#the game isn’t trying to say they are either

[woniefication]

Boyfriend Sunghoon headcanons﹔ -> 박성훈

𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑒̀𝑟𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑚𝑜𝑖//P.Sunghoonxfem!reader// 𝐆﹔Fluff,crack// 𝙒𝒂𝙧𝒏~Slight skinship//Happy Valentines day!//Enjoy♡//Masterlist.

Perm taglist: @orimuraa @douqhnxtss @hoonsita @liwinly @leaderwon @sugarikiz

Sunghoon who is a hopeless romantic. Sunghoon isn’t the type to openly gush about romance, but his actions say otherwise. He remembers the smallest details,your favorite snack, the exact way you take your coffee, the way you fidget when you’re nervous. He doesn’t make a big show of it, but suddenly, your favorite chocolate bar is in your bag, and he just shrugs when you ask where it came from. And if you ever jokingly call him a romantic, he’ll roll his eyes and say something like, “That’s not being romantic. That’s just having a good memory.” But the way he ties your scarf a little tighter on a cold day or lets you steal his hoodie (without even pretending to care) says otherwise.

Sunghoon who is subtly overprotective. Sunghoon isn’t the jealous or over-the-top protective type but he has his ways of looking out for you. If youre walking on the sidewalk together, he’ll always make sure he’s the one closest to the road. If someone’s making you uncomfortable, he doesn’t cause a scene,he just steps a little closer, casually resting a hand on your lower back or throwing an arm around your shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He won’t say much about it but if you bring it up, he will just shrug andd go “What? I always do that.” But he doesn’t. It’s just for you.

Sunghoon who loves skinship. He acts like a nonchalant dreadhead but he finds the tiniest excuses to be close to you. He’ll ‘casually’ hook his pinky with yours when you’re walking, or he’ll lean just a little closer when you’re looking at something on his phone.And if you ever call him out on it? Oh, he will deny it to the grave.

“You’re literally holding my hand.” “No I’m not.” “Sunghoon. Our fingers are literally interlocked.” “Hmm. Weird.”

But if you pull away just to tease him? Expect a subtle pout and some extra effort to get close to you again.

Sunghoon who protects you from the cold. Because he spent so many years on the ice, Sunghoon hates seeing people suffer in the cold. Especially you. So every winter, without fail, little things start appearing.A warm pack tucked into your bag, a soft beanie that just happens to be in your size,a scarf that looks suspiciously like one he owns, except brand new. You never actually see him give you these things. They just show up. And when you try to ask? He just shrugs, pretending not to know anything. But the way he smiles when he sees you wearing them? That gives him away.

Sunghoon who knows how your feeling by your texts .You swear Sunghoon has some kind of superpower because no matter how normal your texts seem, he always knows when something’s up. If you type shorter messages than usual: “What’s wrong?”.If you don’t use emojis when you normally do: “Are you upset?”.If you answer too quickly: “Are you stressed?”.Even if you try to lie, he won’t buy it. And before you know it, he’s either calling you or showing up at your place with your favorite snack, acting like it’s no big deal. (It is,though)

Sunghoon who would subconsciously fix your posture. Years of figure skating drilled perfect posture into Sunghoon’s brain, so when he notices you slouching, he physically cannot stop himself from correcting you. At first, it’s subtle he’ll press a hand lightly against your lower back or tilt your chin up with his fingers. But if you keep doing it he’ll resort to teasing.

“Are you trying to become a question mark?”“Do I need to tape a ruler to your spine?”

He swears he’s not doing it on purpose, but one day you catch him straightening his own back just because you fixed yours, and you realize it’s totally subconscious.

Sunghoon who creates secret games between you two, things only he knows about just to amuse himself. Like counting how many times you say his name in a day. Or secretly trying to match his steps with yours when you’re walking. Or seeing how long he can hold your hand before you notice he’s the one who reached out first. And if you ever figure it out? Expect him to immediately act like he’s never done anything weird in his life. “Games? What games? You’re imagining things.”

@woniefication 2025.

[ghostgirl-22]

Not necessarily sexual, but what if Art takes care of Patrick for once?

Patrick is upset over something cruel his father told him and wakes Art up with his sniffling. Patrick never cries so Art is immediately alarmed and tries to get him to open up. Patrick tries to mask his feelings at first, but eventually breaks down and cries into Art’s chest. They fall asleep with Patrick being the little spoon for once, wrapped in Art’s arms.

I chopped this up a lot but I think I got to the core of your ask nonnie <3 Idk why in my head I could see Patrick just being the whacky charming youngest and favorite of his parents. Forgive my typos… happy Valentine’s Day maybe I’m gonna write a valentines fic tomorrow when Valentine’s Day is over. Anyway love y’all.

TW: period typical homophobia, use of a slur, internalized homophobia, otherwise SFW.

��—

Patrick does this thing where he acts like nothing gets to him. Like nothing can hurt him. For a while Art was envious because he believed the act. Now he knows better. He sees it now… the way Patrick will smile even more when his eyes are sad. The way he’ll shrug and then fidget, fingertips tapping a fragile rhythm like the physical act of it can divert the pain away. The way he goes quiet. 

Still he never saw Patrick cry before this summer. It’s their last summer break before senior year. They’ve been spending at least a few weeks together every summer since they were 12, going back and forth between each other's houses. Patrick’s summer house in Connecticut, Art’s family home in Massachusetts. It was easy. Patrick had the bigger house of course, the bigger bedroom, all the latest game systems, a tennis court. So many places on his family's estate to hang out and explore. 

Patrick’s family is a little more complex than Arts though. 

It’s no secret Patrick doesn’t get along with his older brother, Levi. Art actually doesn’t like him either. He’s ten years older then them and he’s everything that Patrick isn’t, more smarmy than charming, flashy and pretentious, lording his daddy’s money around and reminding Patrick that it’s his birth right. He’s a lawyer now and already works for their dad’s company. But all it takes is five minutes talking to their tennis loving dad to understand why Levi hates Patrick. 

“Tennis is such a beautiful game. I played for years but never came close to what you and Patrick can do on that court.” Patrick’s dad says wistfully. He would often stand courtside to watch them play in the summers.

Levi is no athlete. He doesn’t even like sports and there’s Patrick, the apple of their fathers eye because he can hit a ball with a racket. 

If Levi were less of an asshole, Art might actually relate to him. But he’s a total dick. He loves to make it known that Patrick was a ’mistake’. “Mom and dad were perfectly happy with the three of us,” he says of himself and Patrick’s older sisters one Friday night in July. 

That clearly bothered Patrick at one point but he’s used to it now. “Yeah and imagine how boring that would’ve been. One lame ass son.” Patrick mutters and Art grins. They’re eating ice cream in the oversized kitchen while Levi lingers at the wine cooler, pouring himself a glass. He watches as Patrick takes some of Art’s ice cream, his gaze cool. 

“I’d be careful if I were you Art, you know he’s a fag right?”

Art raises his eyebrows. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Patrick snaps. 

“Oh, he doesn’t know?” Levi’s eyes light up, gleefully. “Sarah caught him last weekend kissing the pool boy, the help of all people, moaning like a freak.” 

“I said shut up,” Patrick says, his voice cold. Art has never seen his cheeks turn so red before.    

Levi lets out a cruel little giggle. “Wait till dad finds out you're the fruity one. I’d sleep with one eye open if I were you, Art. You never know, you seem like his type. He might try something.” 

“I’ll fucking kill you if you say another word, fucking asshole,” Patrick shouts. 

“Don’t worry little brother, I’m sure they love butt boys in pro tennis,” Levi smirks, self satisfied in Art’s direction and takes his glass of wine back to the office where he’s been working. 

Art is tongue tied, barely able to make his brain connect to his mouth. He’s feeling all kinds of things, not even sure what half of the things he’s feeling even mean but he knows he’s furious on Patrick’s behalf. He glances at Patrick and that’s all it takes for Art to know what Levi said was true. He’s still red faced, fists clenched, staring angrily at the bowl of ice cream like it was the one who said those horrible things to him. And then he gets up and leaves the kitchen abruptly.  

“Wait Patrick,” Art says but he doesn’t stop. Art sighs and gets up following him to the bedroom. He’s several paces behind and when he gets inside Patrick has fallen to the bedroom floor, actually sobbing. Head in his hands. Art can’t believe his eyes. In all the years he’s known him, he’s never seen more than the slight sparkle when his eyes well up tears. If he didn’t before, he really fucking hates Levi now.

He gets down on his knees next to Patrick. 

“Art can you go, I need to be alone,” he mutters, chest heaving. 

“No,” Art says, he’s not sure how to do this but he wants to be there for Patrick. “He’s a fucking loser. Do you want me to beat his dweeby ass?”

Patrick sniffles a laugh and shakes his head. 

“He’s just pissed because…” Art rubs Patrick’s shoulder, a gentle pattern. “Fuck him okay I mean…” He doesn’t know what to say… or why he keeps thinking about the pool boy, Armando, tall, athletic, brown eyes, and long dark blonde hair. He looks and sounds like a surfer, but not from California but whatever beach they have in Spain. Art can’t get him out of his head for some reason. 

“It’s true,” Patrick mutters after a while looking up at him. “I think I… I do like boys.” 

Art presses his lips together, nodding. “That’s um— that’s okay, man. Uh… remember um… Calvin from the team… Calvin said he uh he kissed a guy before.” He takes a breath. He has to do better than this, but he’s starting to fixate on the color of Patrick’s eyes. He never realized how colorful they were. Now that they’re wet it’s like they sparkle. 

”I dont… I would never do anything to you… like… like what my brother was saying okay?” Patrick sniffles. 

Art swallows. God now he’s fixating on Patrick’s lips. God damn it. He needs to be fucking normal. Patrick is his best friend for crying out loud. Art wraps his arms around Patrick and closes his eyes. “Fuck him, man. He’s a homophobic asshole. If you’re gay then—”

”I’m not gay…” Patrick says softly. Art can practically feel his voice vibrating in his ear. There’s a strange familiar feeling at the base of his stomach, his instinct is to pull away but he holds on. 

“You’re not?” He doesn’t mean to sound relieved, fuck. 

“I’m bisexual,” Patrick murmurs. He pulls out of the hug and gets to his feet, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. “I’m just…” he laughs. “I’m a fucking mess. He’s hot and the way he was looking at me in the pool. I brought him to my room and well we just started exploring… I should’ve known we wouldn’t get any privacy here. Sarah just barged into my room and she can’t keep her fucking mouth shut. My dad is… well… I don’t fucking care.” He flops down onto his bed and takes a deep breath. 

Art crawls over on his knees. “Does he know?” 

“Not yet,” Patrick says, “but he’ll know as soon as he gets back from his business trip. Levi will make sure of that.” 

“Well,” Art crawls onto the bed and lies down next to him. “Not if we kill him first.” 

Patrick looks at him and then laughs. Art grins, happy to make him smile. He feels warm all of a sudden.  

Patrick sighs. “You want to play Mario kart?” 

“Yeah.”  

They lay down for an hour, only really chatting about the game. Patrick starts to get sleepy, it’s clear he’s still upset. He puts his controller down. Art turns off the game and settles next to him in the dark. His mind has been racing the whole time. Patrick’s never cried in front of him before so it feels like something has shifted.

“My dad isn’t gonna look at me the same,” he laughs but there’s a bitterness in it.

“You don’t… you don’t know that.” Art says gently.

“You think it’s weird, don’t you?” he rolls over to face Art.

“No,” Art says quickly. His parents had always taught him to be accepting of people’s differences. They always supported gay rights. But there was this part of Art that knew that their tolerance was only meant for other people. Unlike Patrick he was the only boy, he was expected to be traditional. 

“You’re a bad liar,” Patrick sighs. 

“I mean I think I’m just trying to process it. I had no idea and now it’s just…” Art takes a deep breath. 

“You really had no idea?”

“Well it’s not like you told me, and you…we always talk about girls.”

Patrick gazes at him. “Fair enough.”

“What’s it like?” The question just spills out of him, he can’t stop himself. 

”Hm?” 

Now it’s his turn to feel his skin heat up. Why is he so fixated on the stupid kiss? “Sorry it’s not important…never mind. I guess I just figured it’d be different then… uh never mind.”

”It’s a little different but the same in all the ways that matter,” Patrick says. He’s sniffling again. Art licks his lips and scoots closer to him. Patrick looks down, following the movement. 

“I could uh… I could show you.” 

Art thinks he’s joking and smiles, Patrick holds his gaze a little longer and Art swallows, something all too familiar suddenly thrumming through his body. But it makes no fucking sense. He can’t really be turned on by this. “You’re um… you’re serious?” 

Patrick laughs, “God,” he says, shaking his head. 

“What?” Art says. 

“Nothing, I’m a fucking mess. Can you…hold me until I fall asleep?” It’s Patrick using Art’s own words. Spoken a number of times when they were kids and he’d asked Patrick to do it in his grandmother's place when he was having trouble adjusting to boarding school.  

Patrick never told anyone about it, never even made fun of him which was surprising, considering he ribs Art about almost everything. Art isn’t sure what he’s feeling but he nods, “of course,” and lets Patrick settle into his arms. They lie in bed, Art keeping Patrick safe from the world for just a little bit. Inseparable, like two colors bleeding into each other, until they both fall asleep.  

