't listen. You pressed your hands to his ribs. Light flared. Warmth poured through him—sweet and golden and goddamn unbearable. Not just healing. Not just power.

Pleasure.

His breath caught. His back arched. His hips twitched. He groaned. Loud. Rough. From the pit of his stomach, and your eyes fluttered open—wide, startled.

"Did I hurt you?"

Jesus.

He grabbed your wrist, holding you there.

"The fuck was that?"

You looked at him, confused. Tears still drying on your cheeks. "I made you better." Like it was that simple. Like you didn't just make him feel reborn. When you tried to pull your hand back, he didn't let you. You didn't fight it. You just tilted your head and waited.

She made me feel clean. I'm gonna ruin her.

He didn't sleep that night. Couldn't. Every time he closed his eyes, it was your face. Your hands. The way your breath hitched when you healed him. The way your wings shivered before they flickered out. The way your halo burned like a gold ring above your head for a single, impossible heartbeat.

He swore he could still feel it. Your light. Inside him. Like warmth crawling under his skin, coating his bones, cleansing him. He hated it. He needed it again.

So when morning came and the others went out—supply run, recon, something he didn't give a shit about—he stayed behind.

Alone. With you.

It started in the hallway. Ben leaned hard against the wall, one hand pressed to his chest, brow furrowed. His breath came in slow, heavy drags. You found him like that. Quiet footsteps. The faint sound of your inhale as you saw him slouched against the wood paneling like something was wrong.

"Ben?"

Your voice was so gentle it made his fists clench.

He looked up slowly, gritting his teeth like he was in pain. "Heart," he rasped. "It's—fuck—beatin' too hard again."

You stepped forward instantly. No hesitation. Just soft urgency.

"I can help you," you whispered. "Let me—"

He caught your wrist, gently this time. Played the part. Scared. Shaky. Broken.

"Need you," he muttered. "You're the only thing that helps."

And God help him, he meant it.

You laid your hand over his chest, and his body lit up like a fucking altar. That golden calm sank into him again—cool and thick, like honey sliding down his throat, like blood being replaced with grace.

He groaned. Low. Unfiltered.

You froze.

"Is that better?" You asked, confused.

He didn't answer.

He watched your lips. The way your mouth moved when you said his name. He stared at your lashes, how they fluttered when you concentrated. He watched your throat work when you swallowed.

And then he said it. He had to.

"You ever think about how that feels?" He asked.

Your brows knit in confusion. "How what feels?"

"Touchin' me like that. Helpin' me." He leaned in. "You ever wonder if it feels good because you want it to?"

You blinked. "I don't—" You looked down at your hand still pressed to his chest. "I just... I want you to feel safe."

He chuckled, dark and low.

"Sweetheart," he said, "I haven't felt safe a day in my life." He leaned in, brushing his lips near your ear, not quite touching. Close enough to taste your breath. "But you made me feel somethin'," he whispered.

You made me feel clean. So I'm gonna make you dirty.

"I think you like it," he said next, voice gravel and sin. "I think part of you likes makin' me feel good."

You pulled back a little, eyes wide. "That's not what I meant."

He smirked. "You keep touchin' me like that, and I'm not gonna be the only one makin' noise next time."

You blinked, visibly thrown. "Noise?"

His smirk widened.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "You really don't know what I'm sayin', do you?"

"I..." You trailed off. "I'm just trying to help."

Ben's tongue slid over his teeth. He took your wrist again, slower this time. Measured. Possessive.

"I know," he said. And then—just to twist the knife—"Come on, angel. Be good and calm me down again."

It was unbearable. Watching you. Every goddamn day. Still barefoot. Still soft-spoken. Still moving through the safehouse like a half-remembered dream.

You didn't flinch when you passed him in the hall. You didn't look away when he stared too long. You didn't snap, or scold, or blush—not even when his words started getting sharp around the edges.

He'd corner you in the kitchen just to see if you'd squirm. You didn't. He'd make jokes that would turn anyone else red. You'd just blink. Smile. Ask if he needed help. And every time, it got harder to breathe.

He wanted to snap his fingers and watch you shatter.

This time, you were leaning over the counter, slicing an apple with one of Frenchie's knives. Your fingers worked slow, careful. Your wings hadn't shown since the skirmish, but Ben kept watching for them anyway. Like maybe they'd twitch when he said the right thing. Like maybe they'd flare when you finally cracked.

He stepped into the kitchen, heavy boots echoing against the tile. You looked up. That same serene expression. That maddening stillness.

"Whatcha makin', sweetheart?"

You held up the apple. "It's fruit."

"No shit," he muttered.

You tilted your head. "Would you like some?"

"No," he said. "I don't want anythin' sweet."

You blinked. Confused again. He stepped closer. Slow. Deliberate. Stopped just a few inches from where you stood, close enough that your elbow brushed his chest when you moved. You didn't even react.

He leaned down, voice low, thick, like honey slathered over gunmetal.

"You gonna keep pretending you don't know what I'm sayin'?"

You turned toward him. Wide-eyed. "What do you mean?"

He grinned, sharp and dangerous. "I mean, you keep actin' like you don't feel it."

"Feel... what?"

He laughed. "Jesus. You're serious."

You frowned, and for the first time, he saw a crack—tiny, delicate, like hairline glass in your expression.

He took it and twisted.

"You know what happens to good little angels like you?" He asked, voice dropping. "The world eats 'em alive. Chews 'em up. Spits 'em out in pieces."

You stared. Said nothing. He leaned in, mouth near your ear.

"But not me," he whispered. "I'd worship you while I ruined you."

Your breath hitched. Tiny. Barely there. But he heard it. He pulled back just enough to see your eyes. Still soft. Still confused. Still unbroken.

"Don't play innocent, angel," he said. "You touch me like you've already chosen."

You shook your head. "I was only trying to help. You said your heart—"

He grabbed your wrist again, same one he always reached for. Fit like a fucking habit now.

"You keep givin' yourself away like that," he said, "and someone's gonna take it the wrong way."

He waited. Waited for fear. For a flinch.

Instead, you just blinked. "Would that be wrong?"

Ben's grip tightened. He turned away before he did something stupid.

You don't get it. And I don't know if I want to teach you or just watch you fall.

He started doing it on purpose after that. The episodes. The short breath. The clutching his chest. The tension under his skin, real or faked—it didn't matter. Because you always came running. Like the good little angel you were.

This time, it was past midnight. The safehouse was quiet. Everyone else out or asleep. Ben was sitting on the edge of the kitchen table, shirt undone, head tilted back, breathing shallow as the phantom ache in his chest throbbed like it knew your name.

He didn't have to wait long.

Your footsteps were light. Barely there. You stepped into the kitchen with that same wide-eyed calm, your hands already glowing before you even spoke.

"Is it happening again?" You whispered, already close.

Ben didn't speak. Didn't nod. Just looked at you through half-lidded eyes and said, "Help me."

You stepped between his knees, one hand on his chest, the other hovering just below his ribs. And when your power touched him—when that divine warmth bloomed inside him—his eyes rolled back.

He exhaled like it hurt. Like it ruined him.

"F-fuck..."

Your eyes snapped up. "Did I—?"

"Keep goin'," he growled.

You swallowed. Nodded. Let more of yourself pour into him. And it hit him again—hot this time. Like liquid sunlight. Like his nerves were singing hymns and bleeding at the same time. He groaned—and not quiet.

Your hand twitched. You didn't pull away. Ben opened his eyes. You looked flushed. Maybe it was the light. Maybe it was him. He smiled. Slow. Predatory.

"You like that," he said.

Your head jerked. "What?"

"You like touchin' me. You pretend it's just healing, but you keep comin' back." He leaned in closer. "You keep givin' me this." His hand covered yours. Pressed it harder against his chest. "You could stop anytime you wanted. But you don't."

"I... I just don't want you to be in pain."

He chuckled. "I'm always in pain, angel. You're just the first thing that ever made it feel good."

You blinked. Tried to look away. He didn't let you. He caught your chin, tilted your face back to his.

"I make noise every time you touch me. You notice that?"

"I..." Your voice shook.

"Bet you never heard a man moan like that before."

Silence.

Ben leaned in. "I could make you sound like that."

You blinked—horrified or curious, he couldn't tell. He hoped for both.

"I could make you scream so loud your halo'd crack in half," he whispered.

Your mouth parted, and finally, finally your breath stuttered. He felt it. That little flicker of your pulse under his fingers. He grinned.

Bingo.

Slow. Shaky. "I... I think that's enough for now," you said. You started pulling your hand back. He didn't let you.

"Uh-uh. Not yet," he said, voice low, rough around the edges. "Feels too fuckin' good to quit now."

Your eyes flicked up, a little unsure. But you stayed. Of course you stayed.

"You ever felt this before?" He asked, his fingers curling tighter around your wrist. "The way it heats up when you touch me? Like your whole goddamn body's tryin' to tell you somethin'?"

"I... I'm just trying to calm you—"

"Yeah?" He leaned in. "Well, newsflash, sweetheart—this ain't calm. This is fuckin' divine."

You blinked up at him, confused. And then you made the sound. A whimper. Soft. Involuntary. Like it slipped out before your brain caught it.

Ben went still.

You looked down. Right at yourself. And fuck—his dick twitched hard enough to hurt. Your brows pulled in. Your hand drifted lower. Palm over your stomach. Down. Your thighs pressed together.

And Ben watched, breath shallow. You looked back up at him like you were scared of your own skin.

Holy fuck. She doesn't even know what the hell that is. And I'm the one who woke it up.

"You feel that?" He asked, voice rasped and wrecked. "That little throb between your legs?"

You nodded. Small. Scared. Curious. "I think something's... wrong."

Ben let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. "Wrong?" He muttered. "Oh, angel. That's the best goddamn part."

He stepped closer, towering over you.

"That?" He pointed lazily at your hips. "That's your body sayin' thank you."

You swallowed, wide-eyed.

"It's me," he added. "I did that."

Another whimper. Fucking perfect. He wanted to throw you on the counter and make you scream until the light burned out of your eyes—but he didn't. Not yet.

"Don't worry," he said, voice soft now. Dangerous. "We'll figure it out."

Your lashes fluttered. You nodded. Like you trusted him. And that? That was the most fucked-up thing of all.

Ben heard the knock and already knew it was you. Soft. Three little taps. Barely there. He didn't answer right away. Just let it sit. Let the silence stretch. Let you wonder if he was asleep or ignoring you or worse—until finally, he grunted:

"Yeah."

The door creaked open. You stepped inside like you were crossing holy ground. Ben was sprawled across his bed, shirtless, sweatpants low on his hips, one hand behind his head, the other resting across his abs. He didn't bother sitting up. You just stood there. Barefoot. In one of Hughie's oversized hoodies again. Looking down. Looking unsure.

He kept his voice low.

"What's up, angel?"

You hesitated. Then closed the door behind you.

"I... I didn't know where else to go."

He sat up at that. His eyes dragged down your legs. Back up. You looked wrecked—not in the usual way. Not scared. Not hurt. Just... overwhelmed. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

"Talk to me."

You shifted on your feet. Clasped your hands together like you were about to pray. "It happened again," you whispered.

His head tilted. "What did?"

You glanced up at him, almost afraid to say it. Then: "The... the ache. That throb."

Ben's mouth went dry.

You kept going. "I thought maybe it was just when I touch people, but I wasn't healing anyone. I wasn't even near anyone." You paused. Swallowed. "I was just... thinking about you."

His heart slammed against his ribs.

You looked down at yourself again, thighs squeezing together like you were ashamed. "And now it's worse," you whispered. "Now I'm looking at you and it's worse."

Ben exhaled through his nose. Tried to keep his voice steady.

"C'mere."

You blinked.

He patted the bed beside him. "Sit."

You obeyed without question. Slipped onto the mattress, still not looking at him. Ben watched you closely. You were flushed. Your breath came shallow. Your hands curled into fists in your lap.

"You don't know what to do with it," he said, voice low, almost kind.

You shook your head. "I don't even know what it is. Just that it... it hurts. But not like pain."

"It's not pain," he murmured. "It's want."

Your breath caught. He leaned in, slow, voice dropping to a gravel whisper.

"You ever touched yourself?"

You blinked. "I—what?"

He smirked. "Guess that's a no."

You looked away, embarrassed.

Ben's voice softened—not out of mercy. Out of calculation.

"It's okay, angel. Ain't your fault. You're new to all this. Whole world's been keepin' you wrapped in glass." He reached over. His fingers ghosted over your thigh, just enough to make you twitch. "But you came to the right fuckin' place."

You turned back to him. Eyes wide. Lips parted.

He grinned.

"You think I don't love that it was me?" He asked, voice rough with need. "That it's me you think about when it starts? That it's my voice in your head when your thighs start squeezin' together and you don't know why?"

You whimpered. Just a little. And Ben's whole body tensed.

Fuck me. She's gonna come apart and I ain't even touchin' her.

He brought his mouth closer to your ear.

"You wanna feel better?"

You nodded.

"You wanna learn?"

Your breath shook. "Yes."

He smiled against your cheek.

"Good girl."

You were squirming now. Sitting on his bed, knees drawn up under that borrowed hoodie, hands clasped so tight your knuckles had gone pale. Every few seconds your thighs twitched together like you were trying to hold something in.

Ben watched. Every breath. Every shift. Every desperate little tremble. His cock throbbed, heavy in his sweats, but he didn't move. Didn't touch you. He was too busy watching you unravel.

Come on, sweetheart. Fall.

You looked at him, eyes glassy. "I don't know what to do," you whispered.

He tilted his head. "Yeah, you do."

Your mouth parted. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice low and mean.

"You came here."

You nodded, almost guilty.

"You're sittin' there all hot and achey, thinkin' about me, and you came here."

"I just thought maybe—"

"—I could make it go away?" He finished for you, grinning. "That it'd stop if you let me touch you?"

Your breath hitched. Ben's grin faded. His voice dropped.

"No, baby. It doesn't stop. It starts."

You whimpered. Just a little. But your thighs pressed tight and you rocked forward slightly—so innocent you didn't even realise you were grinding down against the tension.

Ben exhaled through his nose like it hurt.

"You want me to help you?"

You nodded.

"Say it."

Your brows drew together. "What?"

"Say you want it."

You shook your head—nervous. "I don't know what I'm asking for."

He reached out. Ran his knuckles over your knee. "You want me to teach you?" He asked, voice low. "Wanna learn how to touch yourself right?"

Your lips parted again. Slow. Breath shaky. "Yes."

Ben's cock twitched hard.

Fuck. That's it. That's the sound. She's never said that word like that before. Never meant it like that.

He patted his thigh. "C'mere."

You crawled into his lap like it was instinct.

He adjusted you with firm hands—one on your hip, one around your waist—settling you over his thighs. Your hoodie bunched up as you straddled him, and he nearly groaned at the heat bleeding off you.

He didn't touch you where you wanted. Just leaned in.

"Okay," he whispered against your cheek. "Let's start small."

He took your wrist. Brought your own hand to your belly.

"Lower."

You slid it down.

"Little more."

You swallowed. Obeyed.

Ben's voice dropped to a gravelly murmur. "Feel that pulse right there? That little throb you keep cryin' about?"

Your fingers twitched. You nodded.

"Press. Gentle. Just hold it."

You did. Your breath shook.

Ben's mouth nearly touched your ear now.

"Good girl."

You whimpered. Louder. And then, your wings flickered into view behind you. Not full. Not glowing. Just flickering. Like the light inside you was trying to escape.

Ben nearly lost it.

Holy fuck. She's lighting up just from her own hand. Just from my voice. She's mine.

"Now rub," he whispered. "Slow. In circles. Just like that."

You bit your lip. "Feels weird," you breathed.

"That's good, sweetheart. That's your body learnin'."

You kept going. Small motions. Breathless. And Ben? Ben was smiling. Watching purity fracture in real time. Watching you come to life. One little touch at a time.

You were trembling in his lap like your body wasn't sure it belonged to you anymore. One hand buried beneath the hem of that borrowed hoodie. The other fisted into the collar of his shirt like you needed something to hold onto or else you'd drift away.

Ben sat back against the headboard, legs spread, letting you straddle his thigh with all the slow grace of a sinner crawling toward salvation. You didn't even know what you were doing—and that? That was what made it perfect.

You weren't trying to grind down on him. Wasn't deliberate. Wasn't dirty.

It was instinct. Need. Your hips rolled in these shallow, searching little movements that made his pulse hammer behind his teeth. And you kept murmuring tiny things—"I'm sorry," and "I don't know why," and "It's so hot"—like you thought you were confessing.

Like he'd ever fucking forgive you.

He could feel the heat through his sweats. Radiating off you. Soaking into him. Your thighs trembled every time his voice dipped low, every time he told you "just like that, sweetheart" or "keep rubbin', you're doin' so fuckin' good."

It was working.

God, it was working.

He could feel you—glowing faint under your skin. Light like static trapped in flesh, flickering in bursts. Your breath coming in high, desperate little gasps like you didn't know if you were allowed to make noise.

She's gonna fucking break. She's gonna fall apart with her hand on her cunt and my name in her mouth and she won't even know what hit her.

And then it happened.

That sound.

A moan—real, full, unfiltered. It cracked right out of you like something ancient finally getting free. Soft and wet and so fucking pure it nearly brought him to his knees.

Ben gritted his teeth. His hand moved—instinctual—down to cover yours, guiding your fingers harder, tighter, lower.

"Yeah, baby," he rasped, voice thick with reverence. "You're right there. You feel that?"

You nodded, whimpering. And then—you froze. All at once. Like you'd been caught in a spotlight. Your hand jerked back from under the hoodie like it was burning you. Your thighs snapped shut so fast they slapped against his.

Your eyes were wide. Panicked.

"I—I can't—" You shook your head, voice ragged. "I can't do this. I'm sorry."