[gnohomotho]

Just a game (part 4) ۶ৎ

Pairing: Hwang In-ho // The Front Man x fem!reader Summary: After losing your consciousness in his arms, you are at the mercy of In-ho, a man you don't, as far as you know, even know the face of. Yet he has shown you more than one, perhaps even his true visage - through the touch and the inner machinations that are tearing at his heart. The rules of the game are slipping, the Front Man is grabbing at control, making sure the field is level for you to be his. It begins with yours, then shifts to In-ho's point of view - double the fun. Warnings: And it is still the God damn Front Man Although darker, the chapter(s) carry an odd amount of fluff along with quite a bit of angst. Quite a bit of voyeurism, descriptions of naked bodies and lust, mentions of SA (very light, only hinted at), touch, need, drugging people, dubious consent at best. Medical malpractice and ignorance of the ethical codex. Word count: 6.4k A/N: I would apologise for the word count, and I will. (ᵕ—ᴗ—) But if I had either, I would really put my heart and soul into this work, so it's not quite the usual gorgeous fanfic that starts fast and ends with hot, steamy, angsty sex and eternal love. I wanted to flesh out characters, from you, to In-ho himself - keep it in character yet write a believable Front Man struggling with both himself, his present, his past, and you - a woman he is falling madly in love with. If you like my work, I appreaciate every single heart // repost // reblog // message! ♥ Thank you! ♥ Link to previous Link to next

Running, running. Tripping. Something catching up. Running. You have to run up. Up! Feet tangled, barbed wire, cannot run, hot, warm, soaking--- A figure in the distance. Clad in white. Run to him. Run to him. Something catching up. Sharp pain. Wet. From stomach down down down. Copper, sticking, limbs, slow. The figure is an illusion. Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around. Darkness. Enveloped. A cape. Over you. Pulled away. Collapsed. Earth. Swallowed. Mud. The cawing of a----

Your eyes flutter open. In the long distance, so far away yet so shrill, you hear the cawing of a crow.

The harshness and fervour trickles through your swollen, heavy mind full of cotton and icy rivers of forgetting.

Groggy, tired, stiff, everything seems so blurry and pushed away from your consciousness. Your hands feel like cold, empty plastic, and you cannot lift them.

The flat light in the ceiling feels awful, all a dream; such a loud, piercing, horrible dream. Saying nothing. Screaming.

In the distance, the crow caws once more, and you grab onto the sound like an anchor to remain grounded. At least enough to assess the damage.

There’s a blanket over you, you wiggle the tips of your toes to feel the fabric all the way down. Thank god. Covered. All covered. Even so, trying to mentally tun through your form, you feel the softness cover something foreign, something that isn’t you. Your skin prickles and repels all it touches.

All it touches. Even you.

Don’t move. In the back of your sleepy mind, no matter how tired, how tranquilized. You know. You know it’s an advantage to play dead or sleeping.

Voices. Seeping in like an echo of static.

“Contacts taken care of…no issues…family? No, of course not…”

“Observation. Rather not....”

A voice you recognize.

“I would be inclined to disagree.”

Footsteps. You close your eyes, hard, and try to steady your heart – it wasn’t catching up to the situation anyway. Everything threatens to spin the moment you see nought but darkness; you could be floating ten miles deep in the ocean. Marine snow and all-encompassing darkness, no breath, no hope, only cold and squids. Suffocating, oppressive, swallowing you whole....back, come back, focus, stay, lights behind your eyelids swirling and blue exchanging black; your ears are ringing, and you seem to be drifting away again until---

Touch. Your plastic hand feels touch.

Electricity momentarily flutters across your fingertips and travels up your forearm. You want nothing more but to pull away, but keep up your pretence. You hear a steadied breath, quiet, controlled. Skipping a tad towards the end of the exhale, as if steadying itself. The presence, the scent, all is familiar yet oddly intertwined. Signals jamming before they reach their destination.

The messages fly but the network is down.

You hear an inhale and what could be a sigh. You’re very unsure whether it is exasperated or elated, but you don’t welcome either.

It makes way for a voice that reminds you of all-concealing frost coating barbed wire.

“Rest. Rest, little one. Everything is being taken care of.”

You feel naked fingers trail up around your knuckles, softly drawing on your skin. They then travel down the back of your hand, following your veins, down to your wrist and back once more. The motion repeats, you feel light nudges of warmth alternating with tingles freezing your neck down to your pillow. Your breath is threatening to give you away, you ever so slightly, unnoticeably open your lips so that your chest remains quiet and does not harbour nor exhale too much air. You're nervous, you're worried, you’re catching fire while submerged in ice please stop, stop touching me, hold me, go away, hold me, I'm scared, I'm scared, kiss me, go away, hold away the cold, go away, go away, hold me, go away...

The errant hand finishes its last motion by enveloping yours entirely, and remaining firmly in place as his other hand joins it around your own.

The slow caressing motion alleviates nothing of your petrified, electrified thoughts and current racing through your chest. The caress touches over, under, holding in secure warmth as it brushes coarse fingertips along your cold skin. Two fingers slowly, slowly leave the sanctuary of your intertwined palms and journey up your arm, stopping at the crane of your joint, and touch something new – circle the little scar – and travel safely down again. Leaving a trail of exposed electrical wiring.

Firm sensations of those errant palms circle yours – touching, teasing, exploring – and clasp around their newfound plastic extremity. Rough to the touch, yet gentle; cold at first, but firmly creating heat against your skin leaving no gap for air or intrusion.

One disadvantage to feigning unconsciousness is only having a single card to play, while the other party holds the entire deck. Hell, the other party is free to choose the game, you can't see nor protest.

A disadvantage you will soon discover.

As you command your chest to fall, your limbs to lay, and your breath to steady, you realise something that sends slow, sharp nails of a chill through your spine.

Silence.

No touch.

No noise.

Your brain threatens to drift again, half in lack of grounding, half in panic. Perhaps one more card is simply known as 'fainting your way out of the problem', though it needs to be played repeatedly and usually ends in a game over.

You hear nothing stretching the moment, then the next, then the next...nothing since the hand slid away from your own and left an icy vacancy spreading across your skin.

༻❁༺

Seconds tick by, no sound.

No other voices.

No steps, no commotion, no normal noises.

This is bad. You figured a hospital would sound like a hospital, you'd even welcome rudeness or cussing, you'd even welcome your family, anything that slightly resembles a maquette of normality – this just emanates kidney theft and human trafficking. Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Minutes tick by, had he managed to leave so quietly? Perhaps you misheard. Perhaps you were still groggy and your senses too dull. Perhaps---

Face.

Oh no.

A sensation on your face almost, almost pushes your eyes open – but you catch the flinch at the last second – it seems your tiredness and lack of reflexes add a single card to your deck.

Trying very hard not to squirm or pull away, you begin to feel soft, gentle brushes upon your face. The first brush kisses your cheeks, lingering on your skin as if testing, feeling, trying not to scare a fledgling bird.

Then it begins to trace its warmth down around your cheekbones, threading little shapes along your facial lines; then back again in a very intimate, repetitive motion. There…and back.

There. And back.

Timid, at first, light as if sensing for an exposed wire just below the surface. Longer and reassured as his precise fingers repeat their pendulum-like movements. You tried not to feel nice. But truth be told, if you erased all else, all other variables, the entire scene, it was…

Soft, like the feathers of a baby owl, careful, like the tool of a jeweller dusting a delicate stone, and simply…warm. Caring. Studying.

Affectionate in its detail.

The fingertips slowly circle your eyes and run meticulously along your eyebrows, then return once again to draw light sickles under your eyes. There and back. There and back.

Upon your cheeks, you feel more fingers at once, with more surface area intertwining and dancing with yours. Brushing and caressing, touching as if enjoying the sensation of touch itself for the very first time.

Exploring…curious…

…tender, even.

The tingling sensation moves lower, and you begin to feel the cool tips running down your chin and your jaw, as if he were drawing your portrait with nothing but touch. A single finger copies the shape of your jawbone, and periodically does the same to the other side. Then it repeats the motion with the knuckles of the reverse side of the hand.

The touch grows slower, more pronounced as it travels down your naked neck.

You are trying not to gasp, praying your heart doesn't give you away as his full assured hand rests and traverses your carotid artery, your throat, your tingling muscles threatening to paralyze or spasm or warm to his touch – all at once. He rests upon the vein, its warmth and beating fervour challenging his still, stoic grasp.  

His hand doesn't linger, though, sending a current and brushing all the way down, forcing warmth to pool in your chest, stopping at the crane of your neck and finding the little dips in your collarbones. Gently circling and caressing the skin over and around them.

Once more you feel the more intimate touch of fingertips, reversing their journey up your neck, this time exploring more fervently. You never realised how slim and small your neck feels, now at the mercy of a hand that could simply…push its fingers down and clench. The tingling in your mind latches onto your growing fear, along with the sensation of care and utter helplessness. The lack of control and tranquil panic, as well as a very subdued, likely drug-induced need for more, create an odd ball of electricity that prickles through your chest and stomach, tingles across your ribs and breasts...

The fingers trail up your neck and stop at your jaw once more, this time changing their journey just a tad. You feel a single finger touch the area just above your lips and gently, slowly, ever so slowly trail down upon them, relishing each prolonged second, finally resting upon your mouth. The motion is as soft and light as a butterfly wing flutter, and lingers – then moves to your lower lip – then rests upon your lips’ entirety, exploring and caressing your mouth. Slowly, everso slowly; for a moment you let yourself dissolve into the lack of differentiation between his touch and your body.

If it was fear, perhaps mixed with sudden entirely mixed signals, perhaps the drugs, perhaps the absolute madness of the situation and the days prior, perhaps your condition, perhaps---you were reacting to his touch. Inside, a pool became a current, a slowly awakening tide; and he seemed to harbour a single full moon’s pull in each fingertip.

The sensation of cloth slipping from your skin alert you out of your trance to newly exposed areas grabbed and unwrapped by a sudden tendril of cold air.

This time, you fail to control your reflexes, your entire body tensing and reacting to the shiver that runs through your entire being.

Both the touch and moment cease, abruptly; your lips left cold once more in one swift retraction.

A click of a heel, then another hits the ground. As if he were stepping away. Yet still. Slowly. Quickened heart, errant thoughts, bad scenarios, needs you had buried and mourned a long time ago all try to either scream or calm at once, leading to a very simple short-circuit. How you hated being watched, how you hated being helpless, you think, how you hated being a toy for another old man’s perverted game, as your chest refuses to calm down again. Vulnerable and watched. Exposed. Ashamed. And now. Your disguise is compromised.

This is absolutely an unsatisfactory bitch of a situation, and I truly wish to scream.

But the tiredness clings to you, head spinning in a mixture of chemicals and your own sensations, responses, needs, and fear. In contrast to his touch, false or not, your mind is a battlefield; everyone is bleeding or entirely delirious. Clinging to something, anything, you try to think – this is a reaction, it is expected. The mad ones, shaking, rocking back and forth crying for comfort; perhaps the man with a mind empty living on nothing but twisted memories and dissociation wherein hope itself became a troublesome burden, or the soldier climbing out into machine gun fire to throw grenades into the enemy’s dugout shouting fox-hunting hymns and laughing. All reactions. All understandable. But not mine. Nothing bad is happening. Nothing bad happened. I am so, so, so very stupid. Why did he not hurt me? Why did he not hold me? What the fuck is wrong with me?

Trying not to cry in a situation as messed up as this leaves you a husk. Tired. In the end. You want to go home. Just be safe. Never mind the place does not exist, just…safe.

Death seems safe, could he not had done the kindness of finishing the job? Why drag it out?

Slipping away, now that he is no longer guiding your spirit back to your skin wherever he brings warmth and well-acted care, you try to calm and not replay the prickles of anticipation fingering strings echoing a darker tune within your heart’s chamber.

One more thing worried you. Even before he came in, you tried to wiggle your fingers to feel for fabric and familiarity of finite objects, but it took you...too long. Barely one, two, lifted at all. Your mind was not there – barely visiting – but you hoped at least primal programming would kick in. Yet your hand felt foreign, not there, lifeless, intruding…plastic.

The more you focused on it, the less its edges resembled something corporal. As if you were dissolving in a blurry river eating you up, flesh and bone, in quiet indifference. There was a prickle in your arm, but you could not look nor check to reach it. And it worried you.

Steps away. Growing quieter and quieter, reverberating in the hall away from you.

Finally you let your chest fall in a sigh of nervous, utterly desperate relief – you listen to your own shivers as it lifts and contracts and almost suffocates you in a chaotic rhythm to the beat of your heart which is threatening its own eviction. The sound of your hurried breathing fills the room, and you latch onto it as one of the few molecules of validation of reality itself – you, you being alive, you being absolutely screwed, and you…you being on the brink teetering over.

༻❁༺

More footsteps.

Oh come on. Please. One molestation a day is enough.

But these fall faster, the manner hurried, even, and far heavier and clunkier than the calculated steps of your haptic visitor.

"Y/N?? Y/N?"

Urgent. Muffled. There.

Then quieter, a mixture of assertiveness and obedience, attempting to be polite but unable to reign in the emotions guiding his intonation.

"Are you sure I can come in, I know her code, she always uses the same number...is she alright?!"

Oh no. No. What have you done, Y/N, what have you done...you getting hurt? Fine, your business, your currency. But never collateral, never...you stupid, stupid---get out!

"Are you sure I can see her? I'm not...related or her boyfriend, husband, I just...can I see her? It's urgent, I can tell you all her needs, her medication, I think, just, just please let me see her and see she's ok..."

That voice. The code. Of course, you always filled out hospital forms with the same four-digit code, so that your family, should they even attempt the incredible labour of picking up a phone to check on their daughter, would get no medical nor personal information. The funny thing was, anyone who'd known you for more than five minutes and bothered to listen to you would know that number – it's nothing but a year you hold dear.

Hurried steps and suddenly an urgent stop before you.