Ben blinked. Not angry. Not shocked. Just still. You pulled back, trying to climb out of his lap like you were filthy, like you'd broken something sacred, but he didn't let you go. Not rough. Not forceful. Just firm. Grounded.

"Hey." His voice dropped into something soft. Something careful. But never kind. "You're okay."

You didn't look at him. Your halo flickered behind your shoulder like a candle caught in wind. "I felt something," you whispered. "It was building and it felt—wrong. Too big."

Ben stared.

You were still glowing. Still lit up in that faint, holy shimmer. You were divine like this—flushed and shaking in his lap, eyes wet with something like shame.

She was so fuckin' close. So fuckin' perfect. She doesn't even know what that would've felt like. And I would've been the first.

You breathed like you were trying not to cry. "I couldn't stop it," you said. "I didn't want to but I did—"

He reached up. Brushed your jaw with the backs of his fingers.

"Angel," he murmured. "That? That's what your body's built for."

Your eyes found his. Blown wide. Searching. Terrified.

"Don't you dare apologise for that."

You swallowed.

"But I don't understand it."

"I know. And that's what makes it so fuckin' beautiful." He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. Breathing you in. "You want me to stop, I'll stop," he whispered. "But don't lie to me. Don't lie to yourself."

You nodded, breath stuttering. Ben pulled you in. Wrapped his arms around you, cradled you against his chest like you were something holy he'd just dragged out of heaven and didn't want to drop. Your halo pulsed once. Dim. And then disappeared. You stayed there. Still glowing under the skin. Still his. Still trembling.

And all he could think—over and over, as his hand curved around the back of your neck and you finally sighed against him—was:

Next time, you're not stopping. Next time, you're gonna see God. And it's gonna be me.

a/n: AHHHHH. Okay, I couldn't help myself, I had to post the first part. I've got the next two parts written up and ready to go, I just don't wanna post them until I've finished up the last two instalments. I'm so excited for you guys to find out what happens. Let me know what you think please!! And if you like it, then you can all thank @tinas111 because this was her idea, I'm just doing the writing, hehehe. All the love.

Soldier Boy/Ben taglist: @mostlymarvelgirl @losers-clvb @lunaleah. @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @0ccvltism @bittersweetfig @lyarr24 @podiumackles @spxideyver @tinas111 @ohgodimgoungtodie @paristheonewhoreads @winchestersbgirl @blossomingorchids @sacr1ficialang3l @kaz-2y5-spn @bitchykittenconnoisseur <3

[youthguk]

Entropy | jjk (m) | one-shot

College AU | Fuckboy Jungkook x Physics Student Y/N 

“The universe tends toward chaos.” You thought that only applied to black holes and entropy equations — not boys with lip rings and midnight eyes. You were wrong. 

genre: smut, one-shot, college AU, fuckboy!jungkook, explicit sexual content, strong language, alcohol consumption, casual hookup, reader is sexually inexperienced but very willing, Jungkook is fully feral and obsessed

Wc: 10k

author's note: there’s a second and final part already finished and available exclusively now on my private telegram channel (through paid subscription)

your feedback means the world to me. 🖤

The second law of thermodynamics states that the universe naturally tends toward disorder. That every system, left to its own devices, will eventually fall apart.

You never thought that applied to people.

By the third week of finals season, everything starts to decay.

Not in any spectacular, cinematic way—no dramatic breakdowns in the hallway or rain-soaked monologues—but in smaller, quieter disintegrations. You begin to lose the will to care whether your iced coffee is more milk than caffeine. Your drawers become a graveyard of crumpled hoodies and socks that don’t match. Your planner, once color-coded with obsessive devotion, now lies somewhere under your bed, abandoned and blank.

Entropy, you think. The tendency of systems to slide into disorder. You remember the diagram from second-year thermodynamics: the universe’s cruel, inevitable drift toward chaos. You’d once found peace in it. A kind of comfort, knowing it wasn’t your fault when things fell apart. It was just nature.

These days, you’re not so sure.

You stand in front of the mirror in your dorm’s bathroom, toothbrush hanging from the corner of your mouth, hair piled into a loose, too-honest bun that makes your ears look uneven. You’ve been wearing the same oversized MIT hoodie for three days straight. Not because it means anything to you—you didn’t even apply there—but because it smells like clean laundry and covers the fact that your bra is somewhere inside a laundry basket you no longer have the energy to dig through.

You look exhausted. Not dramatically so, but in the way that makes people hesitate before asking you for anything. You’ve started getting that look in the lab, in lectures, even from your professors: the quiet, pitying glance that says, You’re doing too much, and it’s starting to show.

And still, you keep doing it.

Physics doesn’t reward soft emotions. It rewards answers. You know how to calculate momentum, how to model projectile motion, how to explain wave-particle duality to a room full of distracted undergrads—but you don’t know how to mourn something that was never truly yours. You don’t know how to feel cleanly. You only know how to function.

You open the bathroom cabinet, close it again, stare blankly at your own reflection. Your eyes are ringed in fatigue. Your lips are chapped. Your last kiss was over a month ago and didn’t even taste like goodbye.

You don’t miss him. Not really. He was nice. Predictable. Gentle. He always held your hand like he was asking permission. But the moment he ended it—voice calm, like he was discussing his meal plan—you didn’t feel heartbreak. You felt relief.

And maybe that’s worse.

Your phone buzzes on the sink. You glance down and see Hyeri’s name. Hyeri: I swear to god if you ghost me I’m breaking into your room.Hyeri: Put on a dress. He’s throwing a party.You: Who.Hyeri: Jeon fucking Jungkook.You: No thanks.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard. There it is—that name again. A name that lives in the background of your life like ambient noise. Jeon Jungkook: a boy you’ve never actually spoken to, but whose existence seems to follow you in ways you can’t explain. Shared classes. Group projects. Dorm parties where he arrived shirtless and left with a girl on his arm. Mutual friends who describe him with exasperated fondness. A smirk that belongs on someone far less academically average.

You’ve never had a reason to care about him. Not really. Except for that one night at the start of second year, when you sat across from him at a friend-of-a-friend’s birthday and watched him lick whipped cream off his thumb while explaining something about SEO strategy. You’d gone home that night and googled what the hell SEO actually was.

You’d forgotten about him after that. Or tried to.

Until your best friend started playing matchmaker in group chats you weren’t in. Until the campus gossip pages kept posting blurry photos of his arms. Until his name started appearing in conversations he wasn’t even part of, and every girl said the same thing:

Jeon Jungkook fucks like it’s a contact sport.

And maybe, for a fraction of a second, you let yourself imagine what it would feel like to be tackled.

But then you went back to your labs. Your simulations. Your notes. You buried the thought under coursework and logic and neat, contained systems.

Hyeri: Come. Please. One drink. One dance. You’re not allowed to rot in that hoodie forever.

You chew your lip. Look down at the hoodie. Then at yourself. Then at the door.

Maybe it’s not about Jungkook. Maybe it’s not even about your ex. Maybe it’s just… time.

Time to feel something before summer eats the rest of you whole.

You sigh. You: Fine. But if it’s weird, I’m faking a panic attack and leaving.

✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.*

You don’t know when the universe started to unravel.

Maybe it was the breakup. Maybe it was that lab partner who kept messing up your simulations. Maybe it was all the times you sat through lectures with tears threatening at the corners of your eyes and no one noticing, not even once. But tonight, it feels like something bigger. Like the universe itself has decided to press its thumb against your spine and push.

Entropy. Chaos. Heat death. The natural end of all things.

And what are you doing? Curling your lashes. Half-heartedly, as if mascara could fix the hollowness behind your eyes. You haven’t dressed up in weeks. You barely recognize yourself in the mirror.

Hyeri’s outside your door, already half-drunk, yelling through the crack like she owns the world. “If you’re not out in five minutes, I’m breaking in and dressing you myself!”

You shout back a profanity, then drop your towel and step into the dress she brought you.

It wasn’t made for physics students. That much is clear. It’s navy satin, too short to be safe and too tight to be responsible. The neckline dips like a threat, the fabric clings like it knows something you don’t. You smooth it down your sides, catching your reflection by accident — and then not looking away.

Your hair’s still wet from the world’s fastest shower. You didn’t bother with foundation. Just a bit of liner, a swipe of something sheer on your lips. You look like someone you don’t quite know. Someone who might dance. Someone who might say yes to something reckless.

The zipper sticks halfway up your back, and when you reach to fix it, a strand of hair slips free and falls across your face. You look messy. Unpolished. A little chaotic.

You almost laugh.

Maybe you finally match the universe.

There’s a knock at the door. “I swear to god, Y/N—”

You open it before she can finish, and Hyeri shuts up mid-rant.

“Holy shit,” she breathes.

You grab your bag. “Don’t say anything.”

“Okay,” she says, eyes wide, “but if Jungkook doesn’t try to kiss you tonight, I’m checking him for a concussion.”

You roll your eyes, but something in your stomach flickers — a sudden, sharp awareness of your own body. Of skin against satin. Of the air against the backs of your thighs as you walk.

You ignore it.

You follow Hyeri down the stairs, into the Uber, into the night.

The city feels different somehow. Summer’s here, but it hasn’t settled. The air’s heavy but not warm, like it’s holding its breath. Like the universe is still deciding what kind of chaos it wants to be tonight.

And maybe, for once, you’re not here to resist it.

✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.*

You smell the party before you hear it.

It’s not unpleasant — not the kind of sour, suffocating stink of undergrad dorm parties you’ve long since grown out of. No, this one smells like summer. Like too-sweet alcohol and chlorine and night air that clings to bare shoulders. There’s music, loud enough to rattle the pavement beneath your heels, bass bleeding through windows too big to hide the chaos inside.

Jungkook’s house is exactly what you’d expect from a rich boy with too many friends and too little restraint. Modern, massive, perched on a hill just far enough from campus to feel forbidden. The front door’s already wide open. People flow in and out like blood through a vein. Someone’s laughing on the porch. Someone else is making out against the railing. You pause before going in.

Hyeri’s already halfway up the steps, turning back when she notices you hesitate. “Don’t look like you’re here to study. Shoulders back. Chin up. You look hot as hell.”

You follow her inside.

The temperature rises immediately. The music hits your chest in waves, something fast and rhythmic that people pretend they know the words to. There’s a sheen of sweat on everyone’s skin, cups half-empty and already sticky with fingerprints. Lights pulse in warm golds and deep reds, designed to make everyone look better than they are.

You keep your eyes low at first, weaving through bodies, careful not to bump into anyone. You’re not used to being seen. Not like this. Not in something this tight, this short. You feel the way the fabric pulls across your hips, how it shifts with each step. You’re suddenly aware of the line of your thighs, the exposed stretch of your back.

And then you feel it. Eyes.

Heavy, deliberate.

You look up.

And there he is.

Jeon Jungkook.

Slouched on the arm of an expensive couch, drink in one hand, tattooed fingers curled around plastic like they’ve never had to hold anything heavier. He’s wearing a black button-up — open halfway down his chest, sleeves rolled to his elbows — and a pair of dark jeans that might as well be a crime. His lip ring catches the light when he smirks at something one of his friends says, and his head tilts just slightly—

—because he’s looking at you.

You almost miss it, the way the smirk dies and reforms into something slower. Sharper. His gaze lingers, dips — not in a crude, hungry way, but in a way that makes you feel scanned. Like he’s logging every inch of skin, every tilt of your body, every second you hold eye contact.

He doesn’t smile. Not yet.

But he doesn’t stop looking.

Hyeri doesn’t notice. She’s already pulling you into the kitchen, rambling about shots and mixers and “hydrating between drinks, you nerd.” But you feel him. Even with your back turned. Even through the noise and heat and press of strangers, you know exactly where he is in the room.

You try to shake it off.

The kitchen is a mess of solo cups, liquor bottles, and fruit that’s been soaking in something far too potent. You grab a drink just to have something to hold. Cold plastic. Fake safety. You press the rim to your lips and taste cherry, vodka, and regret.

“Come dance,” Hyeri yells over the music, already grabbing your hand.

You hesitate. And then, from across the room — heat again. A pulse.

You glance back once. He’s standing now.

Still holding his drink. Still watching. And this time, when your eyes meet, he smiles.

Not the cocky kind. Not the I’ve-done-this-before kind. Something slower. Curious. Possessive.

Like he knows something you don’t. Like the universe just chose its form of chaos.

✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.*

You lose Hyeri somewhere between the kitchen and the music.

She disappears into the haze of bodies with the kind of confidence you’ve never been able to fake—throwing her arms around someone you don’t recognize, laughing too loudly, swaying like she’s part of the beat itself. The living room’s been cleared just enough to form a makeshift dance floor, though calling it that feels generous. It’s a swarm. Sweaty, uncoordinated, pulsing with bass and alcohol.

You hover at the edge for a moment, half-expecting yourself to turn back. But your feet don’t move. You feel warm. Lightheaded. A little less real with every second. And you know, before you even look again, that he’s still there.

He doesn’t approach like he’s chasing something. He approaches like he’s already caught it.

You feel him before you see him—something magnetic pulling at the corner of your awareness. Then you turn your head, and he’s suddenly beside you, crowding your space without brushing you once. His shirt clings to the lines of his chest. His breath smells faintly of whiskey and mint.

“Didn’t know physics majors danced,” he murmurs, not loud but close enough that the words slide against your neck.

You don’t flinch. “Didn’t know business majors could form full sentences.”

That earns a laugh. Low. A little sharp. He doesn’t look away.

The song shifts, something slower, bass-heavy, almost liquid in the way it pours over the crowd. His hand doesn’t touch you—not yet—but you feel his presence pressing in, daring you to move first.

“You wanna?” he asks, a single word softened by the tilt of his mouth. It’s not polite. Not romantic. But his tone says he already knows the answer.

You shouldn’t. But then—nothing about tonight has followed the laws of reason.

You nod once.

He steps behind you.

There’s no gap between your bodies. He doesn’t ask permission again. His hands find your hips with casual precision, thumbs brushing the sliver of bare skin between your dress and thighs. It’s not obscene. Not quite. But it’s enough to make your spine stiffen, your breath catch.

You move.

Not with practiced rhythm, but instinct. Letting the music pull your limbs into motion. You’re aware of the weight of his hands, the subtle pull of his grip guiding your pace, the heat radiating off his chest behind you. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. Everything he wants to say is in the way he holds you—like he’s marking you.

His lips graze your ear.

“You’re not what I expected.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Your voice doesn’t sound like yours anymore. It’s softer. Lower. Coated in heat.

“I don’t know,” he says. “You just… move like you’ve been pretending not to want this.”

You lean back—not into him, not quite. Just enough to let your head fall against his shoulder, enough for your cheek to brush the edge of his jaw.

“Maybe I have,” you whisper.

That makes him exhale through his nose, a near-silent sound of disbelief.

One of his hands slides lower, fingers dragging down the side of your thigh through your dress, subtle under the colored lights. You don’t stop him. Don’t even flinch. You’re past that now—past logic, past caution. You gave up control the second you walked through the door.

Your hips roll against his, slow, testing.

He curses under his breath.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters.

You smile, dizzy with the rush of power you didn’t know you had. “Good.”

The beat slows again. He doesn’t move. Neither do you. You're suspended there, in the strobe-flecked dark, wrapped in the tension of something neither of you is ready to name. You can feel the way his body hardens against yours. The restraint in the way he keeps his hands from wandering farther. The storm gathering behind his eyes.

And then someone spills a drink, somewhere close, and the moment fractures just enough for you to step away.

You walk toward the back door without a word. Toward the warm night air, toward the sound of water, toward the next inevitable collapse in this universe gone fully to chaos.

Behind you, Jungkook follows.

The patio is cooler, but it doesn’t help. Not really.

You step out into the night air with your plastic cup still clutched in your hand, the condensation sliding between your fingers. The hem of your dress clings to the backs of your thighs, slick with sweat and static, and your pulse hasn’t slowed since the dance floor. You try to blame it on the alcohol. On the heat. On the music still throbbing behind you.

Not on him.

You don’t dare glance behind you. You don’t have to. You already know he’s there.

The pool glows in blue and gold, lights flickering beneath the surface like someone bottled the stars and poured them into water. A few people are floating lazily, limbs draped over inflatable chairs, laughter drifting up like smoke. The jacuzzi hums beside it, steam rising from its surface, soft and almost cinematic. Someone’s speaker plays a slower song now—trance-like, sensual, too low to sing along to.

And there he is again.

He emerges from the shadows like the night belongs to him. Still shirtless, only now his skin shines with a sheen of sweat. His boxers ride low on his hips, exposing just enough to make your mouth dry. His chest is cut, stomach taut, tattoos black against golden skin. A towel slung over one shoulder. That stupid, crooked grin.

“You look hot,” he says. His tone is casual, but his eyes aren’t. They’re scanning every inch of you, unhurried. “You should cool off.”

You take a slow sip from your drink. “What, in there?”

He nods toward the jacuzzi. “It’s basically mandatory.”

You raise a brow. “I don’t have a swimsuit.”

Neither does he, clearly. He steps closer anyway. “Neither do I.”

Before you can respond, Hyeri appears beside you with a shriek, nearly stumbling as she tugs off her dress in one motion. Her red bra and matching lace panties flash under the porch lights like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Come onnnn,” she whines, laughing, already halfway into the water. “It’s just underwear! No one cares!”

“I care,” you mutter, gripping the hem of your dress like it’s the last thing tethering you to reality.

“Then stop being so uptight,” she says—and with no warning, she shoves you forward.

You stumble with a yelp. The cup flies from your hand. Your knees buckle as hot water surrounds you, silk dragging against your skin, heavy and clinging. You surface gasping, soaked from head to toe, hair plastered to your forehead.

“Hyeri!” you snap, voice shrill, but she’s laughing too hard to answer.

Someone whistles. Someone else claps. Jungkook’s smirking as he lowers himself in across from you, water sloshing up over his chest. He leans back, spreads his arms wide across the edge, like this is his throne and you’ve just been delivered to it.

And your dress—god, your dress.