"Y/N? Can you hear me? Shit, kurvadopichi, Y/N?"

The voice, muffled by what you hope is only a surgical mask, turns away from you as the sentence concludes. Are you not alone? With a tiny glimpse of hope comes the thing to gouge it right back out of your eyes. Is this an entertaining game?! Steadying yourself at the very least mentally, thinking it’s just another hurdle and then you may act, you rationalize that his frenzied steps masked another set in their wake.

"She's never actually fainted or lost consciousness for long, she lies down and it gets better...what's going on? Can she hear me? Do prdele, Y/N..."

Just as you would move your lips to assure, to warn, to react, your effort comes to a halt in a single fleeting moment.

"She's going to be alright."

Ice. Ice on your back, ice enveloping your shoulders, ice going straight for your tender brain. That voice. It didn’t matter how muffled or how level, how sickeningly in character – that voice, so close to someone you hold dear, destroyed your last speckle of hope with unceremonious indifference. And it continued, teasing in its role. The cards, the game, your dear ones’ safety – all in his hands.

"Just a bit fragile. She took a nasty fall on our walk and in her condition, the doctor was forced to provide a heavier analgesic dose." A soft but serious humm circles your ears and almost makes you sick. “I was concerned, and further examination…proved me quite correct.” His voice seemed as violating as his fingers, his words and their meaning following suit as the realisation slowly dawned on you.

"She should be enjoying a long, deserved rest."

I’ll give you a long-deserved rest---but the softness in your dear friend’s words threads through your make-believe fighting spirit leaving only helpless sadness. You want him to be safe, you want him far away from here, you want to…you want him to go home.

"Can she...hear me? Can she hear the crows at least? Y/N, I'm sorry, I should have done something...I knew it was getting bad, but…” That strong, shaky breath you know so well breaks your heart. This is all your fault, all of it. Your housemate keeps it together quite well, but when he doesn’t…

“I missed you, Y/N, your tea is getting cold, I'll make you ten more if you come home."

The air seemed to stiffen, somehow, the walls swallowing the echo of his tender words. The silence clung heavily to every inch of you, your kind housemate utterly unaware. Oh Lubi, please stop that, stop saying that, digging a grave, digging digging...

“I know you hate being touched, Y/N, I know I made it worse, but imagine I’m holding your hand.”

The atmosphere stiffened further; it could be carved with a butterknife. Your housemate utterly blissfully unaware – but at least your body and your hands remain untouched.

“Just like you held mine two days ago – sitting on that floor – you helped me back from something awful – and you did it smiling. You told me it’s ok. That if it gets bad again, you’ll be there. The hallway will still be there. The floor will still be there. And it’ll be ok. Well, it’s not ok, the hallway is empty, and you’re not there, and I...I know I said a lot, I’m sorry, I didn’t know…”

And you did it high as a kite on pain meds that weren’t doing a thing, terrified that you’re going to fall over, terrified of being selfish and so utterly tired of remaining here, and not at all wishing to touch nor be touched. But you’d do it again and a flame of defiance rose in your still chest. Your friend continued, still entirely unaware but his voice sounded…so worried. Worried about the wrong thing, the wrong person, please get out!

“…And I said you’re going to be a wonderful therapist. Well, you are. But. That lady needs to be alive and conscious, not all your clients can be dead – and I can look after you.” He tried to laugh, but you heard the sadness in his voice, the anxious hope and abandon – heart on his sleeve.

“…We figured out hugs after your first two operations, even if I had to annex a public bench, we can figure anything out. Just come home, please. All the soup. All the tea. All the tenderness.” He’s using our special things, he’s trying to put all our shared gestures and inside language into the room, you realise.

And it works. Pushing that tight, suffocating atmosphere back like a storm cloud faltering in the warm wind, revealing a few speckles of light. Even ending on a word you cherish so much. Tenderness. Tenderness of patient minds. He remembered. You must react, before he gets hurt. Perhaps some kind of signal, something, or just yell at him to get out and call the police as he runs, spring up like a reanimated corpse and warn him---before a voice cuts through the room and pushes your head firmly underwater:

"I don't think she's able to say anything."

The command and threat were so clear they might as well have kicked you in the head.

"If she knows what's good for her delicate state, and the delicate state of you, young man, unfortunately, she won't respond to you."

༻❁༺

Silence. You managed nothing. Little speckles of tears sting in the corners of your eyes.

The bed creaks and its weight shifts, you no longer care if you’re seen nor awake, you are done. The feelings of anticipation and yearning, cut off, replaced by touch hiding poison and likely nothing but possessive depravity won’t leave you. You feel so stupid, so helpless, so useless – now you are worried for your friend, knowing that you put him in direct line of fire while trying to get shot yourself.

“Are you awake, miss Y/N?”

Unmuffled and clear, you would almost welcome the familiarity. Almost. While your brain searches for a hint of danger or reason to discredit – but no. This person did not hurt you, as far as you know. Not directly. He probably had no choice; you heard that voice, you heard the threats aimed at you.

Your eyes slowly open.

From the blurry white background and slowly manifesting reality, the first thing your adjusting eyes truly encounter are two dark, heavy pools, staring directly into you.

The same, darker lips, the polite, resting demeanour, the studious expression conveying patience and concern.

And the lines carved into a face you would have, in a different life, wished to see smile.

No malice rests in those dark pools, no possessiveness. Only calm. He would almost look…troubled, were he not reassuring. You wonder whether he’s reassuring you or himself, and shift in an attempt to lift your body into a sitting position.

You fail as your elbows give in under you with an unceremonious thump. You notice his hand instinctively react but retract almost as fast.

Slowly, as if to convey safety and distance, he moves away from the bed and walks around you, stands ever-so-close, carefully adjusting your pillow without directly touching you. As he is still in your peripheral vision, your arm prickles, though, but you cannot turn your head to see why. Perhaps the cold air of the pillow-moving motion. The arm feels cold, but you’re too enveloped in finally being able to see. And you look away, as gravity hits you again.

“I…I can’t move. My friend. Please…I…don’t hurt him.”

The man gently moves the blanket across your arm again where it fell in your first futile lift attempt, but does not linger and does not touch you. You welcome the gesture, heart melting a tad. Still a frozen, trepidating husk though. He sits at the edge of the bed once more, the blanket firmly dividing you. You managed to shift into a half sitting position, pillow doing most of the work. You feel vulnerable but…momentarily safe. His quiet voice does not disturb that peace, and once more, you feel your heart crack a small piece of ice away. 

“I’m sorry, the boss was only making sure you’re taken care of, including your loved ones. He would prefer them not to worry.”

Nor raise alarms when someone who is never late suddenly racks up a two-day delay.

“So he’s not hurt?”

A crow caws in the distance. You stare at him from your vulnerable position, still almost unable to move your head.

His eyes convey something you…you are surely imagining.

But you would get pulled in, in your desperate, wistful state; should his hand rest on yours now, you would use all the warning lights as a checkpoint for a modicum of safety and care. Helplessness is a feeling you dread, loss of control and swimming with the current a means of survival; yet now you feel your hands tied and the tug of someone at the other end.

And that is worse.

His gaze softens, with a glimmer of something you cannot quite figure out – a spark of something darker, but it disappears like a glint of snow falling off a streetlamp.

“Of course not. The boss decided against doing anything against your will.”

Sure he did. Because all of this screams consent.

“From what he’s shared with me, I understand that violation would not be fair on you. He only intended to give you the best care, and was concerned you would wish against the gesture.”

Your body viscerally reacts to the word, violation…and he’s right, of course. Though you cannot check or move, you know your body very well, and it wasn’t reacting in a way that…reminded you of anything. Hence, the surface level touch and some prickles were the most you can recognize, so far. But you’re not ok. This is not ok. He’s speaking as if this was all fine, as if all this was a gesture of kindness and selfless empathy when it’s the polar opposite. Even tired, your voice carries your doubts and your sincere condemnation of both him and his boss.

“Kind not-named-sir, I can’t move. Someone likely drugged me. Someone threatened my friend in front of me so I would comply. I don’t know what’s going on and I still cannot move.” You leave out the touching for obvious reasons. You try to remain calm, but you wish to scream. His calm, almost thoughtful demeanour fuelling the sense that this situation is wrong. The man shifts, eyes closing and softening a tad. If he was pretending, he must be investing a lot of energy into keeping up the pretence.

“I’m sure the boss did not wish for that, only your safety.” The low humm permeates your ears, almost soothingly so; you study the soft lines in his face and rest upon them, noticing the contrast of his dark hair and stoic visage, which breaks in the pragmatic softness of his tone each time he speaks.

“To be quite honest, if I may…” his dark eyes slowly move and stare at the blanket across your stomach area and you lift your eyebrows, “someone close to him shared your condition. Judging by the scars,” his hand hovers above the left side of your pelvic bone, up a tad, extending a finger in the general area and moving to your stomach, “you share the repeated attempts and lack of results.”

Just as you were warming to his words and finding some solace, water falls on your little fire.

“Please don’t remind me, kind-not-named-sir, those times weren’t nice.” Should have bribed the anaesthesiologist, you half-mumble to yourself. Did you imagine a soft chuckle escape his lips? You feel…odd. Tingly. Light. Restful.

“I know. The boss shared inklings of what you’ve been through. Alone. It makes sense that he chose a lack of violation before any further steps.” His hand retracted, but rested ever-so-slightly against the blanket barrier of your hips. With all you can, you muster and command your right arm to lift, sliding across the surface of the bed, the blanket, and finally, finally able to rest upon and protect your stomach. The gesture seemed to ignite something in your visitor, the same way a crow caw caught your attention – interest, fondness, recognition.

༻❁༺

Further steps.

༻❁༺

Oh, that gesture.

That gesture that first caught his attention, and the fire in those deep, doe eyes that kept it.

Even helpless, more helpless than you knew, you did not give in, not letting him fool or scare you. There was something in your eyes and in the way your body lay, in the way it reacted to his touch ever-so-lightly that truly intrigued him.

In-ho was playing a game, yet felt like a player himself. And for once, the stakes truly were high – there was no protection for him here. He knowingly put something on the line, something in those chips, in those cards sprawled on the table, and unsure of its gravity, he was mindfully reaching for currents knowing they'd slip through his fingers.

Patience, he mused.

Patience, creating a refuge in No Man’s Land, a small dugout barely concealing you, but it was patience and serenity in a moment where you should be panicking and begging. His mind wandered to the moment you fell against him, alone in the room, utterly his to do with as he pleases.

And you looked…serene.

The back of your head fell softly against his hand, and he guided it to his chest. Letting go of the needle, he held you in both his gloved hands – realising how delicate and how tender your features are against his. How utterly his you are right now, how much control he exudes. Slowly those wrinkles of concern disappeared from your forehead, and he rested your head under his chin as his hands almost unwittingly caressed your head through your hair, which fell upon his chest like a cascading river. As you drifted away, you smiled, and he knew his words reached you in the darkness. Smiling, delicate, utterly his.

༻❁༺

In-ho walks through the scenes of you, his mind a current of many rivers traversing and flowing their waters into one undiscernible, all-permeating flood. It’s not confusion, it’s not desire, it’s not nothing, it’s not everything and yet…

“Her kind, not-named sir…” he whispers to himself.

When he saw your body, laying there, helpless…one river, clear and slow, pure and trickling patiently, brought with it slight worry, a twinge of doubt, even...an odd sense of compassion. Almost as if he were doing something…wrong and kicking up mud in such translucent waters.

Perhaps it was the white blanket, the way your hair rested on the pillow, the way your pallor reflected the harsh blue light above you – it felt like a desecration.

In-ho’s mind attempted to bring up his dream, but he firmly pushed it back. His eyes darted to your stomach, though he tried to tell himself it was merely interest. He already gave you such kindness, such benevolence; interest should be the least of his transgressions. Trailing dark eyes down the convex dip between your pelvic bone, the small mound of your stomach and up your ribs, all draped in white, his cold gaze stopped at your face.

That beautiful, peaceful face…In-ho’s thoughts entered his mind before he could dismiss them as he had his dreams. You could have been dreaming yourself, he thought, the dose he gave you was too strong.

Dreaming of him. Perhaps. Dreaming of something where nothing hurt. In-ho's eyes momentarily softened as he recalled the feeling of your hair falling against his chest.

The way you let him hold you as your consciousness slipped from your delicate fingertips, the way you trusted him even as he administered the very thing that laid you bare before him, at his mercy. You trusted and smiled up at him. Not naïveté. Not quite abandon. As if you forgave the river, accepted your fate, and let the current carry you on, understanding the full consequence of cruelty and indifference…yet beauty and tranquillity…of the pull.

Did In-ho wish you to rest? Truly? Or was it a wish to violate you further without consequence.

The other river, dark, deep, carrying things that tear flesh and stone alike apart without care nor sound shared its waters with his mind. A gloved hand cupping that face and seeing nought but fear and cold realisation in those eyes. Giving you a glint of hope and throwing it in the depths, with you to follow. To take you, hollow you out with his own desire and momentary need, and cast you away empty and cracked. The same as the others. A body on the pile.

Or was it a simple tool for observation to examine without disturbing the scene.

Examine and change the past. By using an unassuming, naïve nothing that can't live in the present.

In-ho stepped closer. Too many rivers. The more he tried to clean his mind in the dark depths of depravity, the more your tender, vulnerable, yet serene form pulled him out and firmly pushed his head into clearer waters. Another was flowing behind him, he barely noticed, tried not to notice – for every river of forgetting is a river of remembrance. His own life, before all this. A woman still and beautiful, draped in white. Head uncovered. Head uncovered.