The satin is ruined. It sticks to your stomach, your thighs, your chest. The neckline’s slipped almost indecently low, and you know without looking that the fabric is nearly see-through now, the curve of your bra showing underneath. You tug at it beneath the surface, cheeks flaming.

“It’s not that kind of party,” you mutter, voice tight.

But he’s already watching you like it is. “You’re overdressed.”

You shoot him a look. “Not anymore.”

He smiles, slow and lazy, and leans closer. “Then lose it.”

You hesitate. But the water is warm, the music hazy, the alcohol swimming in your bloodstream like a tide. And your dress is clinging like second skin, dragging with every breath. You sigh. Slide the straps off your shoulders. Shimmy out of the fabric under the surface until it floats around you like a drowning petal. You drape it over the side without ceremony.

Now it’s just you in your bra and underwear. Bare legs. Wet skin. Nothing left to hide behind.

And he’s watching you like he wants to ruin you with just his eyes.

Conversation rises around you—someone retells a wild hookup story, someone else splashes a drink over the jets—but none of it registers. You can feel Jungkook's thigh brushing yours beneath the water. His hand finds your knee. Slides just above it.

You breathe in. Let it happen.

The moment holds like that. Suspended. Like a physics problem with no solution—just two bodies and friction and heat, variables with too much potential energy, waiting to snap.

Then someone splashes. Water flies up into your face, and you blink hard, flinching.

“Shit,” you mumble, rubbing your eye. Your contact is out of place—stinging, burning, blurring your vision.

“You good?” Jungkook’s voice is suddenly sharper, closer.

You try to nod. “Something in my eye.”

Without missing a beat, he lifts himself out of the water. The muscles in his stomach flex as he grabs a towel and holds it out to you. “Come on. Bathroom’s inside. I’ve got eyedrops.”

You hesitate.

He holds your gaze.

“It’s just upstairs,” he says, voice quieter now. “I’ll get you something dry too.”

Your breath catches.

His boxers are soaked. His hair’s dripping down his neck. His hand is still outstretched.

And you go.

The hallway is quiet—eerily so after the chaos of the party below. The music becomes nothing but a muffled hum, thudding through the floorboards as if the house is holding its breath with you. Water drips from your hair to your bare shoulders, your bra clinging uncomfortably to your skin beneath the oversized towel Jungkook threw over you. The soaked fabric of your underwear sticks between your thighs as you walk, your steps squelching against the hardwood.

He walks just ahead, shirtless and dripping, his boxers clinging to every muscle of his thighs. His back is broad, his tattooed arm flexing as he opens a door on the left, pushing it open with casual ease.

“Bathroom,” he says, flicking on the light. “Eyedrops are in the cabinet.”

You step inside. The air is cool, the tile colder beneath your feet. A dim light above the mirror flickers before settling into a soft glow. You avoid looking at yourself in the mirror—you already know you look like something undone. Makeup smudged. Hair clumped into wet strands. Skin flushed from heat and embarrassment and him.

You open the cabinet, find the eyedrops instantly. Your fingers tremble as you tip your chin back, blinking the liquid in. The sting fades slowly.

When you lower your gaze, he’s leaning in the doorway, shoulder against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. He doesn’t speak. Just watches. Like he’s cataloging every movement, every breath, every second you give him.

You clear your throat. “Thanks.”

He nods. “Didn’t want your eye falling out on my watch.”

You laugh, quiet. “So thoughtful.”

“I am,” he says, straightening. He steps toward you, slow. Measured. “You should let me show you.”

Your pulse skips. “Show me what?”

His eyes dip. “How thoughtful I can be.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s weak. Your body’s already reacting, legs stiffening slightly, breath catching when he stops in front of you, close enough that the heat of his skin warms yours. The water still dripping from his hair catches the light.

“You’re wet,” he murmurs, glancing down.

“Sharp observation.”

He hums. “Not just from the jacuzzi, I think.”

Your eyes snap up. His are burning now—darker, lower, slow-burning coal beneath thick lashes. His voice dips.

“You gonna let me dry you off?”

You don’t answer.

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Or should I make you wetter first?”

Your knees threaten to give out.

He steps back before you can respond, smirking like he already knows he’s winning. “Come on,” he says, holding out his hand. “I’ll give you something dry to wear.”

You hesitate. You shouldn’t. You know what this is. But you take his hand anyway.

The bedroom is dim, lit only by a lamp in the corner and the moonlight spilling through half-closed blinds. The air is warmer here. Softer. And everything smells like him—spice, skin, shampoo. The bed is rumpled. There’s a hoodie thrown over a chair, a single black ring on the nightstand, and a half-empty glass of water.

You stand awkwardly at the edge of the room, arms crossed tightly over the towel.

He crosses to a dresser, pulls out a black T-shirt and a pair of soft-looking sweatpants, both oversized. He tosses them to the bed and turns to face you.

“You can change here,” he says. “I’ll be good.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t even believe that.”

He grins. “No. But I like hearing you say it.”

You look at the clothes. You look at him.

And then—very slowly—you loosen the towel.

It falls to the floor.

The air shifts. It goes still. Almost reverent.

His eyes drag down your body in a slow, devastating sweep. Your wet bra clings to your chest, nipples clearly visible beneath the sheer fabric. Your underwear is nearly transparent, stretched taut across your hips, the waistband twisted from the way you shifted under the water. Your skin is flushed, dotted with goosebumps. You don’t cover yourself.

He doesn’t move.

For a moment, he just stares—mouth parted, throat working as he swallows hard. His cock twitches in his boxers, and the fabric can no longer hide it.

You speak first.

“Thought you were gonna be good.”

His gaze lifts—slow, hungry. His voice is hoarse when he answers.

“I lied.”

He sits on the bed, legs spread wide, his cock hard and obvious beneath the wet fabric. He leans back on his hands and looks at you like he already owns you.

“Come here.”

You step forward.

One pace. Then two. He watches your legs move, the sway of your hips, the way your soaked bra clings like temptation. When you stop in front of him, he exhales like it’s costing him something.

He tilts his head. “Can I touch you now?”

You nod. It’s barely a breath.

He reaches forward, hands sliding up the backs of your thighs, then over your hips, thumbs brushing the waistband of your underwear.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he murmurs, eyes flicking up. “You don’t even know.”

“I think I do,” you whisper.

And he grins, wild and crooked and starved. “Good girl.”

His eyes are on your mouth when you breathe.

“Come here,” he says again, voice husky, deeper than it was downstairs. There’s no playfulness in it anymore. Just want.

You step forward, letting your knees brush the outside of his. He doesn’t move.

Then, slowly, deliberately, you lift one leg over his thigh, then the other, and lower yourself into his lap.

The second your hips meet his, you feel it — the hard line of his cock pressing against the thin cotton of your panties. You both freeze. His breath stutters, jaw flexing as his fingers curl into the sheets beside him. He looks up at you like you’ve just ruined him.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “That’s what you do to me.”

Your cheeks burn, but you don’t look away.

He reaches for your waist, fingers spreading wide as he guides you gently — forward, then back. The friction is slow. Torturous. His cock slides along the soaked crotch of your panties with every pass, dragging over your clit in a way that makes your thighs twitch.

“You’re soaked,” he whispers, like it’s a confession. “You’ve been wet since the dance, haven’t you?”

You open your mouth to argue, but it comes out a moan instead.

His hands roam. Over your waist, your ribs, thumbs grazing the undercurve of your breasts. He doesn’t touch your nipples — not yet. He’s savoring. Mapping you like something rare and sacred. Your fingers dig into his shoulders for balance, and he lets his head fall forward, lips grazing the slope of your neck.

“You smell like heat,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your pulse. “Like you’re meant to be fucked.”

The air leaves your lungs in one sharp exhale.

He sucks at your throat once — soft, then harder — enough to leave a mark. Your hips grind down harder by accident, and he groans into your skin.

“God, baby,” he breathes, voice crumbling, “I want you to ride me just like this. Slow. Fuck—just like that.”

You drag your hips again, letting your soaked panties rub over his cock, and his fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise.

“You like that?” you whisper, breath shaking.

He looks up at you, hair falling into his eyes, and smiles like the devil.

“You have no idea.”

He rolls his hips up into yours once, sharply. You gasp.

“Wanna feel you come on me like this,” he mutters, pressing a kiss beneath your jaw. “Make a mess all over my lap. Let me ruin these pretty little panties you wore just for me.”

You whimper. His cock pulses beneath you, hot and thick and aching against your soaked center.

“Say you want it,” he whispers. “Say you want me to fuck you.”

“I want it,” you gasp, breathless. “Jungkook—please…”

And he groans, deep and raw.

“I’m gonna take my fucking time with you.”

You don’t realize how hard you’re breathing until he stills you.

His hands slide beneath your thighs, gripping them firmly, and with a strength that shouldn’t feel as gentle as it does, he lifts you. You gasp as he lays you back across the bed, your legs draped over the edge, your hair fanning against the pillows like you were made to be framed like this—bare and gasping beneath his stare.

He follows you down slowly. Drops to his knees like it's instinct.

Not cocky. Not rushed.

Like he’s been waiting to kneel here since the second he saw you.

Your thighs tremble as he presses them open, fingers leaving faint imprints against your skin. He slides his palms under your knees, pushing them farther apart, and for a second, he just looks at you. At the damp curve of your panties, the way the fabric clings, the way you shift slightly under his stare like the heat between your legs has turned unbearable.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he breathes.

His hands grip the waistband of your panties, and you lift your hips without thinking. He peels them down slowly, watching them drag over your skin like he wants to memorize every inch. When they reach your ankles, he tosses them somewhere behind him—but his eyes never leave you.

Then he leans in.

The first touch of his tongue is almost too soft to process. Just the tip, a teasing flick across your clit that makes your entire body jolt. You clutch at the sheets, your back arching when he does it again—firmer this time. He groans the second he tastes you.

“God, you taste so fucking good,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue from your entrance all the way up. “How the fuck do you taste like this?”

Your thighs twitch. He presses his palms against them to keep you open, steady, and lowers his mouth again.

This time, it’s not soft.

His tongue laps at you with purpose, flattening against your clit in slow, deliberate strokes that make your legs tense and your fingers curl. He moans against you like he’s the one being pleasured, and the vibrations send shocks through your entire body.

You cry out. It’s instinctual—your hips trying to buck, your hand flying to his hair.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let you run.

He wraps an arm around your thigh, holds you down, and slips two fingers inside you without warning.

Your moan is wrecked.

The stretch, the heat, the way his tongue moves faster now—circling, pressing, teasing just to the edge of pain. It’s too much. Not enough. Everything.

Your head falls back against the mattress.

“Jungkook—” It’s a whimper, broken. “Oh my god…”

He groans again, tongue working faster, fingers curling inside you like he knows exactly where to find you, exactly how to press until you’re gasping like you’re drowning.

“That’s it,” he rasps against you. “Fuck, baby… let me feel you come on my mouth. Right here. Come for me.”

You’re so close. You can’t breathe.

Everything tightens. Spirals. Your hands clutch his hair, your hips grind against his mouth despite yourself, and then—

You come.

Hard.

It hits you like a wave — back arching, thighs shaking, lips parting in a cry you can’t control. You feel yourself pulse around his fingers, your orgasm ripping through you in hot, wet pulses that make you sob his name.

He groans low against you and keeps going, tongue flicking as your body shudders, milking every second out of it, chasing every last twitch of pleasure until your hips collapse and your legs fall open.

He finally pulls back, face glistening, lips swollen, pupils blown.

You’re panting.

He stares at you like he’s just won a war.

And then—without giving you a second to recover—he grips your thighs and says, voice rough, “Get up.”

You blink, dizzy. “Wha—”

“Mirror,” he says. “Now.”

You’re still catching your breath when he grabs your wrist.

Not harshly. Not with force. Just enough pressure to tell you you’re not going anywhere.

Your skin is hot, oversensitive, your thighs still twitching, and he’s already pulling you upright like he hasn’t just made you come with nothing but his mouth and two fingers. You follow, unsteady on your feet, your knees weak. Your bra is twisted around your chest, half-askew. Your hair’s stuck to your neck. You feel undone.

And he’s still hard.

You catch a glimpse of it as he steps in behind you — the thick outline of his cock straining against the wet cotton of his boxers. You must’ve soaked through his lap earlier, because the front of them is completely dark, clinging to every inch of him. Your throat goes dry.

“Come here,” he murmurs, breath hot against your ear, already steering you toward the mirror in the corner of his room. Full-length. Gold-rimmed. Slightly fogged at the edges from the humidity of your bodies.

“I can’t—” you start, still dazed, and his hand cups your jaw from behind.

“You can,” he says, soft but firm. “You’re not done. Not yet.”

He stops you just a step in front of the mirror.

“Look,” he tells you. His voice is low, breathless now. “Look at yourself.”

You do.

And the girl in the reflection is… not you.

Her lips are swollen. Her bra half-off. Her thighs gleaming. Her chest rising and falling like she’s been running for hours. You can see Jungkook’s frame behind you—tall, shirtless, flushed—his arm reaching around your waist, the other pressing flat against your lower back.

Then his hand slides down.

Over your stomach. Your panties are gone. You’re bare for him, wet and pulsing and still aching from before.

His fingers dip between your legs again.

You gasp. Your head drops forward—but his voice sharpens, right against your ear.

“No. Eyes up. Watch.”

You do.

You watch the way your mouth falls open when two fingers slip back inside you, slow and deep. Watch the way your body rocks forward slightly, forced to brace against the glass as he curls them perfectly, his palm dragging over your clit just enough to make your knees buckle.

He wraps his other arm around your waist to keep you upright.

“Good girl,” he whispers, lips brushing your neck.

Your hips twitch. The angle is too perfect. Too much. Every thrust of his fingers sends you crashing forward against your reflection, breath fogging the glass, lips parting with every ragged moan.

“Look how pretty you are when you fall apart,” he murmurs. “You see that?”

You nod, barely.

He pumps his fingers harder. Deeper. You feel them hit that spot again, and your entire body shudders. His hips are pressed to your ass now, his cock grinding against your skin with every movement, leaking through his boxers as he fingers you mercilessly.

“You like being watched?” he growls, voice breaking. “Like seeing yourself like this?”

You whimper. “Yes…”

“You wanna come again, don’t you?” His fingers slam into you harder now, knuckles wet, your slick echoing obscenely in the quiet. “You wanna do it while you’re looking me in the eye?”

You lift your head.

Meet his gaze in the mirror.

And that’s what breaks you.

You cry out, loud and raw, body shaking against his, pressed full-length to the glass as your orgasm rips through you again — messier this time, faster, overwhelming. Your legs quake. His fingers never stop. He holds you through it, one arm locking you in place as you fall apart a second time in front of yourself, because of him.

Your breath fogs the mirror in quick, shallow pants.

He finally pulls back, wet fingers sliding free with a low, satisfied groan.

He looks at you in the mirror—flushed, panting, nearly gone—and leans in to press a slow kiss to your shoulder.

“I could watch you come all night.”

And somehow, you believe him.

He pulls back just enough to let you breathe. The mirror’s cooled now, the glass smeared with your fingerprints and fog, the reflection a blur of tangled hair and sweat and wrecked pleasure. Your thighs are shaking. Your skin is damp. You feel like you’ve melted and there’s no putting yourself back together.

Jungkook turns you gently, hand on your waist, guiding you like he’s still not done claiming you.

The backs of your knees hit the mattress, and you let him push you down until you’re flat on your back. Your arms fall limp beside you, and for a moment all you can do is stare up at him. His chest is heaving. His skin is flushed. His cock — thick, red, twitching — strains beneath the cling of his boxers, soaked and sticking to every outline.

Then he hooks his thumbs in the waistband.

You can’t look away.

The cotton peels down slowly, catching on the head of his cock. He frees it with one hand, and it slaps up against his stomach, flushed and dripping.

Your breath catches.

You’ve seen porn. You’ve read things. You’ve imagined. But nothing could’ve prepared you for the sight of him — him— standing between your knees, eyes dark, cock hard, and so clearly turned on by you.

Your thighs press together instinctively.

He sees it.

Smirks.

Then climbs onto the bed.

He doesn’t ask. He just leans over you, one hand sliding beneath your back, the other tugging the straps of your bra off your shoulders. You lift your arms without thinking, too far gone to hesitate, and he slides it down and off, tossing it carelessly to the floor.

Your breasts spill free, heavy and flushed and still damp from sweat.

He freezes. Just for a second.

Then—

“Jesus fuck,” he breathes.

His hand comes up, fingers splayed, and he cups one breast gently, reverently, like it’s something sacred. His thumb grazes your nipple. You shudder.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs. “So fucking soft… I’ve been staring at these all night.”

You laugh breathlessly. “You haven’t even seen them until now.”

He leans down, presses a kiss between them. “Didn’t have to. I just knew.”

And then he’s straddling your hips, cock in his hand, eyes dark as sin.

You watch, completely still, as he spits into his palm, slicks it over his length, and nestles the head of his cock between your breasts.

Your stomach tightens.

He reaches down, gently lifts your hands, guiding them to your own body. “Hold them together for me.”

You obey. Press your breasts around him, the weight of them closing snug around his cock. His breath stutters.

“Just like that,” he whispers. “Fuck—just like that.”

And then he starts to move.

It’s slow at first. The head of his cock slides up, nudging under your chin, wet with pre-come. You gasp as it drags back down, gliding slick between your breasts, your skin burning with friction and arousal and humiliation, but god, it turns you on more than you thought possible.

You’ve never done this before. Never even thought about it.

But the way he moans? The way his eyes fall half-lidded, hips starting to stutter as he watches his cock disappear between your breasts?

It wrecks you.

Your thighs press together again. You can feel the wetness leaking out of you — fresh, sticky, proof that even after everything, your body’s still begging.

“Fuck, baby,” Jungkook groans, one hand gripping the headboard for balance, the other fisting your hair. “You have no idea what this does to me.”

You whimper.

“Look at you,” he pants. “Tits so fucking perfect. Taking all of me. You’re so good—so fucking good—”

The head of his cock taps your chin again, your lips, your throat. You open your mouth on instinct, and he moans loudly.

“You wanna taste it?” he growls. “Wanna suck the tip while I fuck your tits?”

You nod, breathless, and tilt your head just enough to catch him on your tongue the next time he thrusts up.

The sound he makes is filthy.

His hips falter. His jaw clenches. The hand in your hair tightens.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m not gonna last like this,” he chokes out. “You feel too good. You’re so fucking hot like this. I could come all over these perfect tits and still not be done.”

You whine.

He pulls back.

Not because he’s finished — but because he’s holding on.

Barely.

And because he hasn’t even been inside you yet.

He’s panting above you, knees sunk into the mattress on either side of your waist, sweat beading down his chest as his cock pulses between your breasts. The tip is slick, flushed red, twitching with restraint. His eyes are locked on the mess he’s made of your body — your breasts shining, lips parted, your entire body still trembling beneath him.

But you’re not done.

You should be. You’ve come twice, your legs are jelly, your skin is hypersensitive — but none of that matters. Because the longer you stare at him, the more you realize that this isn’t enough. Not yet. Not until you’ve had all of him. Not until you’ve tasted the way he’s falling apart.

Your voice is gone. Your mind’s gone too. All you can feel is heat — liquid and pulsing, low in your belly and behind your knees. You want to be good for him. You want to be filthy for him. You want to know what he tastes like. You want to feel his cock on your tongue.

So you shift beneath him.

Lift your hands to his thighs, fingers sliding up slowly, dragging over the thick muscle until you reach his hips. He watches you with hooded eyes, breathless, lips wet and parted.

You look up at him. And then — without a single word — you stick out your tongue.

The way his expression breaks…

“Holy fuck,” he whispers.

His hand comes down, cradling your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he stares like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“You want to suck me off that bad?” he asks, voice rough. “After everything I’ve done to you?”

You nod. Keep your tongue out. Your eyes never leave his.

He growls.

“Say it,” he whispers, thumb pressing into your chin. “Be a good girl. Tell me what you want.”

Your voice is hoarse. Desperate. “I want your cock in my mouth, Jungkook… I want to suck you until you lose it. I want to feel you on my tongue, in my throat. I want to taste all of you. Please…”

His jaw clenches. His hips jerk forward instinctively, the tip of his cock brushing your bottom lip.

“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me,” he mutters. “Open your mouth.”

You do.

He guides himself in slowly, head pressing past your lips, the taste of salt and musk blooming over your tongue. You groan softly, and he shudders.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, hand slipping into your hair, wrapping it around his fingers like reins. “Fuck, baby. Look so pretty like this.”

You hollow your cheeks, take him deeper. Inch by inch, tongue curled beneath the shaft, your lips stretched wide. His cock slides in heavy, hot, and you let it, eyes fluttering closed as he presses against the back of your throat.

He hisses through his teeth. “God—fuck, your mouth…”

You moan around him.

The vibration makes him groan, hips rolling forward just slightly — enough to make you gag softly around him. Your eyes water. You don’t stop.

Your fingers curl around his thighs. You suck him hard, wet and steady, letting spit drip down your chin, letting it get messy, wanting it to get messy. You want him undone. You want him to lose control.

“Fuck, just like that,” he pants, voice cracking. “You’re so good. You’re fucking perfect.”

He begins to move.

Not roughly. Just slow thrusts of his hips, sliding his cock deeper with every pass, using your mouth like he’s been dreaming about it for months. His hand holds your hair tight. His stomach flexes. You can feel him trembling.

You flatten your tongue. Let him fuck into your mouth.

He starts muttering now — barely coherent.

“Shit… you’re gonna make me come—your fucking mouth—baby, I’m gonna—”

But then he pulls out.

You gasp, mouth open, spit trailing from your lips to the head of his cock.

He’s shaking.

“I can’t,” he breathes. “Not yet. I need to be inside you.”

You’re still panting when he leans down to kiss you. It’s not gentle. He licks into your mouth, like he can’t bear the space between you anymore.

Then he reaches for the drawer.

Pulls out a condom.

And looks down at you like you’re the only thing in the universe.

“Lie back,” he says. “Let me fuck you right.”

You’re already open for him when he returns.

Laid bare, legs parted, lips swollen, chin still shining from spit. Your body aches in the best way — used, touched, ruined — but it’s nothing compared to what you feel when you watch him roll the condom on. His chest is heaving. His thighs are flexed. And his cock, flushed and twitching in his grip, looks almost angry with need.

He climbs between your legs slowly. Like he’s in control.

But you can see it now — the tension behind his smirk. The tremble in his breath. He’s been on the edge since you got on your knees, and he’s barely holding on.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough and low. “All spread out for me. Wet as fuck. And you still want more?”

You nod, breathless.

He grins. Then lowers himself, his cock brushing against your folds — not pushing in yet, just slapping it lightly across your entrance.

Once. Twice. A third time, with a wet sound that makes you twitch.

You gasp, hips jerking. “Jungkook…”

He groans. “You hear that? That’s how wet you are for me. All this for my cock, baby?”

You whimper. “Yes. All for you.”

He drags the head of his cock through your folds, slow and filthy, coating himself in your slick. Then he holds himself there — right at your entrance — and still doesn’t move.

“Tell me you want it.”

“I want it,” you breathe.

He growls. “Nah. Say it right.”

You whimper again, voice breaking. “Please, Jungkook… I want your cock. I want you to fuck me. I want to feel you inside.”

He exhales like you’ve punched the air from his lungs. “Good girl.”

And then he pushes in.

It’s slow. Torturous. You feel every inch — the stretch, the pressure, the way your walls cling to him. You gasp, head falling back against the pillows, thighs trembling as he slides deeper.

“Fuck,” he groans, his voice guttural. “You’re so tight. So warm… shit—like you were made for me.”

Your mouth falls open. “You feel so good, Jungkook… so fucking big…”

He growls at that — hips pressing all the way in until he’s bottomed out.

“Yeah? You like this?”

“Yes,” you pant. “You fill me so good, I—I can’t think—”

“You don’t need to think,” he breathes. “Just feel.”

Then he starts to move.

Slow thrusts at first — deep and deliberate. His hips rock into yours with precision, dragging his cock against every sensitive spot inside you. His body presses into yours with heat and weight and intent, chest nearly touching yours, forearms braced on either side of your head.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he murmurs. “Tight little pussy taking all of me like that.”

You moan — helpless, wrecked, desperate.

“Say it,” he whispers. “Say it’s mine.”

“It’s yours,” you breathe, voice trembling. “It’s all yours, Jungkook…”

“Say no one else fucks you like this.”

“No one. Just you—only you—”

He groans loud at that, pace faltering for a beat before he starts pounding harder.

He fucks you like he’s trying to leave a mark. Every thrust hits deeper, sharper, hips slapping against your ass. His hand slides up to your chest, gripping one breast, squeezing until you gasp. His other hand tangles in your hair, pulling just enough to tilt your head back.

“You wanna come for me, baby?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Please…”

“You gonna let me watch you fall apart again?”

“Yes—fuck, please, Jungkook—”

He shifts, changes the angle, and suddenly every thrust is grinding against your clit just right. You cry out, back arching, thighs trembling. You’re so close. So fucking close.

“Come for me,” he growls. “Come all over my cock, baby. I wanna feel you tighten around me—come like you fucking mean it.”

And you do.

Your orgasm hits like a supernova — legs locking around his waist, mouth falling open in a scream. Your body pulses around him, walls clenching so hard he nearly loses it with you. He fucks you through it, whispering filth in your ear the whole time, praising you, owning you.

When you finally come down, panting and wrecked, he kisses you like he’s starving.

But he’s not done.

Not yet.

You’re still pulsing around him when he pulls out.

You gasp, empty in an instant, your body twitching from aftershocks. He kneels back for a breath, staring down at you like he’s trying to burn the image into memory — your legs splayed, your skin flushed, your mouth swollen and wet with the ghost of his name.

And then he flips you.

Fast.

You land on your stomach with a surprised moan, face sinking into the pillow, arms collapsing beneath you. Before you can breathe, he’s behind you again, spreading your thighs with greedy hands, pressing his cock between your folds.

“Fuck,” he growls, dragging himself through your slick. “You look so good like this.”

He grabs your hips, lifts you slightly, and pushes back in with one rough thrust.

You cry out. Your fingers clutch the sheets.

He doesn’t give you time to adjust. He just fucks into you—deep, fast, like he’s finally letting go. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, wet and sharp, paired with his ragged moans and your helpless gasps.

“Oh my god,” you whimper, spine arching. “Fuck—Jungkook—yes—”

“You like this?” he snarls. “You like getting fucked like this? Bent over like a toy?”

“Yes,” you pant, no shame left. “I love it—I love your cock—don’t stop—”

He laughs, breathless, feral. His hand slides up your back, tangles in your hair, and pulls.

Your back arches instinctively. The burn in your scalp shoots straight to your cunt. You moan like it’s oxygen.

“Good girl,” he growls. “Take it. Take all of it.”

He thrusts harder, faster. Every stroke knocks a sound out of your throat. Your body jolts forward with the force of it, and he only pulls you back harder.

Then—

Smack.

His palm lands on your ass, hard and hot. You jerk. Whine. Grind back against him.

“Oh, you like that?” he grits out. “You want me to spank you while I fuck you?”

“Yes—yes, please, Jungkook—”

Smack.Again.

Your ass stings, skin heating under each slap, but it just makes everything worse — your walls clamp around him, another orgasm building before you can even prepare for it.

“You’re gonna come again, aren’t you?” His voice is sharp now, breathless. “Fucking dripping. So messy. You love being used like this.”

“I love it,” you sob. “I love it—I love being fucked by you—please—please, Jungkook—”

He grabs both your wrists and pulls them behind your back, holding you open while he slams into you, deep and fast, until your vision goes white.

“Come again,” he orders. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”

And when you do, it hits harder than before — your body convulsing, vision tunneling, mouth dropping open in a silent scream as your pussy clenches tight around him.

“Fuck—fuck—I’m gonna—”

He groans loud, one final thrust punching deep into you—

And then he’s coming.

Hard.

You feel it — the way his whole body tightens behind you, the heat spilling into the condom as he presses as deep as he can go, panting against your spine, voice raw.

He holds there for a long moment. Breathing. Trembling.

Then slowly, gently, he loosens his grip on your wrists. Brushes a soft kiss over your shoulder. Collapses beside you.

The room is silent now. Just two bodies, sweat-drenched and sore, trembling from everything they weren’t supposed to feel.

Your body��s gone heavy. Limbs lax. Muscles aching in the best way. You’re still on your stomach, hair matted to the back of your neck, thighs sticky, lungs slow to catch up. The sheets are wrinkled beneath you. The whole room smells like sweat and sex and the kind of satisfaction that seeps into the bones.

And then he touches you again.

A hand slides along your hip — warm, calloused — trailing over the curve of your ass and down your thigh. Then it shifts. Moves up. His thumb grazes the underside of your breast, and his mouth follows a heartbeat later.

“Jungkook,” you murmur, voice soft, half-dazed.

He doesn’t answer.

He just mouths at your nipple, lazy and slow, tongue swirling in wet circles while his hand cups the other breast and gives it a greedy squeeze. You gasp. Your back arches instinctively. He hums low in his throat like you're dessert.

“Thought you were done,” you whisper, eyes fluttering.

He pulls off your nipple with a wet pop. “I’m never done with you.”

You whimper. Laugh. Try to turn your face away — but he follows. Crawls up your body, kisses you deep and messy, his hand still palming your breast while his tongue slides into your mouth like he owns it. His lips are sticky, hot. You taste yourself on them.

And you melt all over again.

His fingers dig into your ass next. Squeezing. Spreading. Possessive.

“You know,” he rasps, breath fanning over your ear, “I could fuck you like this every day.”

You laugh again — breathless, flushed. “Yeah?”

“Every fucking day.” He groans. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” you breathe, turning your head slightly, kissing his jaw. “You fuck so good…”

He moans. “You make it easy. Being inside you is like… holy fuck, it’s unreal.”

You roll onto your back, too lazy to fully fight him off. He’s still kissing your chest, dragging his mouth from one nipple to the other, circling slow. His tongue’s warm. Wet. Wicked. Every touch makes you twitch.

And your voice—when it comes—is low and teasing.

“You gonna get off on my tits again, or let me put some clothes on?”

“Don’t you dare,” he mutters, pulling back only slightly, eyes dropping to the mess of your ruined panties on the floor. He picks them up with two fingers, holds them hostage. “I’m keeping these.”

You blink. “Jungkook.”

He grins. “For science.”

You snort, still breathless. “That was…” You exhale hard, letting your head fall back. “So fucking needed.”

He grins. “Anytime. I’m very committed to supporting women in STEM.”

You laugh — fully this time. He tosses you his hoodie, then shimmies into his boxers like he isn’t still half-hard just watching you move. You stretch slowly, aching all over, before sitting up and tugging on your dress without underwear. His eyes darken.

And then, before you leave, you do it — that final little flick of power he never sees coming.

You hook your finger in your mouth. Suck it slowly. Loudly. Let it pop free. Then glance back at him over your shoulder with a sweet, filthy smile.

His jaw drops. He groans. “Oh my fucking god.”

You smirk. “See you around, Jeon.”

And just before you slip out the door, he mutters under his breath, half-wrecked:

“…I’m so fucking in trouble.”

.

.

.

there’s a second and final part already finished and available exclusively now on my private telegram channel (through paid subscription)

your feedback means the world to me. 🖤

[lunarflare77]

Lately I’ve been watching hbomberguy videos a uh, normal amount, and the one that keeps getting to me is ROBLOX_OOF.mp3.

Part of that is just, the video is hilarious. Little soundbytes and gags from it have stuck with me, and I really love this style of video essay.

But what’s really gotten to me is…how much like my dad Timmy Tallarico feels. Like, I know the work my dad does is and has been legitimate. In actual business, he doesn’t upsell or lie to his customers about the actual product or anything.

Cut because this got longer than I thought it would

But he’s been known to tell the truth in…creative ways. “I actually own a medical practice,” meaning he has partial ownership of a company that partners with doctors and nurses to take advantage of a relatively new code for Medicaid, making it so that doctors can bill extra, which his company then takes a cut of. (I’ll add that I don’t feel bad about billing the federal government extra, and that the ability to bill for it is contingent on nurses meeting with/talking to the patients at home to see how they’re doing, get them interaction they may not have gotten otherwise, etc—it’s actually a good thing!)

But, the *point* is, he doesn’t own a medical practice in the way he’s trying to make it sounds. He wants his customers to think he’s a doctor. And he’ll tell them he’s been a nurse for 20 years, when, no, he was a nurse 30 years ago, for around 5 years, and then again about 10 years ago for another 5 years or so. Less, maybe. So maybe he had the qualifications for that long, but it’s not the same thing.

These sorts of “creative truths.” Every time Tommy says he has 7 Guinness world records, I hear my —sorry I got distracted reading Tommy’s Wikipedia page. Anyways. Every time Tommy says he has 7 world records, when he actually has 3—if that, and they aren’t even real records—I just hear my dad in the back of my mind going “well, he has 7 certificates, he’s not *wrong*.”

Because this kind of bending the truth to sound more impressive is what I grew up with, it’s what I’ve been encouraged to do all my life. It has at times worked for my dad, let him land jobs he wasn’t qualified for, and then he rose to the challenge of them. My dad feels like a superhero to me in a lot of ways, I don’t want to just rag on him with this.

But…I’ve always been afraid this would backfire on him. That someone would call him on his creative truths, or boasting, and then think less of him instead of more. That’s exactly what happened to Tommy—he couldn’t keep it under control, and it finally caught up to him with this video.

I mean, Tommy is also a massive narcissist, which my dad isn’t. I’ll give him…occasionally self-absorbed, but ultimately well-meaning at worst.

But like I said, every time I watch this 2 hour video essay I just have this faint sense of “this is my dad” the whole time. I can’t tell if ai’m watching it because it’s funny to see Tommy get wrecked, for catharsis in seeing this kind of boasting called out, or as kind of a “what not to do” guide for myself.

Seeing my dad do this so often, I’m almost allergic to that kind of self-promotion. Or any self-promotion, almost. I guess I have done it, but I try to be careful about it, to be very aware of where I *actually* stand when making statements about my capabilities. I don’t know if it’s affected how I perceive myself, for better or worse. But there’s something there.

Uh. Anyways. Just wanted to get this off my chest, I’ve been watching these videos on loop for like a week at this point

I figure in all the history of grifters and cons, at least once there must have been a snake oil salesman who advertised their product with such passion that their own children believed it.

This could mean anything, really

[cuntyji]

LOVE IS A FOUR LETTER TUG ‪‪❤︎‬ RYOMEN SUKUNA X FEMALE READER

Synopsis: They say fate works in mysterious ways, but no one ever mentioned it could be petty, nosy, and just a little bit theatrical. Tethered by something neither of them asked for, two very tired people must now navigate a world where privacy is a myth, insults are practically foreplay, and the universe apparently thinks it’s hilarious. There’s no guidebook for this sort of thing — just a suspiciously persistent string and the overwhelming urge to win every argument, even if no one remembers what it was about. After all, love might be written in the stars… but this story? It’s scribbled in crayon and aggressively underlined in red.

Warnings: enemies to lovers, fluff with crack, red string theory with possible inaccuracies (this is my interpretation of it), (mentioned) yuuji, nanami, choso, geto, gojo, uraume but they're a cat (they/it pronouns), office worker! sukuna and reader, modern au, implied reincarnation/lovers in every lifetime trope

Note: red string art by vidhic0re on pinterest, red divider by enchanthings

‪‪✶⋆.˚ Ao3

You were never one for romance clichés.