He wondered if you could hear him, know of his presence.

In-ho quietly searched your skin and your body for signals, your chest for soft lifting with rhythmic breath, your lips, for quivering and blood circling their red lines, for eyes twitching at the change of air. The way your lashes almost unnoticeably stirred each time your heart sent life through your body, like tiny flower stems in the breeze.

Perhaps by accident, perhaps after reading too much about you, he remembered a sentence from the book he bestowed upon you, knowing you carry the poems in your heart. Nothing but a poem by a soldier telling his loved one stuck in the same hell to please not sleep in such a position, pulling at In-ho to wish to shake your shoulder and hear you gasp.

You are too young to fall asleep forever, And when you sleep, you remind me of the dead.

Though guarded, frozen, In-ho told himself, to keep away the rot, his heart was pumping. Warmth began to twitch in his fingertips as he stepped closer. A pull from your still, innocently dreaming form.

Examination, nothing more.

Your skin reacted to him, even if you had no power nor idea in his mind. Your skin touched his just as he touched you, and it felt like the most natural state of being while the curiosity of sensing something entirely novel held his interest.

In-ho quite simply did not wish to let you go, and he himself could not decipher why – leading him to allow something he would never forgive, never permit, never even think to partake in himself: he loosened his self-control and let the river, no matter which, swallow him whole. A small universe with a serene girl, her delicate form, their shared touch, clandestine and safe to dissolve with.

When your lips parted, he noticed. He noticed the tender curve and the sharp intake of a tiny, almost unnoticeable breath – and his entire hand tensed down to his shoulder. That face. So very close, every feature resting before him.

Tender, supple, inviting lips, a tiny opening, a small signal for him – and only for him. You were reacting to him. You were aware of him. You were giving yourself to him.

Inviting him.

When In-ho let his warmth rest upon your neck, his hand such a sharp contrast to your pallor and softness, exacerbated by the length and fragility of your neck, he almost did not pull away. The gentle thump against his palm, against the roughness of his own skin, the utter control he had over your body and mind in that moment.

As intoxicating as it was sacred, he blinked slowly and forced his arm to move down, down…curling those fingers as if threading your fleeting warmth, his own body so close to yours he could feel you.

He heard your fast, steady breaths and listened for them, In-ho’s own shallow breathing losing itself in you. He noticed the shiver each time you reacted to him. Your skin begging him to remain, your warmth circling to his touch.

Hwang In-ho, in a state of almost mesmerised calm, beaten at with desire and need to both protect and desecrate; to remain far yet be one with you, gripped the corner of the blanket resting beside your hand.

And pulled.

Before the stark shiver and rough intake of breath broke the illusion, In-ho was left at the mercy of your beautiful, level shoulders, the full extent of your neck and collarbones guiding his eyes along their fully exposed length, the gentleness of pale flesh contrasting those petite yet infinitely resilient blue highways running through and circling your nape, your sternum, precisely delineating your throat as if to guide and protect, yet circling and branching under his gaze as if to underline your resolute fragility.

In-ho followed their course running along your ribs, the sharp downturn below them, down, down – the very top of your chest pulsating with new breath, controlled struggle, suffocating need, all his doing – all his--- In-ho’s eyes unwittingly drew down to your breasts, now half uncovered, and drank in the softness and electricity circling their supple pink contrast.

Quivering under him.

Just as the river pulled him under, he caught an errant branch and lifted above the feeling. He sharply retracted his arm, and placed his other directly to his side, straightening to his full height above you.

Tender flower, tender flower…needn’t be picked half wilted.

But your image remained with him, you walked with him as he took in your friend, it walked along his side when he lifted his arm to open a door, your skin still directly upon his. Your scent, your shiver, your presence never left him. Perhaps that is why nought but fire caught his mind when hearing your friend speak.

No longer only insolence, but a feeling In-ho decided to call discontent clouded the entire room. A very kind euphemism for the darkness enveloping his mind as he looked at the unassuming young man heaping praises and sweet nonsense at you.

Shielding you from him.

Taking away the sanctity In-ho had momentarily built with you and allowed to blossom in the millimetres between your bodies, your skin, to fill your head and mind with frivolous, cheap, pathetic babbling.

All he needed here was access to you and the fooling of your close circles, but in that moment, he knew all it would take was a gesture of his gloved hand. Watching the back of your friend’s head, his unassuming golden hair threatening to brush you, In-ho almost threw the game away.

Whether for the words or the touch, he was furious – at his own reaction to you, but that anger adequately transferred to a young man obviously caring too much for you, too much for mere friendship.

In-ho knew enough about him, he studied you after all, but from your messages, from your correspondence to other people, from watching you…no, he is nothing, nothing of a threat. The young man is a means to an end, and In-ho can take care of him later. Yet the fire enveloping his heart did nothing but let the frost ossify it in place.

That little place in your arm where you couldn’t quite see. That little place with a small opening, a little plastic cannula nested in you, would need another strong dose of something else. Something to keep you…docile yet…his.

Of your own free will.

[ndrv3expert1]

Why Tenko Chabashira is a Great Character pt. 1: Tenko’s Backstory and PersonalityA

Another essay excerpt because that did better than I expected last time and I'm suprised people actually want to read my stuff.

Tenko Chabashira is an over-hated character in the fandom with people before the game even came out criticizing her and hoping that she died.

Now this is not everyone’s opinion.

I've seen many people praise Tenko, but it’s a widely accepted opinion that she sucks, ranking near the bottom on a lot of people’s tier lists and having people post on every social media platform how much they hate her.

I love Tenko.

She is my favorite character in NDRV3 and right now my favorite character of all time.

With the game already in its eight anniversary I thought, what a better time than ever to fulfill my civic duty as a Tenko fan and explain why she is a great character and doesn’t deserve nearly all the hate she’s gotten.

Backstory

One of the main reasons people hate Tenko is her hatred of men.

I would like to lessen this to dislike because Tenko shows multiple times in the game that she does not hate men and there are also reasons behind her sentiments.

Tenko took her master's teachings very seriously; he was like a father figure to her (which makes sense especially since her parents abandoned her), and she was adamant about mastering neo-aikido.

Tenko is also really gullible.

It's why she believes Himiko can do real magic, so she would believe her master wholeheartedly when he tells her that interactions with men would weaken her.

It's similar to a child being told by their parents that if they are good Santa will give them gifts.

Another factor contributing to Tenko’s dislike of men would be her crime fighting which not only adds to her childlike nature but gives more of a reason to her so-called “man-hating.”

In one of Tenko’s ftes with Shuichi, she says:

“As practitioners of Neo-Aikido, Master and I… are also heroes of justice! Master and I wear masks to disguise ourselves! We serve to save, whether it is day or night! We do everything! Help an old woman carry her belongings… Help a child cross the street…Oh, yeah! I caught a thief the other day! We also punish degenerates who cheat and bring divine justice to gropers on trains. And even help girls who just had tough break-ups!”

Even though those don’t seem like the best reasons to “hate” a whole gender overshadowed by being hurt by men emotionally or physically.

If you think about it, it’s not the worst reason either, Tenko was just a kid and her master filled her head with misconceptions and stereotypes about men.

(In the end, he was just trying to protect but there are many more ways to go about it.)

Of course, Tenko didn’t have to believe it, but by being exposed to bad men on the streets when she and her master were fighting crime, and not having many interactions with good men, you can start to see where she comes from.

She’s just like a kid who never grew out of the boys' cooties phase (with a little more trauma), and as a kid, she wasn’t taught that all men aren’t bad, she wasn’t shown that all men aren’t bad, and she wasn’t exposed to the idea either.

I don’t think we should blame Tenko for something really out of her control.

Children are very impressionable that's why they're easy targets (well them and elderly people).

Their frontal lobes aren't fully developed so they don't think critically plus when your a kid small and vulnerable you tend to look to your parents for safety and guidance.

Imagine yourself in Tenko’s shoes. The man who is basically a father figure to her tells her all these misconceptions about men—and that they will stop her from fully mastering Neo-Aikido, something she has dedicated years to. With her low self-esteem, she likely already believes she isn’t good enough.

(While most of her self-esteem issues seem to be tied to her physical abilities, strength could play a role in that too. )

Wouldn’t that make you dislike them?

Then when he takes her out and she sees the men doing exactly what her master told her that they would do it would not only prove that her masters teachings are true it would solidify that hatred.

Now at the beginning of this section I said that Tenko doesn’t hate men but now I’m saying she does?

I believe Tenko had bad teachings and exposure that made her man hatred reasonable.

I don't think Tenko hates the whole male species as she says she does but if you're a man who hurts women Tenko is going to hate you with a burning passion an important distinction I need to make.

Tenko’s backstory isn’t perfect I’ll admit that but based on how she interacts with men during the game and how she acts overall bad exposure and teachings are a fine reason.

Personality

She’s rather boisterous and is like a ball of energy and can be overbearing to other students especially Himiko since how she acts with other students (not just the boys) is not “normal” per se (but no one in this game is normal) many people chalk it up to her just being annoying.

Still, I would like to add something else that may be a factor in her upbringing which I know I have already discussed.

Still, Tenko grew up in a temple with priests she was sent there when she was very young (there isn’t a specific age but many suspect five to six) so we can assume that she didn’t have a lot of interaction with kids her age (especially boys) with the only time interacting with people probably being people going in the temples for religious purposes or the people she saved while fighting crime.

A person’s upbringing especially if it’s bad or not normal can influence how someone acts just take Maki Harukawa, for example, she grew up in an orphanage and was trained to be an assassin during the game when Shuichi and Kaito are fighting she makes Shuichi watch her teaching Kaito to assemble and disassemble a crossbow so that they can make up, and when Kaito is kidnapped she reverts to the only thing she knows and tries to kill Kokichi.

Or Gonta Gokuhara who was raised in the forest by wolves doing odd things like not wearing shoes, lacking general cultural knowledge, getting suddenly controlled by strong emotions and having trouble with language.

So it makes sense for Tenko to act strangely and lack strong social skills, given her isolation from kids her age when she was young.

Unlike someone who has been interacting with others their entire life, starting from kindergarten, her experiences have been limited.

Or you can just say it’s her lack of understanding social cues and she’s neurodivergent coded.

...

Tenko, while claiming she hates men, gets along fine with them and shows them support. Some of these scenes include:

Joining Kaito’s strategy meeting

Telling Shuichi not to be too hard on himself after Kaede’s death

Yelling at Kokichi when he makes fun of Shuichi without his hat

Promising to avenge Rantaro and Ryoma’s deaths

Complementing Gonta for being calm and reasonable after Kirumi accuses him

Feeling bad after flipping Shuichi over her shoulder and carrying him back to her room

Allowing Shuichi to participate in Aikido with her

Telling Shuichi he needs to gain more confidence in himself.

She is also lovely and caring, volunteering to protect all of the girls, placing herself at risk alongside Kaito and Gonta to save Kaede from her execution, and her friendship with Himiko, in which she tries to help her overcome her emotional suppression, demonstrates her compassion for others.

She is one of the most vocal characters when it comes to opposing the killing game they were imprisoned in, and she is always willing to offer assistance or emotional support.

Tenko has a wonderful personality. Her deep emotional core, supportive persona, and childlike thinking are qualities that I and many others can identify with.

These qualities, in my opinion, dampen the hatred of her "male-hating" mentality in some aspects and make her a charming character.

Tenko's development

While having many ‘annoying/ undesirable’ traits Tenko eventually does have character development.

The main one is her dislike of men. I've already discussed that this dislike doesn’t seem genuine because, since the beginning of the game, she’s been having friendly, kindhearted interactions with men but taking that out of account Tenko does develop from the beginning of the game to her death.

Tenko’s journey reveals layers of her personality, showcasing how bad experiences shape beliefs and attitudes.

And how a good experience can turn it all around for the better even if her transformation is not entirely linear and overshadowed by other major characters (Shuichi Maki and Himiko.)

In her Free Time Events (FTEs) with Shuichi, she is very mean to him.

Nicest thing she says is that he can improve himself through Neo Aikido and become a good man like her master.

However, the interactions in her FTEs specifically with Shuichi amplify her disdain for men making it seem worse than it is in the game.

Despite all this she still she moments of genuine growth realizing that not all men are as bad as the ones her master told her about and the one she saw while crime-fighting through her experiences with Shuichi and the other men in the game she slowly but surely alters her perspective, and the journey leads her to form a friendship--though some would say acquaintanceship--with Shuichi (a man 😱.)

It’s a shift for her from her initial male-hating persona as she learns to accept that not every man is as bad as she was taught to believe by her master.

I could go on but this is getting long so in Part 2 I'll delve deeper into Tenko’s character arc and development in chapter 3.

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this story from Grist:

In 2015, when the countries of the world hammered out the Paris Agreement, they committed to limiting global temperatures to 2 degrees Celsius above preindustrial levels and “pursuing efforts” toward keeping them below 1.5 degrees C. The plan didn’t work out so well. Ten years later, the planet might have crossed that lower threshold sooner than expected.

A pair of new studies in the journal Nature Climate Change looked at historical data and came to the conclusion that the record heat last year — the first year to surpass 1.5 degrees C — wasn’t a temporary fluke, but a sign that the world is now soaring past this influential climate target over the long term. The new year continued that upward trajectory. Even as a natural cooling pattern called La Niña took hold recently, January managed to be hotter than ever, clocking in at a record 1.75 degrees C warmer than the preindustrial average. 