Soulmates? Sounded like a scam from a desperate deity with too much time on their hands.

Fated love? Cute, if you're into spiritual tax fraud.

Red thread of fate? Sounded like something a drunk poet made up while tangled in yarn.

You’d entertained the idea once or twice — late at night, probably during your fifth rewatch of a trashy show, tears pricking at your eyes as two characters found each other across continents. Then the next morning, you’d stub your toe on the coffee table and remember that your only soulmate was pain and poor impulse control.

So you can’t really be blamed for not noticing it happening now.

Not with the humid press of bodies in the metro car, the stale air thick with too many armpits and not enough personal space. Your headphones had long since died, your patience hanging on by the fraying thread of your tolerance for humanity. And then —

Snag.

“—You fucking kidding me?”

You jerk around, already tensing for a fight. A man stands before you — or rather towers, broad-shouldered, impossibly tall, and stupidly pink-haired. Like, offensively pink. His eyes are sharp, crimson, and burning with indignation. Tattoos coil down his arms like they’ve got somewhere to be.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he’s already hissing, tugging at his shirt. Your watch, of course, is gloriously embedded in the fabric near his waistline. Because God, or fate, is an asshole.

“I didn’t do it on purpose, dickhead,” you snap, trying to free yourself without causing a striptease. “If you hadn’t shoved your way in here like you own the place—”

“Shoved?! You clung onto me like I’m your long-lost sugar daddy—”

“Please, you couldn’t afford me.”

He bares his teeth, and for a second you think he might just eat your soul for fun.

You yank. He yanks harder. Somewhere, a sleeve audibly tears. A grandma beside you makes the sign of the cross.

“Stop moving!” you shout.

“Then stop yanking like a rabid raccoon!”

And just beneath the chaos, something else stirs.

Delicate. Quiet. Crimson.

A thin, glowing thread coils out from the fabric of reality — slow, curious — like it’s stretching from an ancient nap. It slinks around your pinky like a cat testing warmth, then tugs itself toward his hand. Wraps, binds. Neither of you notice, too busy trying to kill each other with passive-aggressive tugs and very active-aggressive insults.

“Jesus Christ, your shirt’s made of velcro or what?”

“Maybe your watch is cursed. Did you rob a priest?”

“Why are your abs out—”

“Why are you looking at them—”

You both freeze.

Your faces are this close. Breath shared. You can see the specks of gold in his eyes. He can smell the faint shampoo in your hair. The train jostles again, and your bodies bump together, awkward and too warm. He blinks. You blink.

And that little red thread? It pulses once. Content. Smug, even.

It had only been a few minutes, but it felt like years. Years of verbal sparring, the kind that leaves mental bite marks and a permanent twitch in your eye. Years packed into that hellish metro ride — the suffocating crowd, the friction of bodies, and the absolutely unholy closeness of you and Sukuna, the pink-haired plague on your peace.

It was a symphony of irritation: your bickering crescendoed, echoing off the glass, punctuated by the occasional dramatic gasp (yours, because how dare he bring your mother into this?) and a startlingly feral hiss (his — honestly, who hisses like that? You still weren’t over it).

“Your mom should’ve taught you how to dress like a functional adult,” Sukuna had scoffed, voice sharp enough to pierce through metal.

“And your dentist should’ve filed down your fangs, Edward Cullen,” you’d snapped back, right before his pupils dilated like you’d just told him Santa Claus wasn’t real. He looked like he was ready to bite you. Like literally bite you. You wondered, not for the first time, if he was just feral or if the metro air made people feral.

And then — click.

Freedom.

Your watch finally popped loose from his clothes, the poor thing traumatized but intact. You both immediately fled to opposite doors like bitter divorcees pretending they didn’t share a Netflix password.

“I hope the next time we meet, I’m deaf,” you shouted across the train.

“I hope the next time we meet, you’ve been replaced by a potted plant — it’d have more brains,” he snarled.

You both stomped off the train at your stop, muttering curses like two gremlins banished from the underworld. Behind you, the invisible red thread simply stretched further, smug and undisturbed, lengthening itself like some magical slinky that refused to be cut. It trailed behind you both like the worst kind of cosmic joke, blissfully unaware that you were both one wrong word away from starting an actual fistfight in the middle of the platform.

After what felt like an entire saga of mentally cussing him out, climbing three flights of stairs because the lift was always slow, and mentally filing an angry complaint to the universe, you finally reached your apartment door. Peace at last.

Well, almost.

You turned toward the elevator, digging through your bag for your keys, and there he was.

There. He. Was.

Leaning casually against the elevator doors like a shampoo commercial gone wrong, arms crossed, pink hair gleaming under the shitty hallway lights, and that same smug little curve on his lips like the universe had just handed him your misery on a silver platter.

You blinked. 

He blinked back, slower, smugger.

“...Are you stalking me?” you asked, flatly, because honestly, at this point, what else could this be? He barked out a laugh, loud and sharp. “You wish. I’m moving in.”

You stared at him. Your brain short-circuited. Your soul left your body and came back just to kick you in the shin.

“What.”

“New tenant,” he said with a little wave. “Landlady said the floor had good lighting. Guess she forgot to mention the infestation.”

“Infest—infestation?!” You nearly dropped your keys. “I hope you fall down the stairs and land teeth-first.”

“I hope your kettle explodes next time you try to make tea, dumbass.”

You both glared — the kind of glare that had probably made old gods weep and babies cry. Somewhere, the elevator dinged softly, its doors opening to welcome one (1) petty pink-haired menace and one (1) emotionally done human.

You both stepped in without looking at each other. The red string followed, still wrapped around your little fingers, stretching gently behind you both — a silent, glowing third wheel that refused to take a hint.

Fuck your life. And fuck fate too, while you were at it.

You really, really thought the next morning would be better.

After the disaster that was yesterday — the metro, the snarling pink-haired gremlin, the revelation that said gremlin lived on your floor, and the fact that you now had to cohabitate oxygen with him — you’d gone to bed with the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that promised at least one thing would go right the next day. Just one. Just a sliver of peace, maybe, a moment of normalcy to prove that the universe wasn’t actively putting you on a hit list.

But hah. Nope.

Because you open the front door, step into the hallway in your slightly wrinkled work clothes, clutching the little baggie of food like a knight bearing gifts, and there he is.

Kneeling beside the apartment building’s most beloved freeloader — the white stray Uraume who ruled your collective lives with an iron paw and a fluffy tail — is Sukuna. Hair slightly damp like he just got out of the shower, wearing the kind of shirt that looks like it was bought solely to be hated, crouched down with a tin of wet food in his hands, and smiling.

Smiling. At Uraume, of all things.

Not at you. God no. His smiles for you usually look like they come with optional knives.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you blurt out, the cat food bag crinkling in your hand like even it is alarmed.

“Feeding the cat,” he replies without looking up, his tone smug, too casual, too comfortable. “What does it look like?”“It looks like you’re encroaching on sacred territory,” you snap, stomping closer like you’re about to perform an exorcism. “It’s Wednesday. My day.”

“They don’t know days,” Sukuna shrugs. “It’s a cat. They don’t give a shit if it’s Wednesday or the apocalypse.”

Uraume, for their part, is sprawled between you two like a tiny fluffy deity watching its mortal worshippers squabble, eyes half-lidded, tail flicking lazily as if amused by the sheer idiocy in front of them.

“They know me,” you insist, pointing an accusatory finger. “I bring them tuna. They purr for me.”

“They just purred for me,” Sukuna says smugly, leaning down to stroke their belly. They stretch like royalty, perfectly content. “Face it. They like me better.”

“They tolerate you,” you sneer, crouching down too, now both of you on either side of this indifferent god, cat food containers in hand like offerings in a duel. “Also, why are you using that cheap-ass brand? Uraume’s got a refined palate.”

“You feed a stray like they’re your tax-dependent,” he scoffs. “No wonder it acts like a brat.”

“Uraume is royalty.”

“Uraume has fleas.”

“So do you, probably.”

Uraume chooses this moment to pounce — not on either of you, but at the air just in front of them. They bat at something, paws swiping with focused glee, and you blink.

“...Is she high?” Sukuna mutters, watching as the cat wiggles their butt, springs, and lands on a very specific patch of empty hallway.

“Zoomies,” you say, though you’re not entirely sure. “They do that sometimes.”

Uraume keeps chasing something you can’t see — something red, something delicate, something that dances just ahead of their claws, curling through the air between the two of you. Something threadlike, and taut, and glowing — though not to your eyes. You both just keep bickering, oblivious.

“Seriously though, can’t you go menace someone else?” you grumble, finally standing and dusting off your knees.

“Can’t you find a new hallway?” he shoots back. “This one’s mine now.”

“God, you’re like a mold infestation.”

“And you’re like the stain on a public toilet seat.”

There’s a pause. Uraume is now gently gnawing on the air between your hands, satisfied. You look down. You look up. 

And, with a sigh, you finally mutter, “...What’s your name, anyway?”

He looks vaguely surprised, then smirks. “Sukuna. And yours?”

“Why? Gonna hex me with it?”

“Can’t hex someone without a name. Now cough it up.”

You tell him. He repeats it, rolling it around his mouth like he’s testing how annoying he can make it sound later. “Figures,” he says, straightening up. “Your name sounds like it comes with unsolicited opinions and a constant need to be right.”

“Your name sounds like a rejection email from a demon,” you fire back.

Uraume sneezes. The red string flickers, coils tighter. 

And neither of you still have any goddamn idea.

Despite your better judgment — and trust, it really was against every instinct for self-preservation that you had — you were starting to accept the possibility that maybe, just maybe, Sukuna wasn’t entirely the worst.

Not that he was good. No, you would never say that. If anyone ever dared to suggest that Sukuna had an ounce of decency in his entire six-foot-something frame of walking rage, you would probably burst out laughing and then list ten reasons why they should be on a watchlist. You were just… developing the world’s strongest tolerance, like some psychological cockroach capable of surviving nuclear-grade assholery. Yeah, that had to be it.

Because there was no way that Sukuna was a good person.

Not when he once looked old man Nanami in the eye — the sweetest, politest senior citizen in your apartment complex, the one who offered you coconut cookies every Thursday — and said, with no hesitation, "If your grandkid doesn’t shut up by 10 p.m., I’m gonna eat him. Protein is protein."

You were there.

You saw Mr. Nanami’s soul briefly leave his body while clutching little Yuuji, who was just trying to learn how to walk and scream at the same time. You were genuinely surprised Sukuna wasn’t served legal papers the next morning. (You think the only reason Nanami didn’t call the cops is because he didn’t know how to explain ‘My upstairs neighbor threatened to eat my toddler with his whole chest’ without sounding like he was the unhinged one.)

And it wasn’t just the elderly and the infants. Sukuna’s temper was democratic — he picked fights like they were his cardio. Someone sighs too loud? Fight. Someone stands too close in the elevator? Fight. Someone dares to exist within a five-meter radius while also having a smug aura? That was instant fucking fight. You’d honestly gotten used to hearing vague yelling down the hall and not reacting until someone used your name. That was the protocol.

But then there was Gojo.

White-haired menace. Lives somewhere close enough that the chaos occasionally spilled into your airspace. Visits Geto every few days, usually late at night, wearing clothes that screamed "I think rules are suggestions" and a smile that could probably trigger a lawsuit.

And every. single. time. Gojo entered your building, it was like watching two angry cats lock eyes across the hallway. Hissing. Posturing. Threats that sounded like they were ripped out of a trashy sitcom. Once, you woke up at three a.m. to actual growling outside your door.

“For fuck’s sake,” you’d yelled, groggily throwing it open, “Go home or kiss already!”

Both of them had frozen mid-snarl, their hands halfway to each other’s throats.

“Shut up, we’re not into each other!” they barked at you in perfect unison, like that wasn’t the most suspicious thing they could have said.But here was the kicker: he was never like that with you.

Oh, he was still rude. He called your music taste garbage at least twice a week and once accused your bathroom cleaner of smelling like a rotting lemon corpse. But he didn’t fight you. Not like that. Instead, he held elevator doors open with his back against the buttons like it was nothing, barely even glancing at you as you skidded across the floor with your laptop bag flapping behind you like a dying bird.

“You always run like the building’s on fire,” he’d mutter.

“Maybe I’m trying to escape your energy,” you’d shoot back, breathless.

He always told the trash guys to wait when you were sprinting down the stairs with two bags of waste in hand — one dry, one wet, both swinging dangerously. He’d lean against the rail and bark, “Oi, she’s coming,” before casually flicking his cigarette and watching you descend like a chaotic meteor of domestic failure.

“I could’ve managed,” you once grumbled, tossing the bags in as the garbage truck revved.

“You would’ve tripped and died. Then I’d have to feed your cat.”

“Uraume’s not even mine.”

“Then why does it hiss when I call them my cat?”

Touché.

He wasn't nice. He wasn't.

Not to other people. And not in a way that made it easy to like him. But maybe he was conveniently decent to you.

Probably because he wanted a favor someday. Or he was playing the long game. 

Or maybe it was just that he found your chaos mildly entertaining and liked being the one person who got to annoy you without being hit.

Definitely not because he liked you.

Right?

Right.

It wasn’t like you two would wait for each other by the elevator every morning. No, absolutely not — you were both far too emotionally constipated and aggressively independent to admit to something as wildly intimate as synchronized elevator rides.

And yet.

Somehow, like clockwork, you’d step out your apartment door and he’d be there — leaning with one shoulder against the wall beside the lift, arms crossed, coffee already in hand, expression set to his usual ‘who the fuck woke me up’ setting. And on the rare days you were early, you’d pretend you weren’t glancing up from your phone every five seconds just to see if you’d hear the familiar thunk-thunk-thunk of his heavy shoes dragging toward you.

You never greeted each other like normal people. God forbid.

“Oh look, the hallway’s ugliest plant finally bloomed,” you’d say sweetly.

“Aw, how cute. A raccoon in office clothes,” he’d grunt, stepping into the elevator first like the absolute bastard he was.

You two always made it a point to bicker through the entire ride, then all the way to the station. And then — just because the universe hadn’t punished either of you enough — you somehow took the same line to work.

It’d start off harmless — like Coachella 2025, which you both agreed was a walking tragedy, but couldn’t agree on why.

“I’m just saying, you can’t call it a comeback if the vocals sound like someone left a kettle screaming on the stove.”

“They were experimental vocals,” Sukuna huffed. “Not everyone wants the same autotuned garbage you listen to.”

“Says the man whose Spotify Wrapped had three songs Fetty Wap songs in it.”

“Hell yeah it did.”

Or you’d end up arguing over Nanami’s latest sweets — the ones he passed out in neat little boxes with origami on top and a handwritten note. And Sukuna, who had the nerve to say “This tastes like diabetes” with a scrunched-up face, had the audacity to later be caught in the act — crouched in front of the communal fridge, shoveling the leftover sugar-drenched delicacies into his mouth like he was trying to erase all evidence.

You stood at the doorway, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. 

“You want me to get you some insulin, champ?”

He didn’t even stop chewing. Just said, around a mouthful of icing, “Fuck off. It’s called recycling. I’m saving the planet.”

And your little morning routine would be incomplete without the stop at the rickety cafe around the corner — a shoebox-sized shop tucked beside a bookstore, smelling like toasted bread and too much cinnamon. The place was run by a sleepy-eyed, nose-ringed man named Choso, who you later found out was Sukuna’s cousin through what had to be divine punishment.

“He looks like he listens to sad violin music in the dark,” you once whispered.

“He does. But he also makes good coffee. Don’t let the existential energy fool you,” Sukuna muttered.

The place was always packed, but somehow, your order would be ready by the time you got to the counter. Tea for you, coffee for Sukuna. Every damn day.

Except for the one time the cups got swapped.

You didn’t notice until you took a long, scalding sip and promptly had your soul exit your body.

“Why does this taste like shit and caffeine?” you coughed.

“Because you’re drinking my coffee, dumbass,” Sukuna muttered from his end, eyeing your cup like he could will it back into his hands.

Neither of you had time to swap. So you just… drank it.

You were wired until 4 p.m., typing up emails like a possessed gremlin. 

Meanwhile, Sukuna? Snored in the middle of a team call. Snored. In his swivel chair. (He still claims the spreadsheet was boring enough to induce a coma.)

And maybe the most ridiculous part of it all was the way the day would end — with both of you pretending like you weren’t keeping an eye on the metro clock, waiting.

“You’re late,” Sukuna would grumble when you jogged up to him, hair windswept, tie lopsided.

“You’re still ugly,” you’d pant, and both of you would file into the train like two mismatched puzzle pieces forced into the same space.

And sometimes, between the back-and-forths and the sleepy evenings, the rocking of the train would lull one of you to sleep. And it was always the same — if he passed out first, head thunking against your shoulder, you’d just sigh and adjust your bag so it didn’t jab him in the ribs, pretending it wasn’t a little warm having his weight on you.

And if it was you, drooling slightly, head falling against him? He’d hiss a bit. Complain. Say things like, “Great. I’m a fucking pillow now,” under his breath. But he’d stay still. Wouldn’t shove you off. And he’d glare at anyone who even so much as looked at the seat beside you like they were thinking of sitting there, as if to say: “Touch her and die.”

And yet you both swore — swore — that none of this meant anything. Just morning routines. Just bickering. Just accidentally tolerating each other. Totally normal. Nothing weird about it at all. Right?

By the time the elevator dinged on your floor and the two of you stepped out, it was the usual symphony of tired bones and overworked brains, the air thick with the shared scent of corporate despair and too-sweet coffee you shouldn’t have had at 4 p.m., but did anyway. Your body ached, your bag hung off your shoulder like dead weight, and Sukuna was just behind you — jacket slung over one shoulder, shirt half-untucked, tie loose and mouth full of complaints he hadn’t started voicing yet. But then —

A tug.

Sharp and sudden, like a fishing line catching tension, like the universe pinched your pinky in a moment of bratty playfulness. Your hand jerked slightly, and you looked down, frowning.