One analysis of the two studies warned that Earth had entered a “frightening new phase.” It’s a reflection of the language that has been used around 1.5 C ever since the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, the United Nations-backed team of leading climate experts, wrote an influential report in 2018 on the consequences of exceeding that threshold, which it estimated would happen in 2030. Headlines warned that the world had 12 years to avert climate catastrophe. The line was echoed by the young Swedish activist Greta Thunberg and Representative Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez from New York. So is the world now at the edge of disaster?

Mike Hulme, a professor of human geography at the University of Cambridge, asserts that it isn’t. “There’s no ‘cliff edge’ that emerges from any of the scientific analyses that have been done about these thresholds,” he said. “They are, in many senses, just arbitrary numbers plucked because they are either integers or half of an integer.” 

Hulme, who has been studying the way people think about climate change for decades, argues that an obsession with global temperatures misunderstands why people care about climate change in the first place: They care about how it affects their lives, not abstract readings of the thermometer. He’s also argued that climate advocates should stop chasing a series of “deadlines” to try to drum up enthusiasm for meeting these goals.

Grist spoke with Hulme to learn more about how setting these deadlines can backfire and if there’s a better way to talk about how to make progress on climate change. This interview has been condensed and edited for clarity.

Q.You’ve written that the 1.5 C goal “painted the world into a dangerous corner.” What exactly was dangerous about it? 

A.The danger of this goal is that it was always impossible to achieve — or 99 percent impossible to achieve — 10 years ago. And everybody, I think, who understands both the dynamics of the physical climate system, and also the dynamics of the world energy system, understood that — 1.5 became a campaigning number around which civic groups, activists, and youth entrepreneurs mobilized: “1.5 to stay alive.” It was interpreted as being if 1.5 was breached, then the world either moved into an entirely different physical state that was dangerous compared to 1.4 — or, and this came along later, that somehow 1.5 represents a “tipping point” in the Earth system, which if exceeded, triggers certain feedback mechanisms that cannot be undone. 

Either way, it cultivates an atmosphere of fear. And the danger is, if we’ve transgressed 1.5, the feeling mounts that somehow it’s game over, that we’ve failed in our task to manage the risks of climate change. And that, to some at least, will cultivate cynicism, disillusion, and a loss of focus. These are dangerous emotions. They don’t help with clear-eyed thinking around the difficult politics of climate and energy.

[labyrinthinesyndicatex]

Stella let a sly smile tug at her lips as she turned her attention back to Bianca. “Okay, I’ll give you that. But come on … don’t you think there’s a chance she’s sticking around because she’s secretly intrigued by him? Like, maybe she’s not going home with him, but she’s enjoying the game, the attention. Sometimes it’s fun to let someone try, even if you already know how it’s going to end.” She got closer, her voice low . “Or maybe she’s just keeping him on his toes because she knows she can. A little harmless power play never hurt anyone, right?” Stella glanced back at the couple, her grin widening. “Either way, I’d say she’s having a better time than she’s letting on.” Her gaze lingered on Bianca for a beat longer than necessary, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. “You know,” she said, her voice light but laced with mischief, “for someone who claims romance isn’t her thing, you sure seem to have a knack for seeing through all the games people play. Makes me wonder what kind of stories you’d spin about me if I tried to keep your attention.”

while she genuinely enjoyed the romantic bit of her story and how it seemed extremely possible, that just wasn't the kind of girl she was. romance had never been anything that made its way into her life and maybe that was partially her fault. after all, no one was going to want to settle down with her if she stayed in the life she was in, right? "i think you made a sweet story," she paused, "but, if you ask me," she motioned between the two of them, "i think that he's saying anything he can to keep her attention. she's playing nice but she's definitely not going home with him. she just doesn't have anything better to do or anyone better to keep her company."

[lavellaned]

I still see some people upset about the Mythal/Solas/Lavellan content in veilguard, so let me point out something that healed my little solavellan heart:

Solas doesn’t just create murals, he does frescos. The very nature of a fresco is meant to be permanent and last the test of time. He destroyed every fresco memory of Mythal. They are even described as things he wants to forget.

Solas also has an entire room covered wall to wall in inquisition frescos, left completely untouched and in a position that they are in his direct eyesight when he sits at the harpsichord. Not to mention he has a painting of the inquisitor’s throne and helmet in his meditation room.

Do with that what you will.

[bharv]

I made myself sad trying to write dragon age 😂😭

[spicyicymeloncat]

Tumblr pls be normal about morally complex characters. Stop going 0 or 100 on their morality. Stop ignoring the interesting and unique story telling being presented to you in favour of going “nono that’s my UwU sugar plum sweet baby boi baby, disregard the canon bc I actually only want wholesome vibes from my horror games”

[killuaisaprincess]

Everyone always whines and cries how everyone ignores G//on

AND IF YOU DARE TO BRING UP KIS TRAMUA THEY ARE LIKE BUT WHAT ABOUT G

What about g KIS FANS ARE ANNOYING THEY SAY

Omg WHAT ABOUT G

MEANWHILE BACK WHEN I WAS ON A BLOCKING SPREE ALL I EVER SEE IS ANALYSIS POSTS ECT ABOUT G G AND HIM AND HIS TRAMUA AND THE BOTH TOGETHER MAYBE BUT KI ALONE MAYBE 1

SO I DO NOT EVEN WANNA HEAR IT

AND LET KI FANS CARE ABOUT KI

JUST LIKE U CARE ABOUT G

Stg these people wanna act like Ki’s life is so easy and CAA wasn’t hard on Ki CUZ WHAT ABOUT G

[lesbianlenas]

hot blonde woman on bb who i thought maybe this time the hot blonde woman will not flop on me & will be a good player i was soooooo hopeful of course she immediately aligns w the ppl who i do not like & is having group delusions w them abt how they’re the best players in the house when they have no power at all omg i am doomed w these blonde women legit just texted my friend that i will never trust a hot blonde woman on bb again i am DONE…..look at the world’s saddest progression of texts between thursday night & last night 😩

[my-jokes-are-my-armour]

.

[clover-the-awesomest]

Another legendary part to the comic… MAN this one is fun!

So, this is for everyone at the casino, have you all ever played truth or dare and if so, what are some of the craziest things people have done or admitted? Since cuphead’s pranks are usually always so extreme do any of you use it as way to get back at him? (Since I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t say no to a dare ever)

(MORE UNDER CUT, THIS IS ONE LONG-ASS SON-OF-A-BITCH ASK)

…Prev ♠️        ♦️ Next…

Keep reading

[webism]

☆ bestfriend!satoru likes seeing you in his clothes a little too much.

it starts with lending you a jacket when you're out late and it gets cold. he laughs at you first, makes fun of the way you shiver, but then his eyes drift and he realises he can see your hardened nipples through your shirt and suddenly he's layering you up in his jacket just to keep his mind from short-circuiting.

but the sight of you in his jacket is no help either, not when you drown in it because he's so damn tall and he's reminded of the difference in size between the two of you and for the first (more like third) time he's wondering what you'd look like beneath him in a mean mating press. how you'd feel shaking under his body weight: like how you're shaking now, but pleasure wracking your body rather than the cold wind.

he tells himself it's fine to have these thoughts. you're his best friend, you spent every waking hour together: it's only natural that his thoughts would eventually drift southwards. he'll snap out of it, he just needs to jerk off and clear his mind.

so he walks you home, and lets you keep the jacket.

but that night, he's in the shower with hot water scalding his skin, eyes squeezed shut as he strokes his cock at an inhuman pace. fucks his fist with anything but you in mind—he thinks about all his past trysts, about whatever porn he's seen lately, about his fucking cursed technique.

and he thinks he has it, he's pumping his cock with crazed strokes in an attempt to cum and clear his mind, but just as that pleasure starts to break into white hot lust, all he sees is you. in nothing but his jacket, wrecked on his cock and begging him for more.

and when he cums, he sees your eyes pleading up at him from where you’d rest on your knees, ready to take his load into your mouth because you crave the taste. He swears he can feel your fingers splayed over his thighs… your tongue tracing the pronounced vein that runs up the underside of his cock… your heated presence in the shower alongside him.

satoru says your name as he cums, and realises he’s wholly fucked and not coming back from this.

so, naturally, gojo plays into it.

the next time you see him is at his place, you come around to spend time with him and talk about the mundane that always seems exciting when spoken in the lilt of your voice. he offers you a drink, pours you a glass of red and promptly spills it over your pretty top—purely accidental, of course.

and he only takes a moment to admire the way the soaked fabric clings to your skin before he’s bolting into action and offering you a shirt of his own.

“it’s like you’re trying to steal my wardrobe, huh? first my jacket… now my shirt… got something to admit to, hm? you like wearing my clothes?”

it’s playful banter, you think, and roll your eyes with a huff as he hands you a shirt that’s oversized even on him. he wants to see you drown in the fabric, covered in him through clothing until he can cover you in another aspect of himself.

you make him look away while you change, though you know it’s an effort wasted because he’s all-seeing or whatever. and when satoru finally gets a look at you in his shirt he knows it’s game over. it’s like he’s left a mark on you, staked him claim not through bite marks or hickies as he usually would, but through the fabric that adorns your skin. his clothes smell like him, look like him, and are being worn by you.

he’s beyond hard, his cock is tenting his pants and he’s almost offended you haven’t yet noticed, because there’s no hiding a boner when you’re his size. you’re sweet enough not to look, even steal a glance out of curiosity—but he isn’t; his eyes are roaming your skin in such a heated way you feel feverish. it’s how he notices the wine that has spilt on your skirt as well.

he could tell you—offer you a pair of his sweats and cum in his own pants as the way they’d hang off your hips—but he doesn’t. instead, your best friend satoru gojo, the man you know like scripture, drops to his knees and takes the hem of your skirt between his fingers.

“what are you doing?” you think he’s cruel for a joke like this, when he looks so good on his knees, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips as if he’s aching for a taste of you. you squeeze your thighs together, groan at the thought of gojos relentless teasing if he realises you’re soaking wet right now. “this isn’t funny.”

“i’m not laughing,” he says, tone flat. “your skirt is stained.”

“oh,” it is, you can see the wine seeping into the fabric.

gojo laughs, his grin sinful. “what? you get all flustered when i’m on my knees? how lewd.”

“shut up,” you try and step backwards, put some space between him and your pulsing heat, but his hands come to grip your thighs, fingers cool as they brush under your skirt and press into your skin. “you’re an asshole, toru.”

“i know,” his fingers creep higher. “i’m sorry.”

“no you’re not.”

“i know,” he parrots. “but you will be.”

“wh—“

in one practiced movement, satoru rips your skirt down and exposes you to him. he has to bunch up the shirt of his you wear with one hand and keep you from running with the other, but he’s met with a beautiful sight as a reward for all his pining.

“for coming to my house with no fucking panties on and acting like you don’t want me to fuck you like we’re more than friends.”

you learnt quickly upon befriending satoru gojo that he always seems to get what he wants. this is no exception, because after he spends so long fucking you with his tongue that his knees go numb against the cold tile, he’s got you laid down on his couch, his t shirt bunched up over your waist just enough for him to watch his cock sink into you over and over and over again.

he loves the sight of you grabbing at the fabric to keep it out of the way— how you whine for him to just let you take it off, all for him to press his lips to yours and conjoin you so you couldn’t undress even if you tried.

how with each thrust of his ravaging cock into you, he’s whining like he’s not the one in control. babbling filth as if he’s not got you pinned and taking every last inch of him—he’s pussy drunk and overbearing in his excitement and slurring his words as he speaks against your open mouth.

“never allowed to wear your own clothes again,” he steals your breath with each gasp he gives between thrusts. “only mine. i’ll burn yours, fuck, i hate your clothes.”

“you…” gojos fast rutting stalls your sentence. “…you brought me that skirt.”

“yeah? well where is it now?”

you recall the lecture you tried to give him when he threw your wine-stained skirt into his trash bin. you’d protest his dictation of what you wear if you had the mind to do so—but his cock is hitting your g spot in tandem with the ministries of his fingers over your clit… you’re half-near brain dead with the way he splits you open and unravels you like the threading of his clothes he’s fucking you in.

you can’t count your orgasms, only feel them shoot static up your spine with each one gojo manages to pull from you. and when he cums, spills over your parted thighs to dress you further in the essence of him, you swear you hear him babble something about putting a ring on your finger some day, to dress you in something of his permanently.

but friends don’t talk like that.

they don’t fuck like this either, though.

[cryptictongues]

The Thrill of the Chase

pairing: Logan Howlett x Female Mutant!Reader rating: Explicit (MINORS DNI; 18+) word count: 7.1K summary: Logan ate part of your sandwich, so you stole his cigars. Things turn out differently from what you were expecting.

warnings: fluff and smut, teasing, slight predator/prey trope, banter, making out, dirty talk, oral (f and m receiving), vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, squirting, soft!dom Logan

Author's Note: My first Logan fic! X-Men used to be my world and the fact it is making a comeback has rejuvenated me. Also, I was picturing Logan from the first three trilogies but DOFP!Logan also crossed my mind so :)

Please read my pinned post before following me! Minors and ageless blogs will be blocked as this blog’s content is NSFW.

[AO3 link]

It was getting close to evening, everyone doing their own thing to unwind after a long day of classes and teaching. You had planned to do the same thing, planning to grab a quick bite in the kitchen before getting ready to relax in your room. You were whipping up a quick and easy sandwich, assembling it onto a plate before moving it to the island in the middle of the kitchen. You went to get a soda from the cupboard, only for your skin to raise as you sense something is about to happen: a certain someone was about to come take your sandwich. 

“If you take one bite out of my sandwich Logan, I will kick your ass.”

You turn to see him, eyes wide along with his mouth, about to chomp into your dinner. He closes his mouth, only for him to keep the sandwich in his hands and an “innocent” smile on his face. 