And oh. There it was again. The string.

The same one you thought was a caffeine-induced fever dream. The one that had flickered into existence before, soft as spider silk and just as annoying, but now it was solid — scarlet red, humming faintly with a shimmer of something that felt way too personal and real. It wound snug around your pinky, stretched across the two feet between you, and found its twin grip around Sukuna’s hand.

And he was staring at it too.

His face was unreadable — which was new. Gone was the usual smug, twitchy grimace of a man permanently five seconds away from telling someone to choke. No, right now he looked… quiet. Contemplative. Like he’d seen this before. 

Like he knew something.

“Hey,” he started, voice unusually low, not his usual bark or snarl, but a drawl trying to reach for something softer, something that made your stomach twist unexpectedly, “There’s something I—”

But his words were promptly obliterated by the sudden thump-thump-thump-thump of tiny hands and knees against the floor.

A pink blur came barrelling up the stairwell like a demon on all fours — two-year-old Yuuji, in all his diapered, wide-eyed, suspiciously-strong-for-his-age glory. He practically launched himself up the final step and planted himself directly between the both of you, letting out a squeal of delight as he sat on the floor and began excitedly grabbing at the air.

No — not the air.

The string.

Your eyes widened as his chubby fists tried to catch the flickering red thread, cooing and giggling and babbling nonsense in toddler tongue as if the world’s most entertaining toy had just appeared before him.

“Reeeeddddddd!!” he crowed, crawling into Sukuna’s office shoe like it was his new throne.

You blinked. “Wait. You can see this too?!”

Yuuji looked up at you, beaming, nodding with the pride of a war general. “Pretty!”

“Oh fuck me,” Sukuna muttered under his breath, eyes darting toward the stairwell just as the loud clomp of formal shoes came echoing behind the kid.

Nanami appeared — flushed, panting, tie disheveled like he’d just run a full marathon in work shoes, one hand clutching the stair railing for dear life. He stopped dead when he saw where Yuuji had gone. 

“Oh thank God,” he gasped, bending slightly with his hands on his knees. “I thought I was going to have to file a police report.”

“Your kid just speed-crawled up three floors,” you pointed out, vaguely horrified.

“He does that. I can’t stop him. He’s like a golden retriever possessed by Satan,” Nanami said, coughing.

Meanwhile, Yuuji was now crawling in circles around the two of you, still trying to catch the red string, occasionally grabbing at your legs or Sukuna’s pants like the thing was taunting him. You and Sukuna exchanged a look — not your usual annoyed-glare combo, but a genuinely confused what the hell is going on look.

And again, you noticed the way Sukuna was looking at the string. Not shocked, not panicked. Just tired. Thoughtful. Like a man who had been putting off something inevitable and just ran out of time. You tilted your head. “Okay. What do you know that I don’t?”

He looked like he might say it. Really say it.

But then Yuuji yanked at the thread hard enough to make it pulse — and you felt it, a zap of something warm curling around your chest like it’d coiled straight through your ribs.

“What the hell?!” you flinched.

Sukuna sighed. Muttered something under his breath you didn’t catch. And then, looking straight at you, jaw tense:

“…I’ll explain tomorrow.”

“You better,” you hissed, heart hammering for reasons you refused to unpack right now. 

And behind you, Yuuji was still squealing with joy.

“Red! Red! Red!!”

Nanami quietly took out a juice box from his briefcase and bribed him down the hall. You couldn’t help but think he had the right idea.

Because if you thought the red thread was a joke, now you were the punchline.

And Sukuna?

You were starting to think he’d been reading the script the whole damn time.

You didn’t even realize how long you’d been lying there — not really. The air in your room was heavy, too still, the kind of quiet that felt a little like grief, or maybe a little like denial, something sharp and slow and suffocating all at once. You were on your back, lights still on, phone somewhere lost in the folds of your sheets, your speaker untouched and silent for once — no pop music or shitty love songs to drown out the thoughts.

Just silence.

And the thread.

That fucking thread.

It glowed faintly against the backdrop of your ceiling, rising gently from your pinky like a tendril of smoke, an unwanted, uninvited thing that refused to leave. You lifted your hand, half-wishing it would vanish if you blinked enough times. 

It didn’t. It shimmered in the low light, stubborn and elegant, like the universe had decided it was feeling poetic this week and picked you as its tragic metaphor.

You gave it a slight tug, just to see.

The resulting sting shot through your finger like a spark, making you flinch — and from behind your wall, you heard him.

“Oi!” came Sukuna’s voice, muffled but unmistakably him, rough and indignant, like you’d just elbowed him in the ribs. “What the hell was that for, you—?!”

You immediately turned your back to the wall, rolling with a sigh so dramatic it could have won awards. You stared at your curtains, dull in the soft glow of streetlights outside. “Not now,” you muttered to no one, hoping the string would relay that too.

There was silence. Maybe for five seconds. 

Then another tug. Gentler this time. Hesitant.

You glared at the wall. “What?”

A long pause. And then:

“…You’re not gonna talk to me?” Sukuna’s voice came quieter now, like he didn’t know what to do with it either. “You’ve been quiet for hours. I thought you’d… I don’t know. Start yelling or something.”

You sat up a little, pressing the heel of your palm against your eyes. “Yeah well,” you muttered, “I’ve used up my yelling quota for the month. Thanks for that.”

There was a rustling on his side. A beat. Then another tug — not a sting this time, but something like a nudge, like a poke in the shoulder.

“I didn’t think you’d freak out,” Sukuna admitted, voice low. Too honest. “Figured you’d laugh. Say it’s stupid. Call it a dumb romance trope or whatever.”

You let out a shaky breath, pressing your forehead to your knees. “It is a dumb romance trope,” you whispered. “Except now it’s… real. I can feel it, Sukuna. It hurts when you pull it. It glows. Why does it glow?!”

He didn’t answer for a moment. Then softly, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud:

“…Because it’s always been there.”

You froze. Slowly, you turned to face the wall.

“What?”

Sukuna exhaled — you could hear it, rough and frustrated, like he was mad at himself more than anything. “I didn’t… I didn’t know how to bring it up. I thought maybe I was just seeing things for a while. It didn’t show up for you yet. But I’ve—”

A pause.

“I’ve seen it. Since the day we met.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

He’d known? This whole time?

“You knew? And you didn’t tell me?” Your voice cracked mid-sentence, sharp with something you didn’t know how to name.

“Would you have believed me?” he bit back, not harsh — just defeated. “You already thought I was insane when we met. You still think I’m insane. Imagine if I’d told you there was some red fucking magical string tying our souls together, huh?”

You opened your mouth to argue. He would’ve sounded completely unhinged. You dragged your hands over your face, trying to breathe through it. Trying not to feel like the floor had dropped out beneath you.

“What does it mean?” you asked, quietly now. “Why us?”

A long silence.

Then Sukuna, tired:

“…I don’t know.”

You swallowed.

“But it’s real, right?”

Another beat.

“Yeah.”

And neither of you spoke after that. But the string pulsed once — soft, warm — and for the first time, you didn’t tug back.

The days after that were strange — soft in the kind of way that crept up on you, like the first breath of cold after a long summer. Not that either of you would admit it, of course. Not in words, not directly. Sukuna still barked when you burned your toast too loud at six in the morning, and you still scoffed when he sprayed too much cologne and gave your sinuses a five-hour long panic attack. But even the insults were different now, frayed at the edges with something gentle.

When Sukuna left for work with his tie somehow inside out — you’d swear the man had to try to do that — you clicked your tongue, rolled your eyes like you wanted to stab him with a fork, then silently pulled it off and fixed it for him. He grumbled under his breath, as always, but didn't move a muscle while you smoothed it out. 

And when you tied your hair back with such rabid intensity that you gave yourself a headache halfway through lunch, he reached over the table without looking up from his phone, tugged the scrunchie loose with one hand, and shoved a protein bar into your other.

“Don’t pass out before five,” he muttered.

You didn’t even say thank you. 

You didn’t have to. The red string hummed for you.

And it was little things like that, really — like how you’d pick up his package when he wasn’t home, and he’d grumble and call you nosy, but then you’d find your favorite sour candy stuffed inside the handle of your apartment door.

Or how you’d snatch the umbrella from his hand because “You’re gonna get electrocuted holding metal near the power lines, stupid,” only for him to give you the umbrella in the morning again, saying it made your ridiculous frog print raincoat look less lonely.

You weren’t in love. Not yet. But you were on the road.

And sometimes, you swore you’d been on it before. Like the rhythm of this whole mess felt familiar, not just in this life.

Maybe once you were a dog and he was a cat, and you spent your days yowling and chasing each other up fences, knocking over trash cans in the name of something feral and tender. 

Maybe once you were thunder and he was a crooked old mountain, always meeting, always crashing, never quite learning the other’s shape but staying anyway.

Maybe once you were two flowers growing on either side of a forest, reaching for each other across centuries of sunlight. 

Maybe once you were nothing but stories told by firelight, over and over, in every tongue — about the fox who chased the wolf through storm after storm, until both of them finally curled up together under one tree.

And maybe, just maybe, it was always you and him, clawing and biting and bickering and loving.

Because now, in this life, here you were again.

In a train too crowded for comfort, someone’s armpit too close to your face, someone else’s elbow poking your spine, and yet you were standing on your tiptoes just to peer through the sea of heads, holding up your pinky so the string between you would tug. Not hard, just a little nudge.

And across the crowd, Sukuna turned.

He was pretending to read the ads above the windows, face bored, mouth twitching like he was already planning to insult your taste in shoes or how your hair looked like it lost a fight with the wind — but when he felt the tug, his gaze softened, just a little.

Then he looked at you. And without a word, he tugged back.

You smiled just a little, and the train rolled on.

Outside, the sun broke through the clouds like it had been waiting all morning.

Inside, the red string pulsed with something warm.

And for once — for maybe the thousandth time across a hundred lives — you wouldn't have it any other way.

[harbours-lighthouse]

continuation of 'jason todd loves loudly'

Jason Todd learns to love slowly.

He's never known exactly what to do, when to do it. He's awkward and stiff because no one taught him how to treat a woman properly before he died. He knew that the way his father treated his mother wasn't right, and he knew that the way Bruce loved Selina never truly struck him as pure, unconditional love. There was always something sly lingering behind their eyes, and sometimes Jason got the sick feeling that there wasn't any love at all, but simply lust.

And when he came back, it was hard not to notice that there were women who noticed him, who took an interest. Sometimes, he tried to take their attention to his advantage, but it always ended in some sort of hushed apology and a slam of a door, vomit along the bathroom floor and Jason being alone again. At some point, he didn't bother trying.

Of course, there were a few relationships that stuck around for a little while, ones where he didn't actively pursue it, but it just...happened. And he did learn from them, but with each lesson it felt that there was alway some sort of horrible situation to accompany them. He'd learn that he has to put effort into the relationship—a date here and there, maybe flowers, loving words, consistency, etc—but the newly acquired knowledge would be followed with a shouting match or the silent treatment. More often than not, those days left him hiding away, feeling ashamed that he's not better—angry that he's seeing a diluted reflection of the very men he punches enough times to bring them lingering on death's doorstep.

To avoid that creeping feeling of despair, the hot burning shame in his stomach and the awkwardness that wraps around his throat, he doesn't search for anyone. He occasionally reads a novel and he might think that something like what's written in the books would be magical, but the thought is quickly dropped and he's picking up a different book like crime and punishment.

And yet, on a day that felt too long and too short at the same time, he met you. To say you were 'different' from all the other girls wouldn't be accurate because all of the others were unique in their own way—but there is something about you that screams 'I'm the one! I'm the one that might really love you!'.

Getting to know you was easy, though Jason stumbled over his words half the time (he'll deny it). He tried hiding the tense line of his shoulders and the crack in his voice by driving you around the city on his bike. Can't exactly notice much about the driver when you're zipping through a city and the wind is snapping at you, right?

You lit up his world, to say the least. Made all the shadows shrink away, brought a sense of hope even on his worst days. But Jason knew that you were the one he loved because you loved him in a way that was slow, patient. Unhurried.

There'd been an initial fear that he'd do something wrong, that you'd shout or storm away, and he'd be left alone again. But the first time the two of you had an argument, there wasn't a door slammed in his face, a finger jabbed into his pec, or an insult or curse thrown his way.

You didn't baby him—no, definitely not—but your voice never raised, and you insisted on talking things out. There wasn't a single chance that you were willing to take when it came down to Jason Todd, so you stayed and you made sure that the both of you spoke to each other—taught each other.

So Jason learned how to love slowly. You gently guided him when his actions or his words made you feel neglected or lost, and he guided you through his thought process and why some days it's too hard to look at you for so long, and that memory and fear are closely intertwined and they rule over him often.

He wasn't perfect in the least. He often forgot anniversaries, special appointments, etc. Flowers were rare because he simply didn't see the point but sometimes he put in the effort—he tried to make it more meaningful by getting your birth flowers. But more significantly, there were times where his mouth simply sealed shut and he struggled to tell you what was on his heart and mind. He couldn't bring himself to open himself up entirely, but again, you taught him slowly. He learnt slowly.

You taught him what it's like to say something soft, even if it's a little awkward and he stumbles a bit. The intent is there—that's what matters. You taught him that taking care of himself was in of itself an act of love within your relationship, and there was nothing corrupt about him. You taught him about the small habits he did that annoyed you, and subsequently he taught you about the things you did that annoyed him. You taught him that you need him to talk when something is wrong, and he taught you to always listen when he spoke.

Though you were one or two paces ahead of Jason, you never let go of his hand. Jason learned slowly that that was what real love is.

© harbours-lighthouse tags: @kitkatlover015

[thethronezone]

What do you think the Primarchs would want their wedding to be like?

This is assuming the Primarchs are marrying for love aka not an arranged marriage.

Mortarion - It's a small, very private ceremony held on his flagship. There's a few banners, the serfs have placed new candles, there's even a few flowers. Lowkey but it has a strange sort of earnestness behind it. Honestly though, Mortarion would rather just elope but for his beloved he will grin and bear with it. This is for them, after all. Maybe a dozen people invited, mostly to serve as witness as Mortarion says "I do" and his beloved does the same. Ditches the reception though and instead leaves with his spouse for their honeymoon.

Fulgrim - Since he's the kind of person to have planned his own wedding since he was like 8 years old, Fulgrim is very specific with how he wants it. He's a bit of a bridezilla, to be honest and will yell at at least a handful of people because they do something 'wrong'. It is a beautiful wedding though. A garden/paradise world, ice sculptures, delicacies from all over the galaxy, an orchestra playing both the classics and his and his beloved's personal favorites.

Angron - It barely counts as a wedding. Angron just kinda grabs his beloved and, in front of a bunch of his legion, states "From this day on, this is wife/husband/spouse. If anyone has a problem with it, speak now or stay silent." Of course, no one raises any objections, mostly because there's a look on Angron's face that promises a quick, gory death to anyone that does (it also helps that Kharn is glaring at everyone, urging them to shut the fuck up or else). Satisfied with the submission, Angron nods his head and dips with his, rather startled, wife/husband/spouse.

Magnus - Hope the guests likes the arcane cause that's the theme of this wedding. Magnus wants the wedding to be memorable and unique so he cooperates with his sons to create a magical display. Balls of light hovering in the ceiling, instruments that play themselves, magnificent fireworks etc.. Then there's the speeches. Because of course Magnus is going to have a lot to say during the wedding, both during the ceremony and the reception. He wants everyone to know how happy he is!

Perturabo - MEGA BRIDEZILLA. Don't get me wrong, it's an absolutely beautiful wedding with elegant decor and a scenic venue but dear god, Perturabo is acting like an absolute dictator as he tells everyone where to put things and where to go. Some poor serf is going to burst into tears when he starts yelling at them for using the wrong shade of white. He said eggshell white, not ivory! Alas, that is the prize of perfection. It's not overly pompous or so fancy that its distasteful, instead there's this subtle beauty to everything, the feeling that even the most minute details were considered and have a purpose.

Alpharius - There's no actual wedding day. Instead, the 'ceremony' takes place over a prolonged period of time, weeks and maybe even months. Small instances of sincerity, small tests of devotion. Their beloved is not told of the significance of these occasions or that they pass whatever test they are put through. All they know is that one day both Alpharius and Omegon start referring to them as their husband/wife/spouse and that's that. Congrats.

Lorgar - It's a very, very long wedding, with lots of speeches and ceremonials. Lorgar feels the intense need to thank god for giving him his beloved and make sure that their union is blessed. Seriously, he can't stop thanking god. There are tears in his eyes the entire time, he's so emotional. There's lots of hymns and songs, candles and incense everywhere. It's also a very traditional wedding though it still manages to feel very sincere and there's a genuine feeling of love.

Horus - Of COURSE the wedding takes place in the Imperial Palace, Horus would not have it anywhere else. And all his sons are there. And most of his brothers. Maybe even the Emperor. To Horus, the guest list is the most important part of the wedding (after actually getting married, of course). He finds it important for people to witness it, to partake and celebrate this union. Otherwise he's pretty happy to leave the rest of the wedding planning to his soon-to-be spouse.

Konrad - One word; elopement. Sorry not sorry but Konrad would rather rip off his own nails one by one and shove them up his nostrils than stand in front of a crowd and confess his feelings and vulnerabilities. It would probably end with a massacre, with his nerves geting the better of him. Instead Konrad wants a quite, private thing, just him and his beloved promising to be together forever. Some secluded location where no one can hear his whispers of devotion and promises of undying loyalty.

Sanguinius - Surprisingly hands off with the wedding planning? His sons practically beg him to leave it all to them and to just spend time with his fiancé. Besides, they know what he wants. Lots of light, a place with a high ceiling and great accoustics, a bunch of flowers (roses, duh!), live music and a wedding cake as tall as he is.

Corvus - Here comes the blushing bride! And by bride I mean Corvus. Mostly leaves the planning to his partner because he has no clue where to even start and is more focused on not getting cold feet and bailing. Does however request that it's a small wedding and that they only invite people that both of them know. Wants it to be intimate and happy, not some kind of pompous display.

Ferrus - A small, private ceremony with only a couple of his most trusted Iron Hands there to serve as witnesses. Oh, and Fulgrim of course. The ceremony proceeds quickly. A few vows and promises of loyalty, an exchange of rings and finally them writing their signatures on an Imperial document, making their marriage official. It's all over within the hour. Fulgrim is lowkey horrified by how simple and uneventful the whole event was but that's how Ferrus wanted it. He just wants to be married.

Rogal - He wants the wedding to take place either in the Imperial Palace or in one of his fortresses, partially because of safety reasons but also because of the symbolism. By getting wed here, he's proving to everyone that he's capable of sheltering and protecting his spouse. Very involved in the wedding planning and is, surprisingly, a bit of a bridezilla because he wants it a certain way and won't be dissuaded. There's a strict schedule to be followed and a dress code. And there will be cannons going off instead of wedding bells. Because cannons are more impressive.

Vulkan - Big wedding! Lots of guests! Vulkan wants everyone he knows to be there so it most likely ends up being an outdoor wedding. His sons are very involved in decorating the venue, making most of the decorations by hand. Vulkan himself makes the wedding ring. There's a live band but most of the music is going to be the guests singing wedding songs.

Lion - Super formal and traditional, more of a ceremony rather than a celebration. That doesn't mean that Lion is not happy and doesn't want to celebrate but that comes afterward, in private. To him, a wedding is more of a public spectacle meant to prove commitment. Still, he's got a reputation to uphold and so it is actually quite a beautiful wedding. Not cozy but elegant. Lots of banners and torches.

Leman - The wedding lasts for three days. First day is the exchange of vows and all that jazz but the rest of it? That's the wedding reception and it's straight up one big party. Lots of eating, drinking, dancing and telling stories. And so, so many toasts. It feels like every five minutes, some rando stands up from their seat, raises their cup and calls out a toast for the merry couple. And the longer the reception goes on, the drunker everyone gets and the toasts gets more and more, well, rowdy.

Jaghatai - Traditional Chogorian wedding, complete with all the customs, clothing and food. He's very proud of his culture and wants to share that with his spouse, invite them to take part in something he feels is very important. Of course, their own culture is also taken into account and implemented. Expect lots of guests, with White Scars, different tribes and family members. Magnus is definitely there.

Roboute - Very traditional, very formal yet honest and heartfelt too. Like, there are so many small little details that to most people, mean absolutely nothing but have some sort of meaning to Roboute and his beloved. So while it's a very formal event, he expresses his true feelings of love and devotion through these small details that only they notice. There's going to be lots of guests (even though Roboute would rather have a smaller wedding) but he's going to make sure that only those he actually likes gets seated close to the two of you.

[montimer]

Cecil x hero!reader || random hc's

Gn!reader,(reader bit oc), kinda silly. Bit smutty at the end!

You have became his favourite. You follow orders, you listen, and you do your job right. But those are not the only qualities he likes about you. He might not say it but your kindness means a lot to him. Also the fact that you don't act like an asshole just cuz you got superpowers and he don't. You treat him as equal, even more. Well, good, he's your boss after all but- feels nice still.

But boy, do you got some guts. You really don't hide your affections towards him. Telling him he looks great, praising him. Happy to hear him ask you for missions, no ones this happy to talk with him. When he let's you close enough you even hug him.

When he seems sad to you, you move in to hug him, like over his shoulder. He only lets it slide cuz it wasn't in public. But it sure did make his heart beat faster. And your comforting words? Do you even know what you're doing to him? "I know you mean well. You're a good guy, even if others can't see that. I'm here for you too Cecil, remember that." Just know your words are stuck in his head for a very long time.

You can be a brat sometimes tho. Imagine carrying him from somewhere. Flying or not. Just like pick him up and go, what is he gonna do? Teleport away-? Oh he just did. "Aw man, lemme help you out a bit. Costs you a lifetime to teleport all day" (you just want to carry him)

He has an easier time getting things through your head. You understand that you cannot be fully good, that you need to bring sacrifices sometimes.

He let's you talk about your interests on quieter days. Makes him feel more human, to finally talk about anything but having the responsibility to save the world. Plus he likes seeing you so happy as you talk

He smiles at you. Like actually smiles. You think his smile looks so sweet. As reaction you smile back at him and it flutters his heart.

He teleports to you, specifically you. At a point it doesn't even surprise you.

He checks up on you, he makes it seem professional but he wants to know if yer okay. Both mentally and physically

He stares at you. He stares so hard you could stare back and it would take him a moment to realize. His confusion makes you giggle. Well, he takes it as a win, atleast he made you laugh.

Just imagine saving him. How fast his trust would go up from that. And you even stay by him, asking if he's okay. Of course, he replies in a calm tone "Im fine... thank you." You do hear the crack in his voice but you know better than to point it out

He gets jealous too. Staring at the person who's flirting with you with an angry but cold expression.

Speaking of, he'd only look super angry with you if you almost get yourself killed. He gives you the lecture and everything.

He tries his best to perish the thoughts of wanting to be held by you again. Or to kiss you, caress your hair, hug you close, take you out- is it too late for him?

This is wrong, he knows. Very unprofessional. Part of him wants you to want him back, the other wants to forget about the whole thing.

It gets to a point where he's curious to find out if there's a chance on earth you'd love him back. And so he tries to give back the affections

Putting a hand on your shoulder. Bringing you gifts. Telling you he's here if you need something, or to talk. He's soft with you. A small smile appearing on his face as he sees you. He even goes in to hug you when he sees its the right moment. You are very surprised, but also happy, and so you hug him back. He's just glad you didn't push him off.

Snuggle into him pls, you can hear how fast his heart begins to race just from that.

He wouldn't ask you directly.

You really have to catch him alone to kiss him and tell him how much you love him. He'll be all flustered, surprised. He starts rambling about how wrong this is, but its so easy to tell he wants this too. Caress his face in your hands to shut him up. Soon enough he'll give in and let you taste him again. You slowly go down on his neck, kissing and nibbling on it, while pulling his tie bringing him even closer. He let's out small gasp and moans. He guesses this is gonna be a long night

[lilbluustar]

anton's random scenarios

anton carrying their relationship in everyday life, how it would be? the day to day, his hugs, his shyness attacks, among other things...

not much to say... just that I love him too much and that he inspires me to write beautiful things :')

⋆when you make him jealous without realizing it

anton isn't the type to make a scene, but when he's jealous… it's all too obvious.

you're talking about an actor you think is cute and suddenly he stops eating and looks at you with a frown.

“do you really like him that much?”

you, not noticing anything: “well, yes, he's attractive.”

he nods slowly, but his jaw tenses and he starts playing with his hands, clearly uncomfortable.

“well… i guess it's okay.” he says, but no longer touches his food.

and you notice and explode with tenderness because he DOESN'T KNOW HOW TO HIDE IT.

"anton, are you jealous?”

“no, not at all.”

but his gaze drops, his little face looks sad and YOU FEEL THE WORST FOR MAKING THIS BABY SUFFER😭💘

so you hug him and say, “you're the only one i like”

and in a second his expression changes, he lights up and smiles happily, like he was never jealous in the first place.

⋆ when you say “i love you” for the first time.

anton is one of those who feels a lot, but doesn't quite know how to express it.

so when you say “i love you” to him first, he's shocked. literally, his eyes get big, his mouth opens just a little bit and he doesn't know what to do.

“what… what did you say?” he asks, as if he needs to make sure he heard you right.

“i love you, silly.” you repeat, laughing.

and there you have it, all red, with a huge grin but not knowing how to react.

finally, after a few seconds of mental collapse, he just hugs you tight and buries his face in your neck.

“i love you too… very much.” he murmurs, and his voice trembles a little bit because he really feels it.

and you there, knowing that this is the best moment of your life.

⋆when he sings you a song that he wrote for you.

anton doesn't tell you directly, but every time he composes something, he does it with you in mind.

one day, you're listening to a new tune he's playing on his guitar, and you're struck by how beautiful it is.

“what's it called?” you ask.

he hesitates a bit and scratches the back of his neck, clearly nervous.

“it doesn't have a name yet…”

but then you notice that the lyrics describe things that have happened between you: the way you laugh, the way you look at him, the moments you've shared.

“anton… is it about me?”

and he, already completely red, just lowers his head and mumbles:

“maybe.”

AND YOU THERE, WANTING TO CRY BECAUSE THIS MAN LOVES YOU TOO MUCH.

⋆when he hugs you in the early morning because he is afraid of losing you.

it's an ordinary night, you're lying together, when suddenly anton moves and hugs you tighter than usual.

“anton? is something wrong?” you ask, sleepily.

he sighs and buries his face in your hair, as if he needs to feel you closer.

“nothing… i just dreamed i lost you.” he murmurs.

his voice sounds soft, vulnerable, as if he has really felt that fear in his heart.

so you stroke his hair and tell him you'll never leave.

and he hugs you even tighter, saying nothing, but his breathing gets calmer little by little.

because anton loves you too much to imagine a life without you.

⋆when he gets tender without realizing it.

you're in a cafe, each of you in your own world, you on your phone and him reading something on his laptop.

but suddenly, for no apparent reason, Anton leans over and gently kisses your forehead.

you look at him, surprised.

“what was that for?” you ask.

he shrugs with a shy smile.

“i don't know… i just felt like it.”

AND THAT'S IT. YOU'RE GONE. THERE'S NO WAY BACK

⋆when he gives you his sweatshirt and it smells like him.

you're cold and anton, without a second thought, takes off his sweatshirt and puts it on you.

“here, i don't want you to get sick.”

the sweatshirt is huge, warm and smells like him.

You hug it and say, “smells good.”

and anton, laughing nervously, “of course, it smells like me.”

and you can only think about how it's possible for someone to be so PERFECT.

⋆when you fall in love more than you thought you would.

one day, anton is quietly watching you while you're talking excitedly about something.

you don't even realize it, but he's there, looking at you as if you were the most beautiful thing in the world.

until he suddenly sighs and says, softly:

“god… i'm really in love with you.”

and you there, stopping dead in your tracks because YOU DIDN'T EXPECT IT.

“anton?”

he laughs, a little embarrassed, but takes your hand and squeezes it gently.

“nothing… just sometimes I can't believe you're mine.”

AND THEN YOU DIE. BECAUSE ANTON, PLEASE LET US BREATHE.

anton is the most precious, tender and perfect boyfriend that can exist.

he's effortlessly detailed.

his jealousy is the cutest thing in the world.

he looks at you like you're the best thing that ever happened to him.

and on top of that he is a NATURAL ROMANTIC.

[shamera]

Darkness monsters vs. real world monsters

There's a fundamental difference between Daydream Inc. and the Supernatural Disaster Managemant Bureau that's been niggling at my brain for a while now, and I think it finally clicked for me.

Obviously there's the overt differences: Daydream is a for-profit company where employees are all working for a selfish goal-oriented purpose, while the Bureau is a government sponsored agency whose agents risk life and limb on a daily basis trying to save other people.

It's almost too easy to understand why the Bureau would think of Daydream as a 'cult-like company', one capitalizing on suffering and death of innocent people caught up in ghost stories. And the reverse is also true-- Daydream seeing the Bureau as the ultimate annoyances, trying to destroy the ghost stories that create not only profit but advance strides in-- everything! Daydream has potions that can regenerate half a body! With the dream essence they harvest from ghost stories, they can full on cultivate reality-bending wishes.

Of course, with that kind of power, there are heavy dangers and consequences... I could write a whole TED Talk on that. That part's easy to see.

But with characters of the latest arc meeting (no spoilers), I was thinking about what negates this black and white pattern we've seen between the two sides. Common enemies and all that...

Bureau agents think that the ghost stories are 'Disasters'. They're the worst thing that can happen to a person, and it's the job of an agents to RESCUE people from those disasters, from the monsters and the horrors, to allow civilians to go back to a normal life.

Daydream employees think of ghost stories as 'Darkness', and they're here to explore those Darknesses to harvest from experiences with monsters and curses and the like. Sure, a lot of them die in the process. They're certainly not here to help other people because they understand that it's dangerous enough trying to save themselves. Yet... Daydream field officers persist. In fact, they're practically unafraid of the Darkness.

Because to each and every one of them, the real horrors are out in the real world. The Bureau thinks that monsters exist only in the ghost stories, but everyone who signed up to work at Daydream risking life and limb daily is working toward a purpose-- a wish potion. Something that can change their lives.

People only need to change their lives when there's something terrible they're struggling with, and like Kim Soleum, they are willing to face the Darkness for a chance to change something in their real world.

...In the heart of it all, there really is a commonality there. The Bureau agents want to rescue people from monsters within Disasters, but Daydream employees have monsters that live outside of Darknesses that they're trying to escape.

[delilahsturniolo]

⟡ ݁₊ welcome to the end of the world! (please leave your sanity at the door.)

𝒊𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉 . . . four friends: nick, matt, chris, and you—find themselves stuck together at the end of the world, trying to survive a zombie apocalypse with nothing but their wits, a questionable supply of snacks, and zero emotional maturity. you’re just trying to stay alive without losing your mind—or falling for someone on the team.

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 . . . mentions of blood and weapons, cursing, romantic tension and slow burn, i don’t really know what else?

CHAPTER THREE: THE GREAT TWINKIE HEIST

read more parts here!

you’re not saying you’re fully adjusted to the zombie apocalypse, but you have accepted that your morning cardio now includes at least one near-death sprint, your social circle is three dudes and a cat, and the only skincare routine available involves rainwater and hope. still, there’s something kind of beautiful about the mornings. that weird quiet. the soft orange sky. the way the light bounces off broken glass and turns everything a little bit gold.

also, matt looks unfairly good in this lighting and it’s starting to piss you off.

you’re walking in your usual formation—nick leading with his clipboard like he’s navigating a hostile spreadsheet, chris arguing with a pigeon for dominance, and matt by your side, steady and silent, one hand always resting near his crowbar like he’s just waiting for something to go wrong.

and honestly? same.

“we need more snacks,” chris announces loudly, stepping over what was probably a person once and is now mostly goo and blood. “we’re running dangerously low on morale. and by morale, i mean twinkies.”

“we have one twinkie left,” nick says without looking up. “we are not wasting it on your emotional support sugar habit.”

“my emotional support sugar habit is the only thing keeping this group together,” chris snaps. “ask lieutenant whiskers.”

you pat the cat’s head, tucked awkwardly into the crook of chris’s arm. “you’re doing amazing, sweetie.” matt chuckles quietly beside you. you glance at him, and he meets your eyes for a moment longer than normal. it’s subtle. just a flicker. a heartbeat. but it’s enough to make your stomach flip like a bad mattress.

he looks away first. you pretend that doesn’t matter. nick stops in front of a busted-up gas station, holding his clipboard like it’s sacred text. “this is it.” nick says, you raise your eyebrows and look at the writing on his clipboard.

snack potential: high.

fuel possibilities: medium.

risk level: let’s just assume yes

“i swear if this one has another jump-scare raccoon, i’m quitting the apocalypse,” you mutter.

“you can’t quit the apocalypse,” matt says, smirking. you glance at him, and god help you, he’s got that same half-smile, the one he only pulls out when he’s teasing you. it’s annoying. and distracting. and also maybe the only thing giving you serotonin these days.

the station is surprisingly intact. shelves are dusty but not completely empty, and—miracle of miracles—there’s no immediate moaning or shuffling. nick starts scanning the area like he’s performing a forensic audit. chris immediately grabs a pair of novelty sunglasses with little flames on the sides and puts them on. “call me blaze.”

“no,” you and matt say at the same time. you glance at each other, amused. he looks like he wants to say something else, but instead he turns and disappears behind an aisle.

you linger near the snack section, picking through mostly empty boxes and wondering if anyone in this world ever stored something as useful as chocolate.

“hey,” matt calls quietly from the back. “over here.” you wander over and find him crouched by a half-broken shelf. he pulls out a dusty but very real box of twinkies and holds it up like a prize.

“holy shit,” you whisper. “told you they’d survive the end of the world,” he says, handing it to you. “figured you earned it.” you blink. “what, for my deeply sarcastic commentary and ability to not trip over my own feet for once?”

he smiles again—soft this time. quieter. “for always watching everyone’s back. even when you pretend you’re not.” and there it is again—that moment. the pause. the way the air changes, thickens, stretches between you like something waiting to be said.

you’re suddenly aware of how close he’s standing. of the way his eyes linger on your face, not just your eyes, but your mouth too. of how your fingers brush as he hands you the box and how neither of you pulls away right away. your heart is way too loud. you’re ninety percent sure he can hear it.

“you’re not so bad yourself,” you murmur, meaning it more than you probably should.

matt opens his mouth to reply—but then there’s a crash near the front counter and chris yelling, “i swear this is self-defense!” followed by the unmistakable sound of a keychain display being obliterated.

you sigh. romance? never heard of her.

by the time you reach the front, chris is standing over a now-defeated display rack, sunglasses still on, holding up a plastic toy shaped like a lizard. “i named him toaster.”

“why?” nick asks, voice filled with dread.

“because he’s warm and his head pops off.”

“we’re leaving,” nick says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “now.”

you step outside with your twinkies, still vaguely flustered from the whole almost-a-moment thing. matt walks beside you again, his arm brushing yours more than once. you don’t pull away. neither does he.

it’s fine. totally fine.

except for the part where four zombies shamble around the corner with that signature death groan and-eyed shuffle.“incoming!” you shout, already pulling on your blade.