“Oh, you mean this sandwich?” 

You shut the cupboard door, walking over to him with a stern, playful look. You know he is messing with you. That has been the dynamic of your relationship with him. Ever since he decided to stay here at the school and join the X-Men, you two have grown closer and closer, enjoying each other’s company over anyone else. It didn’t matter what either of you did. You both thrived in the presence of one another. 

But something that has become common practice as of late was playful in nature. You both have always teased, but it has recently ramped up. If one of you started it, the other would find a way to end it before starting again. It was the push and pull between the two of you that you loved, and it has only made you long for him. You want to believe he feels the same, but even your mutation of precognition can’t fully confirm that. 

“Yes, that is my sandwich. I worked very hard on it. I'll have you know.” You are standing in front of him now, having to look up at him slightly as you wait for his next move. 

“I’m sure you did. It looks delicious.” He says, but rather than looking at the food, he is looking right at you. Cheeky bastard.

“Y-yeah, which is why I am asking you to put it down so I may enjoy it.” 

“I don’t know. I think I wanna have a taste first.” 

His hazel eyes are staring you down, almost begging for you to make a move. In reality, you really didn’t care if he ate it. You could easily make another and enjoy dinner with him. But you know that isn’t what he is doing right now. He is playing with you, wanting to rile you up. Well, it takes two to play that game.

“That sandwich is very precious to me. I’d think before you act.”

“Oh yeah?” He smirks, bringing his face closer to yours. “What are you going to do about it?”

“I’ll take something precious of yours.” 

He chuckles, turning his face to the sandwich. “I’d like to see you try, sweetheart.”

He takes a huge bite out of your sandwich, his eyes closing as he chews. You purse your lips, watching him savor your meal with gusto. You know he is overexaggerating to truly get at you, but little does he know you have a trick up your sleeve.

“Enjoying my meal?” 

He turns back to you, swallowing before licking his lips. “Very much. I may have to take another bite.”

You get up in his space, settling onto your tippy toes so your face is by his ear. You let your breath waft against his skin, causing a shiver to shake his core. You can tell he is anticipating what you will do, always highly enjoying your responses to his antics. Oh, he is so in for it.

“That’s okay. You can have it.” You let your pointer finger trace his collarbone that is very much on display from his white, fitted tank. “And you want to know why that is, Logan?”

He takes a deep breath, very apparent that your actions are doing something to him. His left hand lets go of the sandwich to settle on your hip, squeezing the flesh slightly to ground himself. It is actions like that that make you believe you do something to him. Like you drive him just as insane as he does to you. You bring your left hand to his head, pulling him down so you can really get into his ear. 

“That’s because I know where you keep your special cigars from Cuba, and I am going to take them.”

You couldn’t have run fast enough. You are already shooting for the stairs, taking two steps at a time as you speed to his room. You knew it had taken him a second to realize what had happened because by the time you got to his floor, you heard him yelling your name. 

You burst into his room, locking it quickly. It was only to buy some time, for you knew he had a key. You were giggling as you went to his bookcase, plucking out the blue, hardcover history book. You open it, and smile as you see the unopened cigars there in the deep hole where text used to be. Just as you close the book, you hear heavy footsteps reach the door and a jingle of keys.

You panic, needing to find a way out before he opens the door. You could run around him, but you needed a head start. You could hide and wait for him to leave but you knew he’d sniff you out. There was only one option left, and that was to go out his bedroom window. You hear the key enter the lock, and with a quickness you didn’t think you had, you unlocked his window and flung it open. Just as the door busted open, you crawled out. You grasped onto the ivy that clung to the school’s exterior and began to climb down. 

“Oh, when I get my hands on you, you are in for it!”

You look up to see Logan’s head popping out the window. He has a scowl on his face, but you could see the wild look in his eyes. You knew he was enjoying this, for he loves the chase.

“This is for taking my sandwich!” You yell, and continue making your descent. 

You hear the window close, which makes you go faster, knowing he is rushing down those stairs to meet you at the bottom. You could sense that he would go to the front door, so once your feet touch the grassy floor you run to the back door. Opening it quickly, you determine your next move. He is probably at the front, ready to intercept you, giving you the opportunity to hide somewhere. 

You rush to the hallway where many of the classes are held. You run into the first classroom you see, its door already open. You see the large oak desk at the back of the classroom, and quietly walk up to it. It has a space for leg room, so with haste you crawl in it, pulling the chair in carefully to not make any sound. 

Your heart was racing, adrenaline thrashing as you hid. You try to steady your breath, trying to keep quiet. The atmosphere has become eerie, the silence defying as you try to keep it that way. You try to listen for any other sounds over your pounding heart, when another wave of cognition hits you. You can see it clearly, where he finds you under the desk, hands on either side to block you in. You know you need to move on, so you go to move the chair, but you suddenly halt when you hear his voice boom nearby.

“Where is she?” 

You cover your mouth, trying to hold in your breathing as well as the gasp that almost shot from your mouth. His voice was coated in gravel, and absolutely primal. Even from afar, it was clear he was worked up, and it made you embarrassingly wet. 

You hear footsteps enter the hallway, heavy boots against the shiny wooden floor. At first, you think you may have a way out, hearing him pass the room you were in, but you aren’t so lucky because you hear him stop. You grip onto the book and your mouth, even though you know it will do absolutely nothing. You know he senses you, and it is confirmed when you hear footsteps enter the room. You hear him inhale deeply, exhaling with sigh only to turn into a deep rumble. 

“I know you are here.” He is slow in taking his steps, and each step gets closer and closer to your hiding place. 

He sniffs deeply again, growling this time around like he was a wild animal. “No point in denying it. I could smell you the second I walked into the hall.”

You know he will find you, and he will block you in. So you decide to take a risk before he closes in on you. You push the chair out far enough to crawl out, before standing up behind the desk. You put your hands up with the book in your left one, trying to show off a sign of surrender. 

“You have nowhere to go, dollface. No point in trying’ to run for I’ll snatch you up real quick.” 

“You must really want your cigars back to block me in like this.” 

He steps even closer, with him now standing right in reach of the book. He could easily grab it and take it, for he is much stronger than you. But he doesn’t make a move, staying glued to his new spot. You don’t know what’s running through his head, his eyes trained on you. It isn’t until he places his hands onto the desk that you take a step back and drop your hands. 

“You’re wrong.”

You raise a brow, not sure what he is getting at. “What do you mean?”

He smirks, leaning his body over the desk. “It isn’t the cigars I’m after. Not anymore.”

Your heart is in overdrive. You know the answer, it is becoming obvious. But you ask anyway. “Then what are you after, Lo?”

“I think you know the answer. Now it is a matter of will you let me take what’s mine.”

You want to give in. You are becoming more aroused by the second, but you are starting to really enjoy the chase. Seeing how much it gets him going, to see this side of him, only makes you want to push him more. You want to see what he will do, especially when he gets his hands on you.

You walk around the desk, book of cigars still in hand, getting closer to him until you are toe to toe with him. “What’s the fun in surrendering?”

He quickly blocks you in, the desk pressed against your back. He has the most seductive, but feral grin upon his lips, like he thinks he has won his prize. His head leans down to yours, forehead against forehead, before he whispers his next sentence against your lips.

“The fun is in what follows.”

His lips are on yours, desperate and needy. You can’t help the moan that leaves your throat, mind going hazy as his lips devour. You have craved him for so long, you want this to last forever. However, you cannot give into him like this. You will not make this easy for him.

One of your hands goes to the hem of his tank, fingers lingering before going under. He feels so solid, the coarse hairs on his tummy spread thick as you go to his left side. You can feel him shudder over you, and you try to hold back the smirk that wants to curve onto your lips. You move your fingers sporadically over the left side of his ribcage, causing him to jump back. This gives you the chance to run like hell.

“Hey! That’s unfair!” You hear him yell and it makes you giggle profusely. You must thank Jean later for letting you in on that little secret; that the broody, grumpy man with the metal bones was insanely ticklish. You wish you could turn to see his full reaction, but you are too determined.

You can hear him running right behind you, and you have never been more aroused. You shouldn’t feel so turned on by Logan chasing you around, but the thrill of the chase was seeping into your loins and you were addicted. 

More people had shown up around the school, meeting with friends to study or hang out for the evening. You were dodging people left and right, and everyone looked perplexed as they saw Logan charging his way towards you. Many of them probably assumed it had to do with the book you were holding, and while they would have been originally right, they are no longer even close. 

You don’t have time to hide again, not with him so close behind. You make it back to the stairs, hauling ass as you try to make it to your room. You can hear him right behind you, breathing heavily and grunting with each step. Your room is at the end of the hall, and you are basically flying with how fast you are running. The second you reach the door, you swing it open and throw yourself in before slamming it. You had gotten it shut, mentally pumping your fist in victory, but by the time you went to turn the lock, it was too late. The door flies open, sending you back a couple feet back as Logan stands at the door's entrance. 

“I have you right where I want you. No more running.”

If looks could kill, you’d be ash. He enters your room, closing the door behind him with his eyes staying on you. He takes one step forward, with him now hovering over your smaller form. The way he is looking at you makes your knees faint, for you felt you could hear what he was revealing with his stare. 

“I still know your weakness, Logan.” You smirk, holding the book up to your face to dodge any attack he was planning. It is pointless, you know, but it is the best defense you’ve got. 

“Do you now?” He walks towards you, in step with you as you go backwards. The back of your knees hit the edge of your bed, telling you that you truly have nowhere else to go. He is right on you, grinning now that he has the upper hand. 

“I’m afraid that book won’t save you from me.” He snatches the book, tossing it to the side of the bed. 

You are in for it. You don’t know what he is planning, and the element of surprise has overcome you. However, with the way he is looking at you, you guarantee that what is about to happen will be just as exhilarating as when he was hunting you down. 

“What do you plan to do with me, hm?” You let your fingertips walk along his chest, dancing all the way down to his side like you did earlier. 

He is quick to grab your hand, bending down to lift you up in his arm before tossing you onto the bed, following swiftly as he pins both hands above your head. 

“Don’t even think about it. I know you all too well.” He growls through his teeth. “As for what I plan on doing, what’s the fun in telling when I can just show you. Would you like that?”

You simply nod, breathless at how he is handling you. However, that wasn’t good enough for him, as he takes hold of your wrists in one hand so his other one can grip your chin.

“I wanna hear you say it, pretty girl.”

You huff, getting frustrated already that he is dragging this out. With your legs still free, you wrap them around his hips, your heels digging into his back causing him to grunt. Your lips are practically on his, faint contact making you antsy. “Show me what you’ve been wanting to do with me.”

Your lips are squashed by his instantly, hunger and desperation clear. His hands go to your thighs, grabbing at the flesh. With your hands free, they go straight to his hair, gripping and tugging on it which causes him to moan hotly into your mouth. 

His hands travel up to the hem of your blouse, pushing the fabric up past your stomach before his hands go under. You moan at the contrast, rough hands, that have been through so much running along your unmarred body. He swallows what you give him, groaning happily at the effects he was causing.

You are in heaven. You never thought you would be here like this with Logan. You never thought you would be under him at his complete mercy. It makes a shiver travel down your spine, traveling right to your core that is a heated mess because of the man before you. To be with the man you have pined for is riveting, and you could cry that he seems to return those feelings.

You don’t know what triggers your mutation, but it is sudden. Your vision goes blurry, a strong aura surrounding you. It is overwhelming, a whimper bubbling from your throat as you see what is about to happen. Logan releases your lips with a grunt, looking at you intensely as you start to shake. You feel his rough hands cup your soft cheeks, stroking them gently. 

Your cheeks feel hot, your vision turning you into a horny mess. Your hands grip onto Logan’s chest trying to ground yourself to reality. It’s too much. Your visions rarely last long for they are just snippets of future events, but this was different. It was as if you were in a trance, and could feel everything he was doing to you. You don’t know if it is your heightened emotions, especially with him right on you. All you knew is that pleasure was present, and you were starting to fall apart. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” You can hear his demeanor change, worry laced in his tone.

“Fuck,” you couldn’t help but moan, unable to control yourself. “I can feel everything, Logan.”

There is a pause, hands still touching your face. A few beats later, he lets his right hand go down, only to stop at your thigh squeezing tightly. 

“Tell me what you see, baby.” 

The rumble in his voice intensifies everything, causing you to grip onto him tighter. “Oh God please don’t make me say it out loud.”

You try to look away, but his left hand shifts so it is grabbing your chin. He forces your head back up, bringing his face down to yours like he had in the classroom. His breath fans over your lips, taking in the way they move as sounds leave them. 

“I’m fucking you, aren’t I? Making you lose yourself on my cock? Is that what you are seeing?”

You can barely talk, too enthralled in your vision. You grab the hand that is on your thigh and bring it to the top of your black pants. Logan gets the idea and angles it so he can slide his hand into them. His fingers brush over the fabric, feeling the damp spot that has formed drastically. You hear him curse under his breath, the vibrations hitting your lips as they brush against one another without full pressure. 

“Oh sweetheart, you are so wet.” He murmurs, pulling his hand out to bring it up to his nose, inhaling deeply before releasing a sound so feral that you could sob. “And you smell so fucking good.” 

You can’t help but nod, not knowing how to respond. All you know is that you need him. Need him to take you on your bed and do whatever he wants to you. You’ll take anything he is willing to give you, for all you want is for him to make himself known to you. 

His hand had gone back down to your crotch, cupping your pussy through the material. “Does she want more attention?”

“Logan, please do something.” You choke, your mind steadily coming back to reality, but still not fully letting go. You start to grind down on his palm, desperate for anything he will give you, but he removes his hand, going to the back of your head to grip tightly.

Damn him!

“I know she deserves something, but do you? Do you deserve me after getting me so worked up like that?”

“Logan, I am begging.” You cry out in frustration, your nails digging into his chest causing him to groan lowly. “I want you. God, I’ve always wanted you so please take what’s yours!”

He is back on you, kissing you till the air in your lungs dissipates. He starts to kiss away from your swollen lips, kissing down to your neck. He nips at your pulse point, going up to your ear to give it a light lick before going back down. With every kiss, he takes a deep breath in, which only makes him get more aggressive. Soft kisses turn to an open mouth lather to nips that could have easily broken the skin.

“I don’t think you know what your scent does to me. It draws me in every time.” He bites down particularly hard at your collar bone, and you wouldn’t be surprised if blood had come to the surface. 

His hands come back up to the front of your blouse, carefully unbuttoning the garment before revealing your breasts that are almost spilling out of your bra. His hands mold over the cups, squeezing hard and slow as he makes his way to your sternum. 

He is being so gentle with you, a complete 180 from how you thought this was going to go. He was so rough with you in your head, fucking you until you couldn’t even say a word. This side of him was endearing, but you crave more from him.

“For someone so feral for me, you sure are taking your time.”

He bites the top of your left breast, making you gasp at the sudden pain. “I don’t think you are ready for that side of me, dollface.”

Your right hand goes to his head, taking a handful of his hair and yanking his head up. You know he wants to absolutely ravish you, and if it’s some convincing he needs, some convincing he is going to get. 

“When I said to take what’s yours, I meant it. I want you to make me beg until I’m dumb, so fucking do it.”

“Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you, Princess.”

His hands go under your top from the back, unclipping your bra before letting them resurface. He starts to yank your top off from the shoulders, only to smack your thigh that causes a light sting.

“Arch that back for me.”

You do as he says, allowing him to take the rest of your top off along with your bra. He flings them both across the room, only to do the same with his tank. You’ve seen his upper body plenty of times, as there would be instances in which he disregards it for a training session. But this? This was very different. It’s a different atmosphere, and rather than everyone getting an eye full of his muscular, hairy body, it is now for your eyes only. 

He’s looking down at you, pupils flared as he takes you in. You shiver as his palms stroke your tummy, slowly going up until they encompass your breasts. Your nipples pebble from the rough texture of his skin, and you can see it excites him. So much so that he takes the opportunity to take your nipples between his fingers and pulls them gently with a pinch. Your back bows off the mattress, adoring the pain he is providing, and let out a mewl as he lets go to run his thumbs over the tender peaks.

“You sound so good,” Logan murmurs. “I need to hear more.”

His right arm goes under your back to keep you up, holding you there as his mouth goes to your left breast. He takes your nipple into his mouth, sucking with his eyes still on you. Your cheeks flush, head tilting to the side to avoid looking at him. It’s too much. It’s too fucking much. 

Whimpers slip from your mouth, his treatment of your breasts making you want to rub your thighs together to soothe the ache, but he keeps your legs open. He eventually does the same to your other breast, working to match the work he left on your other nipple: hard, and tainted red.

He lets up, sitting on his knees as he unbuttons your pants, hands sliding the material down your legs in earnest. He tosses your heels off before stripping away your bottoms, and he hums as he admires the black, lacy thong you adorn. 

“Fuck,” he snaps the elastic, eyes entranced. “You sure you didn’t see this coming earlier? Wearing something sexy like this?”

“They work better with my pants.” You huff, his fingers lightly running along your covered slit.

“Hmm, no wonder your ass looked so good today.” He grins. “But this pussy? I could play with her all day.”

He lowers himself, sliding off the bed only to bring you with him, your body gliding across the comforter with ease. He clutches onto your thighs, letting your legs rest in the crook of his elbows. He keeps his hold tight, bringing his lips down to kiss and suck on your thighs. You gasp at the aggressiveness, swearing you will see dark purple marks on you later. You moan at the idea, as it feels like he is finally claiming you; like are his to mark, to claim, to fuck, to love. 

He makes his way to your center, sniffing deeply before releasing a feral growl. He lets the tip of his tongue lightly drag from the bottom to the top of your heat, still fully covered by the damned thong. He flicks at your clit, a ghost of a touch that has you bucking your hips. And he draws back every single time. His self-control is impressive but frustrating all the same.

He starts to suck on it through the material, creating a bigger wet spot with his spit. The more he pushed his tongue against your folds, the more the material would rub just right against you. It made you clench, panting at how much he is teasing you. He pulls away, blowing on your sensitive spot which only makes you whine.

“Awe what is it?” He chuckles, the vibrations barely hitting where you need him. “You want my tongue to play with you?”

His hand lets go of your thigh, fingers tracing the fabric before pulling it to the side. “Lucky for you, I love to play.”

He goes right in, mouth over your bud as he consumes your very being. Your hands shoot to his hair, not prepared for the onslaught of pleasure he is delivering. The swirls he is landing on his target is mind numbing, a tangible pressure that makes you want to curl in on yourself. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groans, the sound vibrating right on your clit. It makes you buck your hips up, but his left arm presses you down to keep you secure. 

“I know you want more, but you are going to have to be patient. I’m not done tasting this sweet pussy. Fuck, you are so sweet.”

You feel one of his fingers near your hole, circling it teasingly before pushing in. His tongue is back on your nerves, mouthing covering it to add slight suction. Even with his big fingers, it’s not nearly enough. 

“Logan, please add another.” You say, emphasizing as you clench down on his single digit. 

He sucks a little harder, ripping a yelp from your throat. Still, he listens and inserts a second finger with the first. He goes in and out, drawing sighs from your lips as he builds you up. His mouth is going crazy, moving his lips with a vengeance. Your blood is hot, traveling down as your release starts to come to the surface.

You can’t stop clamping down on his fingers, your pussy having a mind of its own. He is pistoning them now, causing your fluids to make its way down your ass onto the comforter. The sounds coming from his handiwork edge you further, your release imminent. 

“Oh God, Logan! I’m cumming!” 

Big mistake on your part.

He pulls away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. A smug look appears on his face, and you have the urge to shove his face back into your aching cunt.

“Your first time cumming with me will be on my cock, sweetheart.”

He pulls your thong down your legs and moves you back to the front of the bed. He stands before you, making light work of removing his belt from the loops of his jeans. His jeans are next, pulling them down with his briefs. 

You don’t know what you expected. You weren’t surprised with how well endowed he was, not with the way he is built. But to see it in person is so much different from your imagination. The details that your mind didn’t conjure up, especially the vein that starts from his lower stomach to the tip of his cock. It makes you salivate, wanting to run your tongue along it. 

“You like what you see, darlin’?” He noticed you staring, but you have no shame. Not anymore.

“Yeah, want it in my mouth so bad.”

He walks over to you, his cock in your face. His hand goes to your head, stroking the baby hairs that are starting to stick to your temple. “As much as I would love that, I am dying to give you the fucking you deserve, sweetheart. However…” he brings your head up closer to his cock, your lips not even an inch away. “How about you get it nice and wet for me.”

You don’t have to be told twice. You work up a good amount of spit, letting it drip from your mouth onto his hard cock. You start to lick at the sides, spreading your saliva all over until he is covered. You are basically making out with his dick, your lips and tongue moving like you had when you were kissing him earlier. It isn’t until you get to that vein of his that you start to go wild, licking it up and down. 

Logan is groaning deeply, and pulls your head back, a string of saliva connecting before breaking apart. You hear him curse under his breath before crawling back onto the bed, his hands holding your face as he brings his lips to you. His kisses are slow this time, letting it sink in that this is happening; that you two are about to be connected. 

“You did such a good job. You are such a good girl.” He murmurs against your lips before sitting up. 

His dick is now sitting heavy on your mound, and the weight of it feels delicious. He taps it against your clit a few times, your hips thrusting up in kind. 

“You ready for me, sweetheart?” He lets his cock rut into your folds, thrusting up into your clit. “I think that sweet thing of yours is.”

“Give it to me, Lo. I need you so bad it hurts.” 

“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll take that pain away.” He promises.

And as promised, he places the tip right at your aching hole and pushes in slowly. Your jaw slacks, the pressure as he continues his descent much more intense than you anticipated. It’s been so long since you’ve given yourself to someone. It all feels new, and you are thankful; thankful that it's with him.

He is fully seated in you, and you can only describe it as euphoric. With the way he sits heavy in your cunt, filling you up completely, you can honestly say that this was meant to happen. Logan was meant to be with you in every single possible way imaginable. It’s the only explanation.

“How does it feel, baby?” Logan asks, hands rubbing up and down your thighs soothingly. 

“It feels,” you whimper, gripping down on him. “It feels so good, Lo.”

“Yeah? My cock makin’ you feel good, doll?” He groans, clearly being affected by your behavior. 

Before you can mutter a pathetic answer, your brain turning to mush, he shifts back. His cock slides out until the mushroom head is at your entrance, and then he slams back in; hard and slow. 

The constant back and forth of his cock has you shaking, his hard thrust knocking the air out of your lungs and the slow thrusts feeling oh so good. And with the way he is watching you, his face mimicking yours as he receives his own pleasure, is sending zaps of electricity to your cunt. It makes you grasp onto him hard as he gets you more worked up.

Logan sits up straighter, grabbing your right leg and bringing it up to his shoulder. His left hand keeps it steady as he speeds up slightly and presses gentle kisses to your ankle in the process. It lets him go deeper, kissing your cervix every time it goes in. The pressure feels incredible, and the more he speeds up, the more your cunt starts to spasm out of control. 

“That’s it, baby. You are taking me so well, like you were fucking made for me.” He growls out, biting your ankle. 

“God yes, Logan! I’m yours!” You cry out, him and his cock making you utterly delirious. “You were made for my pussy!”

“Fuck, you got a mouth on you.” He chides, his right hand going to your right breast.

He is squeezing your tit so tight; his hips are on autopilot with how fast he is taking you. Your hands don’t know where to go, going from gripping the fabric below to holding onto his wrist. He is putting you into a completely fucked out state, and you can’t get enough of that treatment. 

You can tell you are on the precipice of cumming. You are clenching on and off rapidly, no longer in control of your muscles. The sounds coming from your coupling, wet smacking echoes that are music to your ears. You can feel the telltale sensation of being overwhelmed, and you know you are now on the track of no return. 

“Logan, baby, I’m gonna cum!”

He snarls at you, a crazed look in his eyes as he slams into you. He lets go of your tit to grab your chin, keeping your eyes on his. “Do it, darlin’. Cum around my cock.”

You are over the edge in seconds, a silent scream taking over as you tremble and quake. Your pussy is convulsing like crazy, small gushes of liquid coming out. You see Logan look down at where you two are connected, and he is grinning like crazy.

“What a fucking sight. There isn’t one thing about you that isn’t pretty.”

You could sob at his words, especially with how overstimulated you are becoming. You work his cock, wanting him to cum inside of you. 

“Give me your cum, Logan. Fill me until I’m dripping.”

Your words must have triggered something because next thing you know he has let go of your leg and face and is falling onto his forearms with his mouth landing on yours. You hear the sound of his claws, completely unsheathed from his skin, causing him to bellow into your mouth, rutting like a madman which causes cum to leak out from your hole onto the bedding. 

He slows down, milking out the rest of his spend before stopping all together. He lets go of your lips gasping, face buried in your shoulder as he tries to calm down. Your hands go to his back, massaging the taut muscles as he shakes. 

“Fuck, Logan,” you sigh, catching your breath as you come back to earth. You feel so relaxed, even with your guts feeling completely rearranged.

You hear his claws sink back into his skin, and it is then that he pulls out, falling to the other side of the bed. His chest is going up and down with every heavy breath, and you can’t help but admire him like this. 

He turns his head over to you, his hand coming to grab the hand by your side. “C’mere, sweetheart.”

You make it over into his side, head laying on his chest as you both bask in the post-sex glow. You can’t help but smile at this turn of events, not expecting to have been in this position with Logan. But here you are, laying on his chest with his arms around you. 

You notice something in your peripherals and see splintering from the headboard of your bed. There are six holes in the wood, and it sends you into a laughing fit, a euphoric glaze covering your entire body. 

“What’s so funny?” He asks gruffly, pulling you into side as you continue to laugh.

“Your claws pierced my headboard.”

You see him glance back, and you see him sigh, relaxing more into the mattress. “I’ll fix it up for you, darlin’. I’m sorry about that.”

“No need to say sorry.” You snuggle your face into his skin, breathing in his natural musk as you relax more into him. “I just can’t believe we did that, but I’m glad it did.”

“I can say the same.” He murmurs, stroking your hair gently. “Seriously, I gotta know, did you see this coming?”

You shift up, going to lay your arms across his chest only for you to rest on them. You look into his eyes and the need in them is still there, but not in the way they were before. They were searching, looking for any confirmation that what you both just did truly meant more. It makes him look vulnerable, something he rarely shows. It makes you smile at the prospect of him opening up even more. 

“Not until today. It’s strange now that I think about it.”

“And why is that?”

“I never saw you coming, I guess. Even when it is clear as day how you felt about me, I never got anything that told me it was real. I didn’t want to potentially screw anything up between us.”

He hums, a look of contemplation on his face before taking a hand and rubbing his face, a long sigh coming out in the process. “I suppose that’s my fault.”

You can’t help but look confused. His fault? “Why do you say that?”

“I haven’t been fully honest, but ever since I came here, no matter how welcomed and appreciated I am here, I have contemplated leaving.” His hand leaves his face to go behind your neck, lightly scratching the skin at the nape before continuing. “I’ve been alone for a long time. Having a family has never been in the books for me. It is easier to not let people in.”