“split up!” nick yells. “circle back to the alley!”

everyone bolts. chris takes off in one direction with lieutenant whiskers clinging to his hoodie like a tiny, judgmental backpack. nick follows him with a shout of “do not climb the fountain again!” and you and matt head the other way, ducking through a crumbling alley and jumping a low fence like apocalypse olympians.

you land hard and stumble. for a terrifying second, your ankle rolls—just slightly—but enough to make you wince. matt’s there instantly, steadying you with one hand on your waist.

you freeze. so does he.

his hand lingers a moment longer than necessary. you’re close. too close. his breath brushes your cheek. your heart is doing the macarena.

“you okay?” he asks, voice low. careful.

you nod, trying not to melt. “just graceful as ever.”

he smiles a little. “you always land on your feet.”

you don’t know if he means it metaphorically or not. you don’t ask. you don’t trust your voice right now. “come on,” he says finally. “we’ll catch up with the others.”

he doesn’t let go of your hand right away. you don’t let go either. and maybe it means something. maybe it doesn’t. but it feels like something. something that’s building. something slow, and quiet, and maybe just a little dangerous.

but then again, what isn’t?

you survived the day. you have twinkies. you almost held a boy’s hand on purpose. and only two zombies tried to eat you.

honestly? that’s a win.

© delilahsturniolo

[angeliteeyes]

Multifandom: Caleb (LADS), Castorice and Sparkle (HSR), Ei and Ganyu (GI)

I adore aus where the characters are aware of you in some way even though they're still in another world. My favorite of those concepts is an au where instead of them being your favorite gacha characters, you're THEIR fave.

I like to imagine that this version of them doesn't take place in their reality that we know of ingame. Instead, it's more of a modern au where they're just as chronically online and cringe as us lmao. Spamming their social media accounts when you get a new card (or whatever your game does) in all caps, falling asleep to videos of you talking. Maybe even writing long, angry replies on Reddit defending you and how you're best char. Here's some of the characters I feel particularly suit this idea

cw: mental illness (they're gacha addicts what else would you expect lol), mentions of death, light angst for some characters

-Caleb-

Listen, I can't NOT talk about Caleb here. This concept is practically made for his clingy, traumatized ass.

In this version of him, I imagine he started out pretty normal for a while actually, making friends pretty easily in his youth and all of that. Slowly but surely, though, things shifted. Family deaths piled up at an age where he just wasn't ready to handle that kind of emotional burden and... well, you know how guy friendships can be. He didn't really feel like he could turn to any of his real friends the way that he desperately needed to stop his entire world from falling apart.

And then there was your bright smile on his screen all of a sudden. He'd seen ads for the game you're in before, but he never got around to actually trying it out. Until that fateful day. After having gone through yet another funeral, his brain felt so fried and tired that he barely even processed his finger movements as he went through all the install screens, clicking the repetitive buttons and whatnot.

It's not like there's something wrong with the other characters or anything. They're fine and all, but he quickly started to realize just how much you stood out to him. How soothing everything about you was, as if you were actually there telling him everything would be okay. It doesn't take very long before he's full-on obsessed with you.

As a fan, he'd be so so pathetically jealous. Of course, he logically understands that he can't stop other people from looking at you, pulling for you, loving you... But holy hell if he doesn't want to just have you for himself, as ridiculous and impossible the notion is. He's the type of dude who'd legit get so heated over seeing someone mischaracterize you that he'd either send them a 1000 word rant or insta-block them. No in-between.

And yes, he would listen to your sweet voice every time he feels particularly lonely or grief hits too hard. You aren't going to judge him for crying, after all.

-Castorice-

Castorice in a modern au, in my opinion, would totally be a hospice worker. Ever since she was a child, she's had a knack for finding injured animals and would cradle them in her palms each and every time until they took their last breath. She's like an angel attracted to poor, suffering souls. Unfortunately, her young kid mind misinterprets the situation and believes she's cursed instead. It ultimately culminates into a full-blown phobia of touching people with both of her hands; it's just that ingrained in her that holding someone equals death.

Thankfully, as she gets older, she manages to cope with her fears a little better by putting her talent to good use. Whenever a patient in her care clearly expresses that they're ready to go, she's more than happy to help them pass on. But... it's still so achingly lonely. A real romantic relationship doesn't even process as an option to her, because, yknow. Physical intimacy.

That's why she grows so painfully attached to you, viewing you as her only real hope of having the lover she yearns for. Sure, she's not delusional. She knows you have a screen permanently forcing you two apart, but that's even better in her book. This way, her curse will never, ever harm you.

Castorice would absolutely be part of the hugging-a-pillow-and-imagining-it's-you club. Every single night, without fail, she wraps her arms and legs around her body pillow while imagining you. How warm you would actually be in her arms. She'd even go as far as to spray a scent on it—whatever reminds her the most of you while she's out shopping one day and picks it up.

As far as her online presence, she's definitely on the calmer side. Her account is filled to the brim with wholesome fanart of you, both reblogs and her own works. If anyone talks smack about you, she'll just block them and cleanse her soul with that adorable birthday art of you. Why waste precious energy on them when you're here to love and adore?

-Sparkle-

Sparkle is THE number one online troll, you can't convince me otherwise. Everyone else hates her so much, but somehow, they can never get rid of her presence. Aw, they blocked her newest account? Too bad, she's already got 3 other ones ready to go. But no matter how many times it changes, one thing remains consistent: that damn profile picture of you.

In a bizarre way, her determination to troll combined with your face being plastered next to her username kinda lets her... claim you? Nobody else would dare to use that photo of you as their profile pic, at least. It's not exactly the most orthodox way of showing her affection for you, but it gets similar results.

Now, everyone hates her and all, but most people have learned by now that she's best handled through methods like ignoring or blocking her. If they do that, typically Sparkle's attention wanes and she moves along to her next victim. But one person, one damn person, takes things too far. They start spamming insults towards you in her dms, tagging her in hate posts about you, everything to get under her skin. And it works like a charm. She's literally seething behind her dusty computer screen, losing her mind at every stupid notification sound.

Let's just say, that person won't be using social media again any time soon. Not once she's done with them.

-Ei-

It feels a bit strange, this version of Ei. Trust me when I say that every ounce of elegance and social skills her Genshin counterpart has flat-out doesn't exist in this world. I'm talking doesn't brush her hair most days, constant eyebags, won't even order at a drive-thru due to needing to talk to others, the works. It's not even necessarily that she's got social anxiety or anything like that. Ei plain old doesn't like people in this au, or at least, anyone other than you.

You're her rock that keeps her going every day. Why bother "making friends" when you're already here by her side every day? Why bother "taking care of her appearance" when you love her all the same? Her parents tried so hard to intervene and force her to act normal. They took away her devices and even forced her into therapy for as long as they legally could, but she just... wouldn't change. When they took her phone and computer, they'd expected her to switch hobbies. Maybe she'd pick up reading again. But every time they peek into her room, she's just sitting there with a vacant, empty expression. They can't hear it, but in her mind, you're still there right next to her keeping her company. It's honestly so heartbreaking to watch that they give up and let her have everything back again.

Truly, nothing else matters to her but you.

Unlike the others, she actually wouldn't have any social media presence whatsoever. Ei's stuck so far in her delusional attachment to you that she barely even can register the fact that she isn't your actual friend or partner. How could you not be, when you're together every moment of every day?

-Ganyu-

Ganyu's honestly probably the only one here with a genuinely healthy attachment level toward you, even if she admittedly uses you a lot to cope with her insecurities. You're just so, so sweet to her, having so many uplifting voice lines.

Her absolute favorite card of you is one where you're eating pastries with your game's mc. It comes with a corresponding unlockable event, where you encourage them to eat as much as they want. You even reassure them that no matter how they look or how much they weigh, you'll always love them. Essentially, you give Ganyu a free therapy session, and one that she greatly needs.

As much as she loves you, work forces her into being a filthy casual. Don't worry, though! She always makes time for limited content with you in it, like event stories and cards. Plus, she earns so much from her hard work. She can afford to spend an extra hundred... or five hundred... on duplicates of you. Even if your game's company is greedy as all hell, she still takes pride in funding them. If your game ever got the dreaded end-of-service announcement... she doesn't know what she'd do.

Her whale habits carry into social media, where she pays the bills of so many artists. They practically view her as a saint, both for how often she commissions them and for how willing she is to pay full price. Her? She's just happy to have all this extra content of you to admire. What a sweetheart ♡

[starsinthesky5]

Songbird and Joe keep things private and show what they want but do you think they’ll be a time they do things together together like interviews? More like Benny and Selena doing the Hot Ones together and viewers seeing how caring he is with her or something? Or GQ couple questions where they both ask each other questions. Idk I think it’ll be cute for their fans and viewers to see how much they know each other very well, care for each other etc.

a/n: thank you for sending this in! i love this concept so much

you are in love masterlist

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

yes—i 100% think they’d eventually get to a point where they do a few select things together, and it would be so special when they do. they’re private, but not secret. they’re intentional. and when they do share moments publicly, it’s because it’s something they’re genuinely excited about—not for PR, not to prove anything—just because it felt right. joe would never do something like this on his own—yes, he’s a little shy and awkward sometimes, but mostly because it’s just not his thing. and she’s selective, always careful about the interviews she says yes to, always weighing the vibe, the purpose, the timing. but together? together, none of that really matters.

because when it’s the two of them, it doesn’t feel like an interview. it doesn’t feel like press or promo or performance. it just feels like them. like another night on the couch, joking around and finishing each other’s sentences, except there happen to be cameras in the room. they’re in their own little world, locked in and tuned out from everything else. the nerves disappear. the pressure fades. it’s easy. it’s natural. and maybe that’s why people love it so much when they do show up together. because you can tell it’s not planned or polished—it’s just real. raw in the softest, most genuine way. like they forgot anyone else was watching.

a hot ones–style appearance would be so perfect for them—laid back, playful, but still intimate enough to let their dynamic steal the show. it’s the kind of setting where they could just be them, no pressure, no performance, just vibes. joe wouldn’t even make it past wing three. he’d poke at the sauce with suspicion, maybe take a tentative bite before immediately waving it off like, “nah, i’m good,” to dodge potential public humiliation, but her? she’d go for it. eyes watering, nose running, lips on fire, and still powering through without a hint of shame. just fully committed. fearless. chaotic.

and joe? he’d spend the whole time trying to take care of her.

he’s sliding her a glass of milk without her asking, brushing sauce off her cheek with a napkin like it’s second nature, hand resting on her thigh under the table like an anchor. at one point he probably mutters, “this is the last time i let you pick what interview we do,” under his breath, and she just grins through the spice like, “you knew what you were signing up for, joey. don't lie to yourself,”.

and the host would be struggling not to laugh, because between the pain and the flirting, the tension is off the charts—but it’s not performative. it’s not for the camera. it’s just them. the way they look at each other, the comfort in every small touch, how in tune they are even while their mouths are on fire.

and the audience would eat it up—devour it, really. they’d flood the comments and forums and twitter threads, gushing about how adorably intimate it all was, even with the cameras rolling and the whole world watching. like somehow, joe and her made a brightly lit studio feel like their kitchen at midnight. like everyone was intruding on something soft and sacred. they’d rave about how protective joe is of her, the way his hand never strays far from her, resting on her knee, brushing her hair behind her ear, offering her water like she hadn’t just downed three scorching wings like a champ. he’d be looking at the plate like the spicy wings had personally wronged him. like he needed to throw hands with the hot sauce for putting her through it.

it’d be funny and sweet and totally chaotic, but what people would remember most is the care. the way he’s always watching her out of the corner of his eye. the way she teases him but still leans into his touch. that quiet love that speaks louder than anything they could ever say.

and then something like GQ’s couples quiz? yeah. they’d kill it. you’d get the perfect mix of competitiveness and softness—her teasing him for not remembering the exact place where she wrote a song she wrote about him forever ago, and him absolutely crushing every question about her favorite snacks, childhood stories, or the way she takes her coffee.

they’d have so many moments where they look at each other like they’re the only people in the room. and there’d be moments joe is clearly watching her talk like he’s memorizing her all over again. fans would melt at how quiet he gets when she speaks, how he always leans in when she’s talking, like nothing else matters. he wouldn’t be super performative—he’s just not that guy—but it’s the way he listens that gives him away.

plus, you just know joe would end up saying something devastatingly sweet without even realizing it; because that’s who he is when it comes to her. they’d be sitting there, probably halfway through the quiz, laughing and teasing each other in that easy, affectionate way that feels so natural, so lived-in. then she’d ask, grinning as she read the next card, “what’s something i do that annoys you?”.

he wouldn’t answer right away. he’d tilt his head a little, pretending to think, even though the answer comes easy. not because she’s annoying—but because she’s her, and he knows her better than anyone. “…you’re incapable of not humming around the house,” he finally says, eyes flicking up to meet hers, amused.

she gasps, all mock offense. “you love it, joe. please,”.

and he doesn’t even hesitate before softening. “i do,” he says, in that quiet, matter-of-fact way of his. “i miss it when you’re gone,”.

that’s it. that one line. so simple, so unassuming—but you can feel how much he means it. it’s not just the humming. it’s her. her presence. her voice drifting down the hallway while she makes tea or folds laundry or wanders the kitchen barefoot in one of his hoodies. and when she’s not there, the silence feels just a little too loud.

cue the collective internet sighing in unison. tiktoks made. tweets spiraling. people saving the clip to rewatch every time they need to believe in love again.

because that’s the thing about joe and songbird. even in the middle of a lighthearted quiz, even when they’re joking and playfully roasting each other, love slips through the cracks. always.

and they wouldn’t do it things like this very often. maybe once every couple years or around a special project, maybe when quarterback comes out, when they do a joint project for some publication or brand. but every time they do show up like that? it’s authentic, warm, and leaves people obsessed with how well they love each other.

[towasdandelion]

Plsssss Frostheim and vagastrom boys with reader text them "I love you" out of blue while thinking about their curse very late at night? Some comfort? pls?

I see we're not leaving the sadness valley just yet huh (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠) I hope you like it!!

Texting Vagastrom and Frostheim ghouls "I love you" late at night while thinking about the curse

Leo is a little shit but even he knows better than to laugh at this. In fact, it keeps him up at night. The sheer possibility of losing you is something he can't bear. And he can't help but to scold himself for being so 'pathetic' (he refuses to admit he can just get emotional). Will come over to help distract you from your thoughts saying that he should be the only thing your mind. Guess his sass can be helpful.

Alan is heartbroken. He already does his best to help you but he wishes there was something more he could do. He hates the curse and he hates seeing you suffer like this. You won't even have to ask, he will come over right away and cuddle you while rubbing soothing circles on your back until you fall asleep in his arms.

Sho knows something is amiss the moment he sees your text but he remains calm. He refuses to even think about things going wrong, actively pushing you to keep your head up and face the challenge with him by your side. He will whip up something nice for you before showing up at your doorstep, jokingly saying that your order has been delivered.

I believe Tohma keeps a thick file filled with any documents and possible plans regarding your curse. If any other house is doing an investigation he'll pull the strings so that he gets to see the mission report first. He's not afraid to use his resources. Not when your life is at stake. He will do his best to gently remind you to keep pushing, telling you how brave you are as he cuddles you.

Jin was never this set on a goal before. Much like Tohma, he'll do anything for the smallest clue. He keeps his composure around you because he knows how important his support is. He will always offer to listen to your worries, promising to get rid of every single one of them. Without even saying a word he will show up at your doorstep before scooping you up in his arms and carrying you to bed.

Luca knows how important it is to be supportive. He's going to reassure you it's okay to feel anxious and scared, just letting the emotions be there for a while until you calm down. Then he's going to take his time to reassure you that with him by your side, everything will be okay. He will come over to hold you in his arms and gently play with your hair as you fall back asleep.

Kaito curses the world everyday for how unfair it is to you. I feel like he has some fair amounts of contained anger withim him. We know he's rather... Skittish. But for you he's going to forget about his own fears. He really wants you to rely on him for support. When he sees you calmed down a bit he'll start to tickle you for a good serotonin boost, making you forget about your worries at least for a moment.

[revelboo]

The fact that now tumblr is now censoring ya blog and others :')

I've recently got possession of Masterpieces Ironhide, Prowl and Bumblebee, $30 each, still in the box, cards, and all accessories, everything from the Facebook marketplace.

Have any updates for idw/g1 Ironhide, Prowl, or Bumblebee?

Ooh nice on the MPs. And yeah, several TF blogs are affected right now

Hold Me Down Pt 8

Ironhide x Reader

• Angry and defensive again. That seems to be your default reaction and he’s seen it before. Saw it in a youngling he’d found wandering the streets of Kaon so long ago. Barely more than a sparkling, but so terrified all the time under the anger, trying to protect his twin from an unkind world that had abandoned them. Venting as he grips the back of his neck, exhaustion spills through him. “You don’t have to trust me, but you’re safe here.”

• Snorting, you fight the urge to draw your legs up against yourself. Because looking vulnerable just makes you a target. Know that. And how many times have you found safe places that really weren’t? He’s not being kind, he wants something. Stringing you along until he gets it and then he’s on to the next toy. “I don’t trust you.” Because trust is dangerous, can kill.

• You’re so tightly strung, but he knows you won’t talk until you’re ready to. How long did it take Sunstreaker to stop looking for threats that weren’t there? To understand that he really was safe for the first time in a very long time? The kid never has opened up about what he’d gone through in Kaon. Doubts he ever will and he’ll probably always carry those scars. “You don’t have to,” he says, shrugging as your eyes narrow.

• What’s his game? What could he possibly want with you? Or is it the thrill of getting past your defenses? Winning you over and then betraying you, maybe? Fingers picking at the hem of your shirt, you turn away from him. Make yourself turn your back on him like you don’t care, like you’re not scared of him. And you’re so tired of being scared, being hungry.

• “I’m still going to look after you, though,” he adds. You’re his responsibility now and someone needs to drag you kicking and screaming from that path you’re on before you steal from the wrong person and get hurt. “And you’re going to be respectable, you little pit-spawned brat.” Glaring up at him, he offers you a smile. Because he’s walked someone away from that self-destructive edge before. Isn’t abandoning you whether you like it or not.

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