“So, that’s why I couldn’t see you coming. You hadn’t made up your mind?”

“It’s possible, but it’s just a theory.”

“But, if that’s the case, have you made your mind up?” You start rubbing his chest with your palm, feeling his heart pulse slowly. You are confident you know the answer now, but you want to hear him say it.

He grunts in laughter, shaking his head slightly before letting his fingers curl around the back of your neck. “I think you know the answer, princess. But if you really want to know, come up here.”

You push yourself from him, moving so you are straddling his torso. He brings his hands to your face once more, pulling you down so you are face to face with him. He kisses you, slowly initiating intimacy with his lips. He isn’t saying anything, but you can feel what he is saying through the act alone. 

“I can’t close myself off from you,” he says between kisses. “And I don’t want to. Especially if you’ll have me.”

“I think you already know the answer to that, Lo.”

“Still, I wanna hear you say it.”

You pull away so you can look into his eyes, giving him all the sincerity you can muster. “I love you, and I want you to stand by me.”

He smiles teeth and all, and pulls you back down, kissing all over your face causing you to squeal. “Hmm I love you too, sweetheart. Always have.”

You both stay like that for a while, basking in each other's company in post-coital ecstasy by continuing to taste one another. Another thought came over you, and you can’t help but laugh again.

“If I had known sex would make you like this, I would have made a move a long time ago.” Logan jokes, breathing them in. 

“I’m sorry, but I’m laughing because it took me taking your cigars hostage to do it.”

Logan throws his head back, chuckling at what you presume is the same thing you are laughing about.

“Speaking of those cigars, can you grab them for me?”

You perk up, pushing away from him to lean over to your side of the bed. Your fingers stretch for the book, getting a grasp on it before getting settled back with Logan. He pulls you in quickly, hurdling you into his side. You see he has his lighter ready, which he must have grabbed while you were getting his cigars.

“You gonna smoke one?”

He hums, taking one out. “I only smoke these on special occasions. I think this qualifies.”

He carefully unsheathes a claw, cutting the end before it sinks back under his skin. He flickers the lighter, letting the bright flame linger on the end to get a good burn going. He then lays back, pulling you even closer into his side, before taking his first puff. 

You smile, laying your head against him as you let your eyes drift closed. You feel yourself drifting away, the smell of his cigar and the sound of his pulse lulling you to a deep sleep; a sleep with dreams that you hope feel like déjà vu in the near future.

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: nsfw, noncon/dubcon, yandere, captive reader, omegaverse, forced bonding is implied, subjugation, some type of sexism, soft dom, but extremely patronizing

♡ fem reader

You offer to go down on him for the first time since he claimed you for himself, and his heart swells with all sorts of bliss—shock and awe, love and pride—utterly overjoyed at the pretty sight of you, so pliant and on your knees, acting like a proper Omega for a change—his cutest little mate. It’s so adorable he ought to take pictures, yet he doesn’t want to miss a thing or spoil the mood—after all, you always get so embarrassed when he brings the camera out.

So he settles for just watching—his adoring eyes resting on you, admiring how you struggle to fit all of him inside your mouth, thinking it’s the just cutest and sweetest how you try so hard for him. Bless whatever brought this new change of behavior on. He can’t be grateful enough.

It was only a couple of days ago when you’d still bite and claw and run away from him at every turn, growling and snarling like a rabid wildling and not the sweet Omega he knew you could be with the proper love and care. Maybe it’s just that—has his love for you finally tamed you? Oh, he couldn’t be more pleased if that’s it.

Look at you… trying your very best. He didn’t mind if you could only fit half of him—just seeing you try to take it all made him more than happy. The way your pink tongue slides along his veins—all teasingly and ticklish—makes him smile while looking down at you. Petting your head in smooth, encouraging strokes—reminding you to breathe every now and again.

He even pinches your cheek when you cough, crooning, “Careful now, there’s no need to rush, baby—take it slow.”

You curse him from where you kneel at his feet, trying to get it over with quickly. Despite your struggles, he seems pleased, and you think you might have managed to get yourself off the hook. That is… until he wraps his cock with one of his big hands and pulls it away from you. 

“I think that’s enough for now,” he says in his best attempt at sounding suave by nature, and yet, as you look up at him, you see it plain as day.

It makes your guts fold—the eagerness that encompasses him as he looks down at you with kind eyes and a smile—not completely able to hide the frenzy behind it.

No, please, you sulk inwardly—your clit is so sensitive from yesterday, you think you might die if he toys with it again today. You almost indulge the urge to scoot back, attempt to crawl away, and hide in false hope. But you know, chasing you around would just serve as kindling to his inner animal—he would take it as a game, hunting and pinning you down only to lick you clean like a dug-up bone.

You shudder at the thought and almost beg him to allow you to continue, almost insist you can do better, but all you manage is to bite your tongue and cry instead.

“You did so good, baby, don’t pout,” he coos, cradling your face and lifting it up to let him kiss it silly—chastely yet excessively—quick pecks all over, the same way you’d kiss something that’s just too cute for its own good.

It’s his way of comforting you, you suppose, or it might just be him poking fun. You can never really tell with him—if his coddling is all some act or something even more unsettling. But you suppose it doesn’t really matter either.

“Come here, baby, and I’ll do the rest, okay?” he asks, and yet it isn’t a question as he hauls you up off the floor and repositions you as he sees fit—on your back, belly-up beneath him.

His alpha pheromones are quick to overwhelm you, thick and suffocating, pouring over you in waves, drenching you in sweat and something else—something that makes everything sensitive.

The former fight you had when you were still independent has all but left you completely—siphoned from your being every day that’s passed and left you soft like the rest of those Omegas you vowed you’d never become—weak-willed with a body even more so. You feel like a stuffed animal at this point, full of cloudy cotton with a broken voice device that only knows how to squeak when played with.

He takes you beneath the knees and folds them down neatly by your head—one large hand taking both your summoned ankles in a single grip—and you’re locked in, unable to do much else other than pant—kept from breathing too much by the weight of your own thighs pressing down on you.

This had been what you were trying to avoid—this awful position which he seems to love just as much as you dread.

He whistles in awe at the pretty sight of you—all squished beneath him like that—face flushed, and your bloated lips parted with cute little draws of breath—tits bunched together, glossed in a sheen of sweat and heaving with the labored rise and fall of your chest—and that adorable cunt, wet and puffy, swollen up like a pink pillow eagerly waiting for him, a soft bed for his cock and a perfectly bite-sized slice of his favorite cake. His gut rumbles, and his mouth soaks. To think he hasn’t had a single taste all day—he’s beyond starving.

You squirm under him, and he chuckles again, this time breathily—showing more of the unsightly animal with the low growl that seeps into his voice, “Such a pretty girl…” It’s unclear if he’s talking to you as his inkwell eyes are set on something else. He sags forward, back hunched as he bows down to face the object of his desire with only a hair’s breadth of separation—breaths thick, puffed hot against you—canines bared in an eerie smile. “So shy…”

He ignores your wiggling completely—pinching the chunk of cunt where your clit hides, making it peak forth like a little button to press, and his grin broadens.

“There it is,” he licks his teeth with a raspy sigh—eyes wide and deadset. “My beauty.”

You squirm a little more, even though you know you’re not going anywhere until he’s satisfied. He doesn’t waste much more time—not allowing you to prepare. Keeping the pinch, he opens his mouth wide and takes the chub with eyes closed, tongue flattened and wide, cloaking your exposed clit with thirst. “Mmgh…”

He always gets like this—cute-aggressive and pussy-whipped. It’s as if he and your cunt have their own private affair, the way he completely ignores you. No, that’s not entirely fair—he gets like that when feeding you his tongue as well, but you suppose it’s easier making out with your pussy as it doesn’t need to get up for air. 

Neither does he, it seems.

He groans loudly and releases your clit from his pinching grip—but keeps his whole mouth on you—lips, tongue, and all—nose and chin too, buried there while his hand moves down to slip three digits inside, filling you up with little regard to the stretch.

Your breath flares and shudders with a whimpery moan, toes curling along with his fingers, biting your lip at how he hooks them right into the soft spot of your gummy walls, then fingerbangs you fast, right down to the knuckles each time.

“Fuck, baby—so, so good, always so good,” he slurs out into you, tongue otherwise too engaged to bother sounding coherent, yet you understand nonetheless, even though you can never really get used to it—how utterly unashamed he is. “Come on, baby, cum f’mo—cum on my face—” he all but happily begs, tongue out, slurping your slit brazenly.

He’s not a very classic Alpha—how he worships you on his hands and knees with a throat full of plead and praise. He doesn’t even touch himself—cock left hung and bobbing against the bedsheets, hard and strung up with a net of veins, pilling pearls of pre that all go to waste—too busy with you. 

It’s stupid how you’re the one who ends up feeling ignored as the unwanted and overwhelming pleasure manhandles you into submission.

“Cum, baby, give it to me.”

You mewl as his tongue draws something out from within you, making your clit blare and thrum with your heartbeat. You struggle to enjoy it, you always do, feeling forced to surrender, and yet the more you try and deny it, the firmer his hold gets, relentless as he sends you right over the edge. You yelp and seize up once it takes you—clenching tightly around his digits as they unknot your insides, turning you into utter putty in his palm. 

And even then, he doesn’t stop—as if he doesn’t know how—sighing with elation as you quake on his tongue. That crooked smile on his face, nothing short of predatory and vile as he maintains the motion of his fingers, moaning in turn at your cute spasming and all the wordless babble that leaves your lips as you shake your head, crying for him to leave it alone. “Plea’ no more—stop, too much—”

He just chuckles against you—you really are too cute for your own good. Silly little Omega, don’t you know what your pheromones do to him? But okay, fine, since you asked nicely. He gives the slit one last thorough lick before wiping his smile while sitting up.

You haven’t even started coming down when he dabs the weight of his shaft upon the sensitivity, cooing at the lewd little plaps it makes, all slick as he slides the length between your flustered pussylips—fucking through the fat of the mound, running over your full clit, again and again, while listening to you squeak more nothings.

He only croons, “Yeah, I know you like that, baby—this pretty pussy of yours just loves my attention, doesn’t it?" His eyes seem to glow with something sickly, his voice thin, just shy of unhinged. "Always so cute, I could die.”

He can’t get over it—you’re too adorable like this. Watching you pleasure him was a welcome surprise, but ultimately, this is how he always wants you—flipped and pinned with your cunt exposed to his every wish—his favorite toy that never disappoints.

“Your pretty pussy’s always such a crybaby, y’know that? Look how it weeps f’mo—so needy to get stuffed. I bet you want my knot, huh?” he keeps mumbling while using his cock to play with your overworked cunt without yet entering it. “Alright, baby—don’t worry—I’ll give it to you,” he rasps, drooling.

You can’t keep from whimpering when the bed jostles, accounting for his repositioning as he moves to mount you with his feet planted down flat on the bed. Your ankles are pinned passed your head at this point, tipping your cunt up higher than your head.

“Yeah—I’ll give you what you want.” His voice darkens, and so does the look in his eyes—soaked in something you don’t like—something wild and downright terrifying. “And I’ll give it to you good.”

You almost protest, but you know there’s no getting through to him—not with that expression. You hate Alphas, you hate him, and you really hate this awful pose—this mating-press pile-driving overkill where he always bullies into the backroom of your cunt, insisting on fucking your cervix as he digs his cockhead right at the mouth of your womb, knotting you and filling you up with the full worth of his load. It never fails to make you feel utterly wrecked and bedridden in the morning.

But he doesn’t care about that. You have no places you’re supposed to be anyway—nowhere aside from right here, in his bed, where you belong—his sweet Omega bride who’s going to give him lots of pups.

He lines himself up, pressing his head past the ring—watching it swallow around him and biting his lip at the sight. “Look at it, baby—look as I stuff that perfect pussy all the way up—”

He sinks in slowly, revering your cunt for every inch you receive—watching it in awe as it takes the entirety of his length right down to the base. It’s like a magic trick how it all disappears—you’re so tiny, and yet you’re built for this, to take every part of him in, hugging his shaft with velvet heat, milking him as he kneads the spot inside you that always makes you cry out so good for him.

“Yes, baby—that’s my girl—take it all,” he coos, all but sitting on your ass with his cock down your cunt. “It’s like your pussy’s made for me, isn’t it? Perfectly tight, perfectly deep, perfectly wet and chunky to feel like I’m fucking heaven itself—”

You feel no different from a toy when he does this—a squeaky toy manufactured for a Chihuahua puppy, yet mistakenly given to a full-grown Rottweiler. He straight dogs your cunt through several peaks—so soaked now that it fossettes down both the slope of your belly and the cliff of your spine. And still, he keeps going, rambling on like usual—all words that fail to reach you.

You’re so lightheaded you’re on the brink of passing out—overheating and out of strength, numb and tingly, beyond happy when you finally feel his knot swell within, propping you to take his seed. 

He keels over—his thighs pressed down tightly atop yours—panting above you—eyes half-mast and glazed, almost crying in bliss while feeding you his cum, knowing it's flooding your womb, breeding you full of warmth and love.

“Yes, every drop, baby—it’s all yours.” He keeps a thumb rubbing over your clit as he croons. Voice beyond lovesick, “Let’s make too many pups to count.”

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Hawks, Natsuo, Mirio ♡ JJK – Gojo, Geto ♡ HQ – Kuro, Miya twins ♡ BLLK – Nagi, Bachira ♡ DS – Doma ♡ WB – Umemiya, Togame

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist