#the way it gets more devastating every time

[nilla03]

“ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇᴀʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʀɪᴅᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴡʙᴏʏ “𝒻𝓉: 𝘾𝙤𝙬𝙗𝙤𝙮! 𝙩𝙤𝙟𝙞

𝜗𝜚—Manhandling, Mutual orgasm, Sweaty, desperate, cowboy sex

The rough rasp of Toji’s voice curls down your spine like a lasso around your waist, pulling a whimper out of you as you bounce in his lap. His calloused hands grip your hips, thumbs digging into the soft skin as he guides your pace slower, harder—like he’s savoring the way you split yourself open on him.

You’re barely holding yourself up anymore, thighs trembling, palms planted weakly against the broad plane of his chest. His bare, tan chest slick with sweat, the faintest dusting of dark hair leading down to where your bodies meet with filthy, wet sounds. His jeans are shoved just enough down his thighs for you to get what you needed, but his boots are still on the ground, spurs clinking softly every time his muscles flex under you.

And his hat—God, his stupid cowboy hat, the one he never lets anyone touch—

He fucking grabs it, plucks it off his head mid-thrust, and plants it right onto yours, tilting it down low over your eyes.

“You wanna act like a lil’ buckle bunny,” he murmurs against your mouth, “then you better wear the uniform.”

Your head tips back, the wide brim slipping lower, and it’s humiliating how much wetter it makes you.

You whine, rolling your hips desperately, chasing the thick stretch of him inside you. Every time you sink down, you can feel the way he hits so deep, scratching at that sweet, devastating spot that leaves your eyes rolling back.

“That’s it, sweet thing,” he coos low, voice syrupy and mean at once. “Ride it like you want it.”

You want it more than anything, grinding your hips against his pelvis, your pretty skirt bunched up around your waist, bouncing fast and desperate now, chasing your high like a little whore. His hands are everywhere—pushing up your top to mouth at your tits, grabbing a fistful of your ass, sliding around to rub slow, messy circles over your clit with the pads of his fingers.

“Fuck, Toji—” you sob, shoving the hat up just enough to look at him.

And he’s smiling at you..like you’re just another little bunny caught in his trap.

“You better cum for me, sugar,” he drawls, tightening his grip on your hips so you can’t squirm away, “Right fuckin’ now.”

You shatter on top of him, clenching so hard around his cock it punches a groan from his chest. He lets you ride it out, lets you make a pretty mess all over him, until he’s the one losing control, bucking up into you with a brutal snap of his hips and filling you up, muttering broken, dirty curses into the sweaty curve of your neck.

When you finally slump against him, panting and wrecked, he tips his hat back up your forehead with a lazy thumb.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, smug, voice thick and low. “Made yourself my lil’ trophy, didn’t you?”

[skzstarl0ver]

˜”°•.˜”°• Rivals with benefits •°”˜.•°

Lee know x reader / enemies to lovers / secret relationship / smut / emotional confession

**involves!!** cursing, tension, sex, praise kink, rough/soft dynamic, emotional tension, dirty talk

enjoy xx (open for request)

★.•☆•.★★.•☆•.★¸.•☆•.¸★ skzstarl0ver ★⡀.•☆•.★⡀.•☆•.★¸.•☆•.¸★

You and Lee Minho are like oil and fire.

Not water and fire—because water tries to calm. You? You burn.

From the second you joined the dance crew, it’s been war. If you nail a move, he pushes harder. If he shines in rehearsal, you double your effort. You challenge each other, mock each other, drive each other insane.

And yet… you’ve never looked away.

Especially not when he’s sweaty in rehearsal, shirt clinging to his body, lip caught in his teeth as he watches himself in the mirror with that impossible focus. Or when his voice dips low, sharp and smug, when he says something to rile you up.

You hate him.

You want him.

Which is why the first time it happens, it feels like a dam breaking.

It’s after practice. You’re both the last ones there. You argue. You get in each other’s space.

And then you’re kissing.

No—biting.

No—devouring.

He pins you to the wall like he’s waited months to do it.

You should stop. You don’t.

It becomes a thing.

You don’t talk about it. You don’t plan it.

It just happens—whenever you’re alone, and angry, and can’t stand how badly you want each other.

Your friends think you still hate each other. And during the day? You do. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

But then there’s night.

And the way he looks at you like you’re his only focus.

The way he touches you like it’s more than release—like it’s a need.

His apartment. 11:47PM.

You shouldn’t be here. You said you wouldn’t come. But your body knows the code to his door.

You barely get two words out before he has you pressed against the wall, mouth hot on your neck.

“You couldn’t stay away,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear. “Missed me?”

“Shut up.”

He smirks. “Make me.”

You crash your mouth against his.

His hands are everywhere—hips, thighs, waist, under your hoodie. He picks you up like you weigh nothing and carries you to the couch.

He drops you onto the cushions, kneels between your thighs, and yanks off your shorts in one smooth motion. You gasp as the cool air hits your skin—then moan when his mouth follows immediately after.

“Minho—” your voice is already breathy.

“Keep saying my name like that,” he growls against your skin, licking a slow stripe over your inner thigh.

He slides two fingers through your folds, glancing up with that cocky, devastating smirk. “Dripping. Already?”

You hate how much power he has over you. You love how he uses it.

His mouth is hot, tongue skillful, fingers curling just right as he devours you like he’s starving.

Your head falls back. “Fuck—don’t stop—”

“Oh, I’m not going anywhere,” he says, voice muffled between your thighs.

You’re close embarrassingly fast. He knows it. Keeps the pace steady, relentless, until your hips jerk and you gasp his name like a confession.

And he doesn’t stop.

He keeps going until you’re shaking, overstimulated, tugging his hair with a breathless “Minho, please—”

He pulls back, mouth wet, pupils blown.

“Take your shirt off,” he says, voice low and dangerous.

You obey.

He strips, revealing skin and muscle and everything you try not to fantasize about when he’s pissing you off during practice.

He climbs on top of you, lining himself up, but pauses—just enough to look into your eyes.

“You want this?” he murmurs.

You nod.

He doesn’t move.

“I need to hear it.”

“I want you,” you breathe. “I always fucking want you.”

His lips crash into yours again, and he thrusts in, slow and deep, making your back arch and your fingers dig into his shoulders.

You cling to him, gasping, every stroke sending sparks through your whole body.

It’s rough, but not careless. Every snap of his hips is measured, deliberate, like he knows your body better than you do.

“You drive me insane,” he whispers, lips brushing yours. “But I can’t stop. Can’t stop thinking about you. Touching you. Wanting you.”

Your heart stutters.

He’s close. You are too. And when you come again, it hits harder than it ever has—your name breaking from his lips as he follows seconds after, collapsing on top of you with a shuddering breath.

You’re still sprawled across his couch, blanket barely covering you, Minho's arm draped over your waist, chest still rising fast against your back. The room is warm, filled with the scent of sex and sweat and something dangerously close to tenderness.

You’re about to speak—say something sarcastic, maybe ask if he has water—when there’s a sudden buzz at the door.

Minho groans softly, pressing his face into your neck. “Ignore it.”

But the buzz comes again.

And again.

You sit up. “It could be important.”

Minho grumbles but pulls on sweatpants and stalks to the door.

The second it opens—

“Y/N?!”

Your heart drops.

Your best friend, Jisoo, is standing in the hallway, holding the iced coffee you forgot you asked her to drop off earlier. She was supposed to leave it at the door.

Instead, she’s staring past Minho’s shoulder—right at you, wrapped in a blanket on his couch, flushed, messy, very much freshly wrecked.

Her eyes go wide.

You look at her.

She looks at you.

Then Minho.

Then back to you.

You swear time stops.

“I—uh—I forgot I gave her your address once,” you say quickly, voice cracking.

Jisoo slowly blinks. “You’re sleeping with Minho?”

Minho leans casually on the doorframe, smug and shirtless. “Sleeping with? Baby, be honest—we haven’t slept a single time.”

You throw a pillow at his head. “MINHO—”

Jisoo gasps. “Oh my god, I walked into a fucking fanfic.”

You panic. “It’s not serious, okay?! It’s just sex—”

Your voice is louder than you mean for it to be. Defensive. Sharp. Like you’re trying to cut through the heat still lingering in your skin.

Jisoo just blinks at you, wide-eyed in the hallway.

Behind you, Minho's expression shifts—something flickering behind his usual cool exterior.

He steps forward.

His voice, when he speaks, isn’t teasing. Isn’t smug.

It’s quiet. Certain.

“No, it’s not.”

You freeze.

The words hit you harder than they should.

“What?” you ask, even though you heard him.

Minho looks at you—really looks. No smirk, no bite, no mask. His face is open in a way you’ve never seen.

“I said it’s not just sex,” he repeats, more firmly this time. “At least not for me.”

Your heart stutters.

He glances at Jisoo—who, to her credit, is now pretending to look very interested in the floor tiles—and then back at you.

“I know we’ve been playing this game like it doesn’t mean anything,” he says, voice low. “But it does. To me.”

You open your mouth, then close it again.

He takes a step closer, like he’s afraid you might run.

“I care about you,” he says, softer now. “And I’m not gonna pretend I don’t just because someone else found out.”

You want to say something snarky. You want to laugh it off. You want to not feel this.

But the look in his eyes?

It guts you.

You feel Jisoo slowly back away, awkwardly muttering something about “text me later” before she disappears down the hallway, giving you space.

Minho doesn’t look away.

“I didn’t plan for this to happen,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I thought… maybe if I kept it casual, I could control it. Control how I felt about you.”

His gaze drops to the floor for a beat. Then back to you.

“But I can’t.”

You’re still holding your shirt in your hands. Still standing in his living room in the aftermath of what was supposed to be just another night.

And suddenly, it doesn’t feel casual at all.

_

You leave his apartment with your jacket half-zipped, heart pounding like it’s chasing something you’re still running from.

You didn’t say anything.

Couldn’t.

Not when he looked at you like that. Like he meant it. Like he was done hiding and wanted you to do the same.

You don’t text him.

You don’t sleep.

Instead, you sit on your bed, staring at the ceiling, haunted by his voice in your head.

“I care about you. And I’m not gonna pretend I don’t.”

And damn it, you feel it too.

You felt it in the way he touched you like you were something fragile under all the fire. You saw it in the way he looked at you after you came undone in his hands—like you weren’t just a body, but something he wanted to hold after.

You're not scared of sex.

You're scared of this.

Of how real it suddenly is.

But when your phone buzzes with one single message—

“If you come back, I’ll say it again. As many times as you need.”

—you’re out the door before you can change your mind.

You knock once.

He opens the door instantly—like he’d been waiting just behind it.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

Then you're moving—you drop your bag, step into him, crash your mouth to his.

This kiss is different.

It’s not angry. Not desperate.

It’s slow. Deep. Like you're tasting every inch of what you almost lost.

His hands come up to your face, thumbs brushing your jaw like you’re something delicate. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

When he pulls back just slightly, your noses still touching, he whispers: “I missed you. Every day I didn’t have you—I missed you.”

Your eyes burn.

You lean into his touch, whispering back, “I was scared.”

“I know,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I was too.”

You look up at him, voice barely audible. “Do you still want me?”

His answer is immediate.

“I never stopped.”

He takes your hand, leads you to the bedroom—not like last time.

Not rushed. Not rough.

He strips you slowly, eyes roaming over every inch like he’s trying to memorize you.

“Lie back,” he whispers.

You do.

He hovers over you, kissing you everywhere but your mouth—throat, collarbone, stomach—each kiss a word he doesn’t say out loud.

His hands move softly over your body, teasing but not taunting. Reverent.

When his lips finally reach where you ache for him most, he doesn't rush. He takes his time.

Licks. Sucks. Worships.

You gasp his name like a prayer.

“That's it,” he whispers, fingers curling inside you perfectly. “Let me take care of you.”

You’re already trembling when he slides up your body, eyes searching yours.

“Tell me you want me.”

You pull him in, kiss him hard. “I want you.”

He enters you slowly this time—deep, smooth, like he’s trying to fit the words he can’t say into every stroke.

And it’s different now.

You feel everything.

Every roll of his hips. Every gasp. Every whispered name. It’s not about fucking anymore—it’s about being close. Being seen.

“You feel so good,” he groans into your neck. “Always do.”

You cling to him, nails digging into his back. “Minho…”

“Say it again.”

“Minho.”

He picks up the pace just a little, making you whimper.

“I’m yours,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I’ve been yours.”

That’s what undoes him.

He groans deep in his chest and moves faster, chasing your high as you spiral with him—both of you coming undone, this time not just with bodies but with hearts bared and burning.

After

You’re tangled together in his sheets, breath finally steadying.

He’s tracing patterns on your back, your head resting on his chest.

You look up at him. “You still care about me?”

He smirks, brushing your hair away. “I just made love to you for an hour. What do you think?”

You smile.

Then you kiss him again—slow, sweet, and soft.

No rivalry.

Just you and him.

Finally real.

[w-40-k]

I was debating giving Angelo a tiny braid.

(Pherhaps his parents or that kid that became his friend for the summer made it. One of the few things he has to remember his family and, dare I say even home planet, by. Really it's part of why he's drawn to stargazing. He loves his brother's, but the chance he actually get's to go home is near zero, and sometimes the longing for his first family strikes him)

As a neophyte, he used to fidget with that thing when he got nervous. Grew out of that habit at some point, but he does touch it when he needs to think.

He looses that thing either when:

- he dies for the first time (big 'fuck this guy in particular' in addition to Dad dying and also a couple months later finding out you got spit out about two centuries to late)

- he's lost his helmet, is delirious and about half feral (imagine a bio-titan but in miniature, he get's caught in that things gas cloud, his healing factor just bearly enough to repair the damage he takes), trying his utmost to get the geneseed of his fallen brother's home (*can't* fail. *won't* fail) and at one point he get's swallowed by an oversized tyranid (perpetual tyranids. Now that's terrifying)

Point being, in both scenarios he misses when he looses his braid and he's only going to notice once he is far enough removed from the situation that he won't even be able to recover the lost braid.

(Like the first scenario takes place on a ship in a room, potentially the braid get's shot off by a stray bullet, either way that thing get's cleaned up with everything else after he gets put down like a rabid dog.)

(The second is possibly, lost in an active warzone burried under several Mt's of debris to be added to the tyranid biomass, dissolved by corrosive gas, dissolved in tyranid stomach acid or spit, or just plain burned or cut of)

Angelo's usually pretty cheerful. Keep your chin up, take joy in the little things wherever you can; quick to rouse to laughter; remember those who died, because their memory deserves to be remembered, even if it's just by one person.

My gut reaction says he would be angry. A single moment where he would be furious.

But probably more likely he'd just be stunned speechless, absolutely devastated for sure and just plain sad. Anger might come later for now he mourns this piece of what he lost.

He wouldn't withdraw physically but he becomes quiet and melancholic.

Does a lot of star gazing, the stars in the rough direction of his homeplanet can hold his attention for hours at the time (would be a shame if that place got exterminatus'ed, they do have that warp portal).

Puts on a smile whilst performing his duties, but an outside observer can see that his heart is not in it, despite his efforts.

He was already a good listener, but during this time especially he enjoyes to just sit in a crowded space and listen. (Bit like a drooping flower.)

(When deep in thought, he still reaches for the empty space where the braid would be, catches himself most times, but briefly presses his lips into a tight line every time it happens)

give your whumpee a comfort item.

give them a doll, a stuffed bear, a photo, a book — anything at all. regardless of what it is, give them something that means the world to them. even if it seems small or insignificant to others.

perhaps it’s the only comfort whumper allowed them, or a gift from a deceased loved one. whatever way whumpee ended up with this possession, have them become so completely and utterly attached to it that they can’t be parted from it. make that simple object be the only thing they’ve been able to cling to through years of torment. have it act as a reminder of safety, of being loved, of anything whumpee holds dear.

then tear the item from their arms and destroy it.

[pankesitopank]

Hyunjin Eating You Out Headcanons

cw: oral (f receiving), praise, teasing, overstimulation, soft dom!Hyunjin, switchy vibes, reader is AFAB but no gendered terms used

♡- Hyunjin doesn’t just eat you out — he worships you.

He doesn’t approach you like it’s just a prelude to sex.

No, with Hyunjin, oral is a privilege — an act of devotion.

Every time he slides down your body, kissing every exposed inch along the way, it feels like he’s preparing for something sacred.

It’s slow, almost teasing, his breath fanning over your skin as he trails his mouth lower and lower, purposefully letting the anticipation build until your whole body feels like it's vibrating with need.

♡- He loves to look up at you while he's between your thighs.

Hyunjin is a performer — he knows the power of eye contact.

And when he finally settles between your legs, hands spreading you open with a tenderness that borders on reverence, he doesn't just dive in.

He pauses — dragging his eyes up your body, locking onto yours, his lips already slick with the taste of you from a lazy swipe of his tongue.

He smirks — soft, devastating.

"You're so pretty like this" he murmurs against your thigh, voice low and soaked in affection.

Then he dips his head again, and your world tilts.

♡- He's a slow starter — at first.

Hyunjin loves to tease — to savor every second of your unraveling.

The first few minutes are always languid, almost experimental: feather-light kisses along your inner thighs, barely-there brushes of his tongue over your clit that leave you whimpering for more.

He’ll hum in approval every time your hips twitch, the sound vibrating directly into you and making your toes curl.

Sometimes he'll whisper little things against you:

"Already so sensitive, baby..."

"How are you this perfect...?"

Every word, every flick of his tongue, feels like it’s pulling you closer to some devastating, inevitable edge.

♡- But when you start falling apart — that's when he really gets serious.

Hyunjin's favorite thing in the world is when you get too desperate to stay still.

When your fingers tangle helplessly in his hair (oh well... what he has), pulling him closer, when your thighs tremble against his shoulders and your voice gets all high and breathless — that’s when something dark flashes in his eyes.

He’ll moan into you like he’s the one losing control, and suddenly his hands are pinning your hips down hard against the mattress.

No more teasing.

Now his mouth is everywhere at once — hungry, greedy, relentless.

He flattens his tongue against your clit, sucking gently at first, then harder, matching the pace of your whines and gasps.

His fingers join in — one, then two, thrusting slow and deep, curling up just right inside you until you’re crying out, back arching off the bed.

"That's it, pretty baby" he groans against you.

"Give it to me. I want it all."

♡- He loves making you cum with just his mouth.

It’s not enough for Hyunjin to make you feel good — he wants to wreck you.

Completely, absolutely, shamelessly.

And nothing drives him crazier than pulling an orgasm out of you with only his lips and tongue, until you're sobbing his name like it's the only word you know.

He knows your body better than anyone.

Knows exactly how to circle your clit with the tip of his tongue, when to switch to slow, broad strokes, when to suck just hard enough to have you screaming into the pillow.

And the whole time, he’s moaning against you — low, broken sounds of pure, raw pleasure — because he genuinely loves eating you out that much.

Because tasting you, feeling you fall apart under him, being the reason you lose yourself — it turns him on like nothing else.

♡- He doesn't stop after one orgasm.

If you thought Hyunjin was done after making you cum once — you were painfully mistaken.

No, the second you start shivering and gasping from your first orgasm, he just holds you down harder — lapping up every drop of you, murmuring sweet praises against your skin like he's drunk on you.

"So good for me..."

"Can you give me another one, baby? I know you can..."

"Don't run from it — you're doing so well..."

And even when you're overstimulated, whimpering and squirming under his mouth, he doesn’t let up.

He’ll ease you through it, gentler where you need it, but never fully stopping — chasing a second, third orgasm until your body’s limp and trembling, until you’re completely wrecked under his hands.

♡- He’s obsessed with your taste.

Hyunjin’s addiction to you is obscene.

He'll eat you out like he’s starving, like he could live off your taste alone.

You’ll hear it in the wet, filthy sounds of his mouth against you — the eager slurps, the hungry moans — feel it in the way he devours you like you’re the only thing that matters.

And after?

He’ll crawl up your body, kiss you deeply with his mouth still shiny from you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue like it’s the sweetest gift he could offer.

♡- Aftercare is everything.

As intense as Hyunjin is during, he’s infinitely softer after.

He’ll pull you into his arms immediately, cradling you against his chest, whispering endless streams of praise into your hair:

"You’re incredible, baby..."

"You made me feel so good, you were so perfect for me..."

He’ll run his hands over your body, soothing every shiver, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, your hands — grounding you with his touch.

And if you’re too fucked out to talk, he’ll just hold you tighter, rocking you gently until your breathing evens out.

Later, when you can finally move, he'll insist on getting you water, cleaning you up with the gentlest care, making sure you feel cherished and safe in every possible

[myfictionaldreams]

Hey so I was thinking what if steddie ran like a piercing/tattoo shop, and the reader comes in to get a tattoo and or piercing and is absolutely infatuated by the boys 

INK & NEEDLES // Steddie x F!Reader

Summary: Fresh off a bad breakup, you walk into Steve and Eddie’s tattoo shop looking for a distraction. You leave with a lot more than just some ink.

Requested by: im so sorry this took me so many months to write! thank you for the request my love x

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, toxic ex-boyfriend, praise kink, MFM, teasing, fingering, dirty talk, light dom/sub, slight innocence kink

Words:2.3 k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

The skin around your finger nails was becoming sensitive with the way you’re wringing your finger together as your anxiety became as unsettled as your bouncing leg. A change. That was all you’d been thinking about for the last two weeks. Your hair had already been drastically changed, the clothes on your body more revealing and just – comfortable damn it.

Three fucking years, wasted on that asshole just for him to be caught in the gas station toilet, jeans around his ankle and lackluster cock shoved in some random girls throat.

Change. You needed it. Needed to get away from the same rules and regulations that you’d been trapped within for three years. “Oh, babe, just make sure you wear a jacket with that.” “Babe, your hair looks better without the clip”. “No, babe, we can’t hold hands right now, I’m trying to watch the game”. “Babe, babe, babe”. FUCK OFF. Even just reminiscing on him, the time wasted, the lies easily spilling from his lips that had you hoping for stability in a relationship, just for it all to come crashing down. And you know what? Thank god because the sadness and devastation was now very much anger and FUCK HIM attitude.

All of this didn’t mean you were feeling any less anxious about your current decision as you stared up at the black-and-white writing across the shop windows: “INK AND NEEDLE.” Nothing screams change like a permanent something tattooed onto your skin. This wasn’t a quick decision that you’d made, in fact this topic had been something that you and your dickhead ex had aruged about for three days and eventually, like always, you relented and decided against having it.

Now, though, nothing was stopping you except your nerves about stepping into a place where pain was expected to have the desired result.

The tiny ‘ding’ of the bell above the heavy door jingled as you timidly stepped inside, and immediately, your senses were overwhelmed with the smell of antiseptic.

“Be right with you, Sweetheart!” a low, raspy voice called from the back of the shop, currently hidden behind a high wall of every shade of green foliage.

As you were trying to smooth the black material of your skirt, he appeared in the door-shaped gap in the plants. You tried not to swoon visibly. Tall, messy dark curls spilling from under a backwards cap, a sleeveless black band t-shirt stretched across heavily tattooed arms.  Eddie Munson. One of the reasons you chose this specific shop to get your first tattoo is because he was a familiar name, having been the year above you at Hawkins High School. However, it had been years since you’d last set eyes on him, the weird metalhead who never quite fit in, who laughed too loud and lived too fast. Now, it seemed he was just your type of rebellious with the way your thighs were clenching together.

He smirked, like he could see your heart trying to escape your chest. And then behind him – Steve Harrington. Stripped-down casual in ripped jeans and a tight white t-shirt, holden tanned skin and that familiar cocky glint in his eye that you’d admired for years whilst at High School.

You were so fucked.

“Um, hey- hi. Hi, I’m um. Would like one please”.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. One sentence and you’re ready to turn back around and leave Hawkins for the rest of eternity.

“First time?” Eddie asked, tilting his head, grin widening.

Nodding with certainty and flexing your fingers to avoid picking at the skin again. “Yeah. I, uh, wanted something small. Hip area, maybe?”

Steve’s arm wraps around Eddie’s shoulder, casually leaning his weight against him as his hazel eyes drag down your body, lingering on how your skirt floats mid-thigh to the bare strip of skin between your skirt and knee-high socks.

He smiled slowly and warmly. “Cute spot,” he said. Eventually, his gaze met yours. “Do you want Eddie or me to do it?”

The air felt heavy suddenly. Eddie, you recognized and everyone in Hawkins knew of Steve Harrington - both slightly older and confident in ways that made your skin tingle and pussy squeeze with anticiipation.

“Could”. You swallowed hard to try and coat your dry throat in some spit so you didn’t choke. “Could you both do it?”

Silence was your initial answer. Thick and charged.

Eddie’s grin widened into something dangerous. “Fuck, Sweetheart. You sure?”

Steve’s chuckle had your eyes dancing between the two men. “She’s got good taste,” he seemingly answered.

~~~~~

Following the duo further into the shop, it was then that you realised that it was only the three of you in the building and no one else. A cosy room welcomed you, a black padded table in the centre with shelves lining the walls with tools and bottles. Art in different styles covered every inch of the remaining magnolia-coloured wall.

Eddie tapped his tattooed knuckles against the table, “Hop up, Peach. We need to see exactly where you want it”.

Trying to maintain composure, you casually walked to the table's side as both men snapped on a pair of black sterile gloves. With trembling fingers, you shimmied out of your skirt, leaving you in your pink panties and loose white T-shirt. Maybe it was the cool air against your thighs or the nerves that caused you to shiver, but with your head held high, you turned to face them both, standing to show them the left side of your hip.

Eddie’s touch was firm but careful as he tilted your hip. Steve crouched beside him, the head of his body right there, had you biting painfully on your lower lip to refrain from moaning.

“Here?” Steve asked, gently moving the pantie material that covered the curve of your hip so that he could stroke the area with his thumb in a feather-soft touch.

Finally, you risked glancing down at them, and it was then that you gasped, releasing your bottom lip and knees trembling at seeing both men on their knees, staring at the naked spot on your hip.

Steve and Eddie shared a look. Excited. Mischievous. Lustful.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty”, Eddie murmured, his voice thick. “Gonna look even better with our mark on you”.

You whimpered - barely - and they smiled like you’d just handed them the world.

~~~~

The machine buzzed to life, low and sinful. Steve perched beside you, holding your hand, his thumb stroking soothing circles over your skin. “You’re doing amazing, baby. So brave after everything you’d been through.”

That one sentence alone made you realise how much you wore your heart on your sleeve. It felt intimate, like they knew from just one look that you were healing something broken.

Meanwhile, Eddie worked with steady hands, the machine humming against your sensitive skin. He’d occasionally glance up at you, dark eyes hooded, mouth curled into a wicked smirk.

When Eddie finished the outline, he swapped with Steve. This was when Steve’s fingers accidentally skimmed the inside of your parted thigh as he adjusted your position, making you arch involuntarily.

“Sensitive, baby?” Steve teased softly.

You were more than sensitive. You were utterly soaked, your panties damp, and you knew it was visible, that both men could see it.

“You gotta use your words when you’re in this room, I’m afraid. I need to make sure our pretty girl is still coherent,” Eddie drawls as he takes your hand, much like Steve had been holding as he looked down at you.

“Ye-Yes.” You were unsure if you’d answered verbally or in your head because all you could hear were the words, “our girl.”

It sounded nice. More than nice. It sounded downright filthy coming from Eddie Munson.

“Do you mind? I just need to move your panties slightly to make more room for the tattoo”, Steve asked casually as his fingers grazed the edge of the material resting on your hip.

“That’s fine”, you answered in a whisper, still staring up at Eddie as a distraction.

A whimper rushes from your parted lips, thighs squeezing together as the adjusting of your underwear caused it to tighten against your labia and clit, applying pressure to the delicate area.

“You good?” Eddie asked as his thumb continued circling the skin on the back of your hand.

“Yes, sorry”. Attempting to relax your thighs again as Steve began his part of the tattoo.

“You’re doing so good, baby”, Steve murmured moments later, his tone soothing and drawing you out of the thoughts screaming in your head.

You tried to focus on your breathing and remain as still as possible. Still, every time Eddie shifted slightly at your side, the scent of his cologne, the heat of his body, and the roughness of the pads of his fingers had you shifting to try and control the feeling between your legs.

When Steve had moved your underwear, not only did you feel the tightness of the material against your sensitive pussy but the material was damp. More than damp, it was wet.

And they noticed. Oh, they definitely noticed.

Risking a glance down at the man tattooing your hip, you caught Steve’s gaze flicker across to where your thighs slightly quivered, to the darkening patch of your underwear.

Steve didn’t utter a word; he didn’t have to because you knew he had noticed your predicament from the slow and knowing smile that glowed on his face.

Eddie’s mouth curved up, too. A dark, wolfish grin that disappeared as he leaned close enough that his lips were only an inch from your ear. “You’re making a mess, sweetheart.”

Raging heat flooded your cheeks, your chest, your core. You couldn’t move or breathe, feeling like you’re the prey caught between two hungry wolves.

“She likes it”, Eddie admitted on your behalf as he sat back again, eyes flicking back to meet Steve’s momentarily.

“Oh, I know she likes it”, Steve chuckles lowly as his gloved hand slides ever so slightly to the left on your hip, nearing your pubic bone. Not quite touching where you wanted, but close enough to make your hips jerk. “Knew you were a good girl the second you walked in”, he muses whilst continuing with the tattoo. “Knew you’d let us care for you if we pushed just a little.”

Were you really this predictable?

You whimpered again, hips tilting helplessly towards him, towards them both. Moments later, Steve shuts off the tattoo machine - the sudden silence deafening - and sets it aside whilst carefully wiping down your tattoo.

“All done”, he said, voice rougher now. “Are you going to continue to be good for me whilst I carefully wrap it for you? Don’t want you to get an infection, baby”.

Nodding your head as an answer, you waited as Steve carefully applied the second skin wrapping to your new tattoo. All the whilst, Eddie’s fingers skillfully skimmed over the skin of your cheek and neck, a soothing stroke that left a wake of goosebumps over the path.

“Looking good, baby. Still need to reward you properly, thought, don’t we? For sitting so nicely for both of us.” Eddie drawls whilst standing where he was perched on the table's edge.

You barely had time to breathe before Eddie kissed you - rough and sweet and hungry - whilst Steve’s gloveless fingers slid beneath your soaked panties.

You gasped into Eddie’s mouth, giving him an open invitation for his tongue to delve deep whilst Steve’s fingers found how wet you were, teasing your labia, separating them so that he could circle your entrance slowly.

“You’re perfect”, Steve praises as he moves around the table, climbing on so that he's half lying now between your parted thighs. “Deserve better than what you had before. Gonna make you feel so fucking good, baby.”

Eddie kissed your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, leaving a trail of heat as his fingers quickly moved to shift the material of your shirt up and over your head, leaving your matching pink bra. “So fuckin’ pretty”, he muses, his thumbs brushing against the nipple poking through the thing material before his lips wraps around the sensitive area. 

“I love your sexy little moans, don’t hold them back for us”, Steve encouraged from between your legs as you feel the warmth of his breath against your now exposed cunt as he holds your panties to the side.

This was like nothing you’d ever experienced before. Your pleasure was being prioritised. They wanted to hear your verbal response to their touch. You’d always been told you’re too loud, too whiny, but with their encouragement, there was no way you were going to hold back.

It was Eddie moved your bra’s material aside and the soft wetness of his tongue stroked against your sensitive nipple and the stretch of Steve’s two fingers pressing into your cunt, that you lost all sort of control.

“Fuck!”, you scremed whilst your head tipped back, eyes closed as you savoured the sensations from both men.

Eddie laughed against your chest as his lips moved back up your neck, “I love hearing such filthy words coming from you, Sweetheart”.

“Oh god!” Your fingers trembled as you reached for Steve, whose fingers began to curl inside your wet warmth gently.

“Does he feel good? You like his fingers right there?” Eddie teases whilst biting your lower lip.

“Yes! Please-!”

“You want to cum for us?” Steve asks whilst leaving stinging bites on the inside of your trembling thighs.

“Yes! Don’t stop!”

“Oh, I’m not going too”, Steve drawls whilst using his thumb to apply soft pressure to your clit, circling in tight circles, matching the speed of his curling fingers.

Eddie’s fingers wrapped around your throat, the pressure grounding you to the spot and moment. “Let go, baby”, he encouraged whilst watching the pleasure dance across your features.

Your mouth drops open in a silent scream as you finally orgasm, hips rutting against Steve’s fingers as your inner walls pulsed in pleasure.

“Good girl. I knew you were special the second you walked through the door,” Eddie kissed your forehead while whispering those soft words to you.

And as you lay your back against the table, boneless and ruined, Steve grinned as he eased his fingers from inside you, “I hope you’re free next week, Sweetheart. We’ve got a few more ideas for that pretty body”.

[yasuumiu]

𝑶𝑵𝑪𝑬, his heart whole; ᘓ ݂ ໋ . 🍎

SYNOPSIS. his entire life, he’s never looked away from you. how do you not see this; how can you not know? what must he do to make you see?

WORD COUNT. 3.2k | WARNINGS. cunnilingus, use of pet names, angst.

𓏲  .⋆ﾟ. ͘ ࣭⠀⸰ absolutely devastated by this pixelated man, and cannot form any coherent thoughts except this. enjoy 🤍

This is what it will be like from now on, he thinks. Me here, and her over there, far away from me, a place I can never reach. Two lines parallel to each other, where before was one.

Fine by him. If he gets to look over you, after you, the separation is bearable. Distinguishable, like an arm losing feeling over time when all its life it’s known otherwise, like his arm—the hand relaxes the unconscious fist, its fingers flexing once, his jaw clenching at the numbness of the movement; he clearly remembers, not too long ago—he wants to remember, he wants—but bearable.

Your necklace scrapes against his chest, the constant reminder, the gift that haunts, the promise he can never break. And still, you—you, you, you—beyond the glass, laughing away with these so-called friends you haven’t seen in a while, not a care in the world about what time it is, about the unanswered calls on your phone, about Caleb—

(He does not let this thought fester like all the others, he will keep this to himself, he will do this for you.) (One of them is a man, don’t move, stay, she’ll get mad, she’ll demand fucking space again—how do you know him, where did you meet, who is he, what does he want—well, what every man wants, what everyone will want if he’s not there to keep you safe—how can you be so naive, so blind—and you dare order him away?)

You’re all grown up now, and so sure of everything, aren’t you, pip-squeak?

He’s sick to his stomach. Even after all these years, the countless sleepless nights tossing and turning, insomnia beating on his skull like a well versed drum, the relentless self-training; teaching himself how to physically turn away from you, all the appropriate responses, but forbidden to cross the Invisible Line, the line that was kept in place for your sake, your selfish convenience; how to keep himself stock-still, to pretend to be normal for you, to not reply instinctually to what he feels for you, how he feels—it all threatens to obliterate him as soon as he loses even an ounce of control.

Shove it down. Shove.It.Down. You’re used to it. You cannot fail now. You cannot fail.

Caleb straightens, his resolve absolute, his purpose unshaken. It’s pitiful, he’s well aware, but it’s all he has left. You’re all he has left. The body holding together knows.

He scorched the earth to find all your missing pieces, slowly reassembling how he knew you before, without thinking you might’ve changed in the time between then and after. And it doesn’t matter. He never once looks away from you. He does it all very, very diligently. And if something is wrong, if he did do something wrong—will you please consider forgiving him? You see, he’s tired. He’s been doing this for a really long time. Over and over with no end in sight.

I’m Caleb. I’ll always be by your side.

Never faltering.

It’s okay if you’ve forgotten. I’ll remind you. I’m Caleb. I’ll always be by your side.

You won’t be alone anymore. I’ll always be by your side.

It’s okay if you’ve forgotten . . . It’s okay.

I’m Caleb.

I forget things too. Everything, sometimes.

You’re the only thing that brings him back. The anchor that pulls him in. His very own navigation system. He doesn’t go anywhere without you. He can’t.

He hides, instead. Watches from afar. That way, you never part from him, and he can keep an eye on you, just how it’s always been. He keeps his hands very close to himself, and he doesn’t dare want any more than he’s allowed to. What happened a few minutes ago—it’s erased, discarded somewhere deep within him, somewhere he’d have to die to reach.

The coffee shop’s door opens, and the sun comes out, burning. You don’t notice him, not at first. This way, he gets to see you happy a little while longer. The friendly way you say your goodbyes, the soft wave of your hand, your mouth, how it pulls at the corners, how the clouds have moved, how concepts like redemption and salvation become a little more real, a little more possible for someone like him.

Do you know—the Heavens come down for you? And him, forever the snake, forever the apple given, slithering towards the Garden of Eden, condemned to entice but never taste, the original sin, punished to come close but not close enough, exiled, accursed.

He fills with desire, he prays. He speaks your name very quietly, and he hopes, and he waits.

When your eyes meet his own, it’s the Chronorift Catastrophe all over again. Massive stars die, their cores collapsing, the gravity immense, the density so high not even light can escape it. Black holes are born out of his Evol—the world caves in on itself. You blink and it happens again. Caleb has no control over it. Over himself, over this unspoken thing between you that’s been happening ever since creation.

Reprogram. Reprogram.

The man hugs you, unaware. Caleb can’t fault him, funnily enough, though it takes everything he fucking has not to answer to the nasty tightening of familiar jealousy inside his chest. Lightning courses through his veins, fingers begging to destroy, to bleed, to make an even bigger mess of things.

No.

He refuses adamantly, and moves his head to the side, severing all contact with you and your dangerous gaze, choosing to bite his tongue until he tastes copper, and ground himself to the cement underneath his boots.

He wants to grab you and shake you and demand. He doesn’t suppose you know what that means. He doesn’t know either. He knows so little about you these days, it seems. Much less about himself, and all this distance you’ve put between you. The unfairness isn’t lost on him. What is he doing here, waiting like this, when you’ve so easily moved on? If he had never glimpsed into that little window of your life today, would he have even known?

That there’s no value to his life anymore? That he signed it all away for the safety of a girl that puts her life in danger so easily, so recklessly, at every possible turn? What will it take to make you realize the evil lurking two steps behind at all times, and what if he’s not there when it decides— What does he have to do?

What more? What else?

Anger. Tap into it. It’s safer. It’s what you have. Copious fucking amounts of it.

He doesn’t see the way you don’t react to the man’s advances. How you hesitate after that. How sorry you are.

“How long have you been standing there?”

Caleb deflects. Puts on that see-through smile you hate the most, his amethyst eyes glinting with secrets and artificial sweetness. It’s getting harder to pretend, much harder to play the convincing role and keep the circus going. He attempts it anyway, even with the look you’re giving him. Against it.

“Not long,” he lies, and motions for you to follow. “It’s late. Did your phone die, or something?”

You lie too. “Yeah, sorry, were you calling? Forgot to charge it, I guess.”

“Hmm.”

Then, “How’d you know where I was, anyway?”

He doesn’t reply. You huff and slow down your steps. Caleb shuts his eyes tight for a second, breathing deeply, fighting multiple urges. This is already going terribly. He was only supposed to pick you up and bring you home. Ask if you had fun and deliver you to your room, where you were to stay for the rest of the night. It’s never easy with you. It will never be.

“Caleb.”

“Pip-squeak.”

“Answer me.”

He swallows with difficulty and resumes walking, fists at his sides. He doesn’t hear your footsteps trailing, but he does not stop. You’ve been stubborn all your life, but so has he. There is nothing wrong with having a way to know where you are. It is his job. His top priority. You can’t possibly be mad, especially with the way you’ve been acting. He can’t have you venture too far off by yourself. Not when he’s so close . . .

“Get in the car,” he says firmly, opening the door for you.

There’s fire crackling in your eyes. He’s seen it a million times. He’s wished to light himself on it, hand outstretched, a willing sacrifice for you. What will you say now, if he offered that same hand? Would you recognize the wrongness of it? Would you stomp your foot how you did when you were little, the whole world at your beck and call because he made it be so? Would you carry him back like he did?

“Is that the Colonel’s order?” your voice is full of the same emotion that governs him. It pierces through all defenses and lands straight through his heart. A clean shot.

He finds the damn thing still beating.

Caleb sighs and leans against the door of his vehicle, arms crossing one over the other. You mimic his stance. He smirks at you, feigning amusement, terrified inside.

“You already know the answer, sweetheart.”

“I want to hear you say it,” you retort, and he can’t stand the disappointment in your voice.

He ignores the very prominent tug of pure shame, and puts the fleet’s officer cap of indifference on for a little longer. “What do you want me to say?”

“That this is insane! That it cannot possibly go on.” You move faster than he anticipates, your small hands shoving at him with all your might yet failing to move even an inch of him. You try anyway. Again and again, until your eyes are wet, and your cheeks red with fury. He lets you, does nothing to stop you.

Not even when there’s people passing by, their accusatory glances messing with his already quickening temper. You can do whatever you want to him, but he cannot let you tarnish your reputation as a hunter for something as trivial as this. He won’t accept it.

“I’m taking you home. You can be mad all you want there.”

The silence that ensues makes him wish for a second death. A slow, painful one. One he can never come back from.

Because he’s responsible for this mistrust, this suspicion you won’t seem to shake off. He caused it, it’s his fault, his fault, his fault—

No matter how hard he tries to fix it. It’s beyond repair.

You’re leaving.

First thing in the morning. This was clearly a mistake, you tell him while slamming your suitcase open on his floor. He watches you do so, disgusted with despair. I’m not sure what I was thinking, clothes on his bed, shoes by his front entrance, your brush on his sink, your hand tearing apart whatever semblance of a man he scrambled to come up with to appease you.

My Caleb is gone.

He lunges towards you, your gasp the only indication of fear; he knew, of course he knew. You were afraid of this new version of him. The version that somehow commands an entire fleet, goes on classified missions that go against everything you’ve worked for as a Hunter, and keeps secrets from the same someone he used to sing lullabies to during bad summer storms. The version that would lock her inside a stranger’s room, inside a stranger’s house.

But really, wasn’t he always like this? The signs were there all along. He’d locked you in the attic before. He’d kept you there all day, knowing very well how you’d react, how you’d run to him after the coincidental rescue, declare him the hero. This darkness has been inside him for a long time. You’ve just been very good at looking the other way, very good at taking, not so very good at giving. Are you, pip-squeak?

When I don’t fit your definition of who ‘Caleb’ is, you simply shun me away and wipe your hands clean of me. I’m the one stuck here. Astute. Unable to move. Unable to let you go.

It ends here.

Your wrist is impossibly small as his fingers wrap around it, yanking, pulling you against his feverish body. You fight but only for a moment, his other hand coming to rest right above your mouth, rendering you mute, eyes wide, expecting, calculating.

“Will I do it?” He muses, violet eyes boring into yours, his desire palpable, his want a thousand knives, all double sided, honed for the perfect kill. You breathe deeply, trying to calm down that beating heart he so envies. Caleb leans further, hovering over you like a nightmare. “Will you let me, (Y/N)?”

You shake your head slightly, your brows furrowing with poignant emotion. Sadness. Towards what? Him? He can’t help but chuckle at the clueless girl in front of him. How he fought to stay the kindhearted boy from your childhood, at least in your eyes. He would’ve kept with the facade all his years, if it meant you’d always look at him with that proud expression he remembers from his college days. If it was truly up to him, you would’ve never seen him like this.

Alas, it was never up to him. Not once. Not ever.

“I must be pretty fucking pathetic to you, isn’t that right?”

Your gaze shatters and drops. Caleb presses on, fed up with himself, the self-loathing successfully managing to escape that dark pit at the bottom of his soul.

“What game are we playing now, pip-squeak? How do I win it?” He tilts your chin up, forcing your attention back on him. “Hmm?”

Seeing you cry will never get easier for him. It will always stab at him from the inside out, memories cataclysmic, and him, defenseless, useless, responsible, because—because—

“There was never any game, Caleb,” you breathe out, shakily. “You’re breaking my heart.”

Amethyst eyes lose the eternal fight, fall closed. His hands move, over your neck, hesitating there, tightening on your shoulders, bringing you close, holding you to him. Even like this. At least you’re here. Even like this.

“Say it again.”

“Say what?”

“My name. Say it again.”

He feels your ribs, their inhale, then the defeat—your head against his uniform-clad chest, your ear pressing closer, trying to listen for something that hasn’t worked right in a long time.

“Caleb. Caleb, Caleb, Caleb . . .” In the dead of night, he’s resurrected. “Come back to me,” a whisper of singular light that pierces through him, pierces through him, pierces through him.

It hurts. His love is not a good love, it is a violent one. A miserable existence, created from pain, from insatiable greed, from gut-wrenching need.

He kisses you. Grabs your face and walks you backwards to the nearest wall, his fingers buried deep in your hair, clenching, his mouth over yours, claiming, searching, your breath his own, your voice his own, your body, your body—

“You’re mine,” he rasps, drowning in you, lips trailing a path down, down, to your throat, where he sucks, where he marks. “You’ve always been, you’ll always be.”

“I don’t need you to—”

Caleb chuckles darkly. “You don’t need me? Is that what you think?” His feeling hand crawls over your flaming skin, reaching between you, under your skirt, your thigh, the inside of it, the place he’s been dreaming about, touching there. You cry out, surprised, aroused. “Tell me exactly what you don’t need, honey. Don’t leave nothing out.”

You say nothing, embarrassment flushing your pretty face in pinks. He wipes your tears very patiently, and slowly gets on one knee, then the other, until he’s kneeling in front of you, and isn’t that a sort of christening as well?

A man demolished, over six feet who-the-fuck-cares, commanding officer of nothing, exiled from his land, turned away from his home. He lost you, and then found you, and now again, this impossible story of repetition that shall never end, like the nightmares, like the torment.

He hugs your legs and rests his forehead on your soft mound. You stand very still, he doesn’t even think you’re breathing. This makes no sense to you. But to him—to him—

You’re sacred. You’re the war that’s raging on. The war he’s fighting for. The country he protects, the nation he serves.

“We’re too old for games, pip-squeak,” he ignores the ball forming in his throat, his burning eyes. “I’m tired.”

Caleb feels your digits digging into his scalp, running through his ragged hair, pulling at the ends, alleviating the pain. He swallows as to not cry out his hunger. The ache, though, it persists, and what to do with it?

It gnaws at him, little by little, every single day.

“It’s different now,” you say. “We’re different.”

He sinks his nose into your warm cunt, and inhales. Your knees buckle, but he holds you, he steadies you against the wall, he’s got you. You try to push, but he grabs your hand, interlocks your fingers with his. You try to speak, but he’s already pushing your underwear to the side, tongue daring to taste.

“Caleb.”

Moaning his name, he’s never heard of anything more beautiful. He wishes you never stop, wishes it more than anything. He almost breaks down right there. This is never going to happen again.

Is he dreaming? Is this a dream?

If it is—

“Don’t leave me,” he guides your leg over his shoulder, and doesn’t dare look up to see your face. You’re willing in his hands and you’re muttering his name. It’s more than enough. It’s everything. “My God, I’ll never forget this—”

You’re so compliant, he could do anything he wanted with you. All the fight had left your body. Was it even there to begin with? He knew you felt it too, he knew—then why condemn you both? Then why deny it?

Caleb didn’t stop believing once. There was no doubt in his mind.

“Please, I can’t,” you sigh, your words jumbled, blurring into one another, while his tongue sucks your clit into his mouth. The reaction he elicits out of you has him rock hard and leaking instantly. “Please, please, please, please. Caleb, I—oh my God—”

He works you up until the edge, feels your thighs shaking, feels the urgency of your fingers pulling. When you’re almost there, he moves away—your slick dripping, his chin glistening—and gets up, in all his height, gaze locking into yours.

You haven’t let go of his hand. He can’t feel a fucking thing.

A new wave of anger suddenly washing over him, he leans down and bites your lip. Your yelp gratifies the hankering inside him. He doesn’t mean to hurt you, he only means for you to experience an ounce of what he does every time his body denies him your delicate touch.

“I’ve thought about this for so long,” he whispers into the dark. “I never thought it possible, only a dream,” he brings you closer once again, hugging you to him as if he could somehow absorb you in on himself.

He senses the change in your demeanor immediately. This shy girl standing in front of him is nothing like the tough Hunter he witnessed infiltrating his fleet single-handedly. For you to be different with him, alone—he feels normal again, if just for a second.

“Have you . . . done this before?” You ask.

Caleb can’t help but laugh. “How could I?” He replies, incredulous. “There’s never been anyone else for me.

“You occupy every single fucking part of me, sweetheart.”

[visceravalentines]

too much, too late, or just not enough of this

their luck had to run out eventually. doomed lovers making out in the back of a cop car <3 read on AO3 here if that's more your speed.

3.2k words. canon divergent. so much kissing. frottage. coming in pants. police brutality and f-slur. blood & injury. enjoy!!

After months–months–of domestic bliss, it takes three seconds for all hell to break loose. 

Benson rounds the corner, sees the cop car. Sees Randy seated on the curb with his hands behind his back. Sees nothing more, only red. 

"Hey!"

All heads turn his way. The grocery bag slips from his hand to the asphalt and he’s halfway across the parking lot before he knows what he’s doing. No plan. No need. There’s a shout in his mouth that feels like Randy’s name but when he lets it loose it’s just a wordless expression of anger. 

Everyone moves at once. Randy shoots to his feet, gets grabbed roughly by the pig on his left. The other one whirls around, sees Benson coming like the wrath of God, like a category five fucking storm, and goes for his gun. 

Benson goes for his too. The thing about that, though, is that his is sitting on the fucking nightstand in the motel room, so he comes up empty-handed. Didn't think he'd need it for a trip to the Safeway. Figured those days were behind him. 

Stupid. Fucking stupid.

No problem. He’ll beat both of them to death with his bare hands. He’s done it before. He’ll even enjoy it this time. 

"Benson!  Benson, no!" 

He hears Randy, he does. He always does. He just chooses not to listen, sometimes, like now, because Randy doesn’t always know what he’s talking about. 

"Benson, stop!" 

He’s going right for the pig with his grip on Randy’s arm. Nobody–fucking nobody–puts hands on Randy. Benson can feel the man’s skin splitting beneath his knuckles already. He’s braced for the bullet, too, the one the other cop is itching to pump into his ribs. He’s fucking ready for it. Can’t wait. 

"Don’t shoot him, don’t shoot him, please don’t–"

Benson gets there. He cocks his fist and aims for the pornstar mustache hovering over Randy’s shoulder. He’s mid-swing when all the sudden the good Lord decides to repo every atom in his fucking body. 

He goes stiff as a board, spine snapping straight so fast he gives himself whiplash. There’s a scream in his throat but his jaw is clenched so tight he can’t let it out. His brain goes white, just white, just static. He topples to the pavement, lands on his fucking face, can’t even feel the crunch of his nose through the sensation of being disintegrated. 

He’s never been tased before. He’s gotta say, he’s not a fan. 

When it stops, five seconds or hours or months later, he can't remember how to move. He only remembers that Randy is right there, right behind him, yelling his pretty blonde head off like Benson's never heard before, and he's supposed to be protecting him, but fuck, he can't move. 

Someone yanks his arms behind his back, fits him with a shiny new pair of bracelets. He can't breathe right through the blood clogging his nose. He feels like Wile E. Coyote, reduced to two dimensions, all the rage crushed out of him by the comically large anvil of the law. 

The pig grabs him by the collar and hauls him to his knees, gives him a shake while drawling Miranda. Been a long time since he's been arrested. Doesn't sound like they've added anything new but it's kinda hard to focus. Benson sucks blood and phlegm into his mouth and spits, barely clears his own chest. 

He meets Randy's panicked gaze. The kid's looking at him with this open and devastated expression of concern, face flushed, eyes wet with angry tears. God, he's pretty. Benson winks at him, delirious, and hopes it conveys more confidence than he feels. There's a bottomless pit in his stomach. They're fucked. 

When the cop drags him upright his legs just about give out and he sags, gets thrown against the side of the cruiser. He hears a yelp behind him, an expletive, a blow. Rage cuts hot through his muddled mind. He starts rummaging around inside himself for the strength to beat the shit out of the cop with both hands cuffed behind his back for whatever he just did to Randy. 

"He fucking bit me!" the cop exclaims, and Benson breaks into a grin, and the next thing he knows Randy's being slammed against the car beside him. "Fucking freak."

Randy's licking blood off his lips with this wild look in his eye, a bruise already forming on his cheekbone from the pig’s fist. Benson’s never been more fucking proud. His chest squeezes with affection even as fear and anger writhe in his gut.

"Take it easy," he says as the pigs pat them both down. "It’s gonna be fine."

"Don't lie to me," Randy says grimly. His hair is in his eyes and his face is flushed and Benson’s weak in the knees. 

He looks away before he answers so Randy can't see right through him. 

"Wouldn’t dream of it."

They get peeled off the side of the cruiser and shoved into the back one after the other. Benson catches his reflection in the rearview. Blood streaks the bottom half of his face, nose crooked, road rash on his cheek like a kiss. He looks like he's just come off a bender, pale and shaky. For months, for months they've been in the clear, and now here they are losing it all on a Wednesday afternoon. He wants to laugh. He wants to puke. 

Randy leans forward to get his attention. "Don't–don’t tell them anything," he says, fast and low. 

Benson scoffs. "No shit."

"No, I mean–they don't know anything. They caught me lifting some guy's wallet. They don't know–they don't know."

Good. That's good. For Randy, at least, that's good. Benson shakes his head. "I've got a record, Randy, it's a matter of time. Probably overnight is all." They'll connect the dots. Won't take long. He killed four people. He’s practically already on his way to the Farm. 

Randy cranes his head back against the headrest, looking distressed. The tears are back. They never go far. Sweet, sad boy. "I'm sorry, Benson. This is my fault."

"Hey. Stop." He nudges Randy's knee with his own. "It's not your fault." It kind of is, it kind of isn't. It doesn't matter.

Randy shakes his head ruefully. "I should've been more careful."

Benson is rifling around in the mess of his mind for the pissed-off grit that's carried him this far in life, but he’s coming up empty-handed. He can already see the cell door rolling shut before his eyes. 

"Had to catch up with us eventually," he says gruffly, like he doesn’t give a shit. Like it was always going to end like this. Like he never laid awake at night hoping they had a shot. 

Randy swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing, and pins his quivering lip between his teeth. Benson can’t see his hands but he knows the guy’s digging his nails into his palms hard enough to draw blood. He can practically feel it. 

"Hey. Look at me."

Randy stares stoically ahead. Benson kicks his shoe. 

"Randy."

When he turns to him, the remorse sits sick and heavy on his face and it hits Benson like a fist. His eyes shine wet and worried. Benson wants to touch him so bad it hurts. 

He can't let him do a lick of time. Not a second. He won't last five minutes, not even in county. In the back of his mind, Benson's already spinning up a story that shifts culpability for everything that's ever gone wrong in the world to himself. Maybe it’ll be enough. It has to be enough. 

He leans over, bumps Randy’s shoulder with his shoulder. "You scared?"

Randy hesitates, nods. 

Benson takes that one like another thousand volts and tries not to feel like he's failed in some way. "Don't be scared. You're gonna be fine."

Randy looks him square in the eye. "What about you?"

Benson can't meet his gaze. He shrugs, tries to come off nonchalant. "Don't worry ‘bout me."

"I am worrying about you." 

Benson glances past Randy, peers through the window at the cops pacing around the parking lot and doing whatever it is cops do. He used to wonder how this moment would feel. Back when it was all still too good to be true. It's worse than he imagined. Feels like when the sky goes green before a tornado. Feels like there’s a siren going off in his head that only he can hear. 

"Benson?" 

"What, Randy?" 

"What…what happens now?" 

"They’ll take us to the station, put us in the drunk tank until they can figure out who we are and what to charge us with." 

"So they’re not–they’re not gonna separate us." 

"Not yet." 

For a split second, Randy looks relieved, even hopeful, and Benson’s heart rips all the way in two like a soggy piece of paper. 

He stares at Randy–mop of hair disheveled, eye swelling rapidly. He's wearing Benson's shirt even though Benson knows for a fact he has clean laundry folded neatly in the motel dresser. There's a hickey on his neck just above the stretched-out collar. Benson feels a chainsaw stab of deep grief, realizing they might not ever be alone together again. Give it a couple hours, and they’re never going to see each other again. 

Just like that, they’re out of time. 

And suddenly, Benson needs him so bad it makes him nauseous. Needs him. Needs to suck on that raw-bitten lip, needs to feel his body pressed up close, just one more time. Needs it worse than freedom or future or any of the other bullshit he's never really had. 

This. He had this. He wants to consume every last ounce of it before it's gone. 

"Hey," Benson says, shooting a wary glance out at the cops. "C’mere."

Randy looks confused but scoots closer without hesitation. Good, obedient boy. Never gonna see the inside of a cell. 

Benson leans towards him. "Kiss me."

Randy furrows his brow. "Benson…your nose."

"Fuck it. Come on." He tries, but he can't keep the plea out of his voice. "Kiss me right now."

Randy shifts on the seat, leans in, locks lips with him. He does it hesitantly, ginger at first, and then he melts into it. He’s jonesing for it, always, even now. Benson's face is sticky with blood but Randy doesn't seem to mind. The pain in Benson's nose flares like an ember but he ignores it in favor of this beautiful boy who tastes like every best day he's ever had. 

They separate, just barely, just enough that Benson can feel the wet of Randy’s panting on his lips. 

"Benson…." His voice breaks.

He can’t do this. "Shh."

"I'm sorry. I'm really fucking sorry."

"Shut up." Benson kisses him again. The desperation snaps and crackles between them like a lit firecracker. Benson realizes he’s straining mightily against the cuffs, metal biting mean into his skin, but he can’t relax. This is it, he keeps thinking. This is it this is it this is it. 

Like he can read his mind–because by now, he pretty much can–Randy presses closer, knees knocking against Benson’s leg. A tiny, frustrated noise twists from Randy’s throat and Benson fights the cuffs like maybe he can break them. 

"Benson," Randy whispers. 

"Fucking come here," Benson growls, shoving back against the seat to make room. Randy clambers immediately into his lap, contorts his lanky body and braces his forehead against Benson’s for leverage. It sets his sinuses on fire. It’s fine. 

Randy straddles him, knees bent, and kisses him deep and hungry. Benson closes his teeth around Randy's bottom lip harder than he means to. Randy moans, bucks his hips, writhing like an animal in a trap. His tongue is in Benson’s mouth, lapping the blood off his lips like he can’t get enough, and Benson wishes so badly he had more to give. 

He wants to cry. He wants to kill something. His whole body aches like he's been pummeled head-to-toe with hammers. His wrists are pinned behind him, smashed against the bench, and he's throbbing in his jeans, and his face feels like it's being split in half, and the only thing that matters in the whole fucking world is this man in his lap. 

Something is bubbling up his throat like bile–words he can’t say, because he knows better, but he wants to, because–fuck. Because after this–fuck.

"Hey," he says hoarsely. "I–" It sticks in his throat. He swallows it down. It’s wrong, all wrong. He doesn’t want to do this, not at all, but especially not here, not like this. "Goddammit."

"It’s okay," Randy says. 

"No–Randy, I…." Benson’s mouth is full of blood. 

Randy shakes his head, musters up that sad little lost boy smile. "It’s okay." 

Benson peers anxiously up at him and all the sudden the world’s gone blurry. Beautiful boy. Angel boy. The best thing that’s ever been his. "Fuck." It comes out half-strangled. He's losing it. The tears prickle in his eyes and it’s too much, it’s too much, it’s all too much. 

What’s he supposed to do without him?  

"Stop," Randy murmurs. 

"What the fuck am I gonna do?" His voice is pitched and broken, desperate in a way that pisses him off, makes him sick. 

"Stop." Randy presses against him like he’s trying to climb into his chest and Benson would pry his ribs apart to let him if his fucking hands were free. His mouth is all over Benson's neck, teeth on his skin, panting hard and hot in his ear. "We’re gonna be fine. We’re–we’re gonna be fine. You said." 

Benson sinks his molars into his cheek to keep from screaming. "Randy…." 

"We’ll be fine, Benson. You said." 

He can’t lose him. He can’t. They can’t take him, they can’t fucking take him, he isn’t theirs to take. His ears are ringing. Panic’s cold claws are buried deep in his gut. 

"Benson," Randy says from a thousand miles away. "Bence." 

He’s going to die in prison. He’s going to die alone, strapped down, pumped full of poison. 

"Benson, listen!" 

They’re going to take him away and lock him up and he can’t breathe–he can’t breathe–he can’t–he can’t–

"Benson, stop. Dammit–" 

Randy’s squirming in his lap like a snake, grimacing, arms twisting madly behind his back and then he yelps like a kicked dog and if that wasn’t enough to jar Benson free from his spiral, the sensation of Randy’s fingers frantic on his face sure brings him back to himself in a hurry. 

"Randy, what the fuck–"

"I need you," Randy says, pawing at his cheeks, those big wet bloodshot eyes boring into Benson’s with a force that only rears its head on rare occasion. "I-I need you to keep it together. Please?  Please." 

Benson jerks his head out of Randy’s grip so he can get a look at his hands. The cuffs hang impotently from one wrist and blood streams down the other, skin torn and piled loosely at the base of his thumb, which sits at a wrong angle from the rest of his hand. Randy seems inappropriately unconcerned.

"Jesus." Benson shakes his head in stunned amazement. "You fucking animal." 

"It's-it's fine." Randy strips off his shirt, making a frustrated noise as he struggles to get the cuffs through the sleeve. He’s all bones and bruises, pale and wirey, moles scattered across his skin like constellations. And then his hands are beneath Benson’s shirt, pawing at him, bleeding all over him, and then he’s grabbing Benson by the belt loops, pulling him closer until they’re pressed chest-to-chest and he’s rolling his hips like they’re two teens on the hilltop at midnight. 

He kisses him again and Benson feels relief and guilt and regret blooming bitter on his tongue. Randy sucks it away without being asked, swallows it whole, thrusts himself against Benson in a way that makes him slump boneless against the bench seat. 

"Randy," Benson moans. "Baby." He hurts all over and he’s so fucking hard. He lets Randy grip his hair in that way he likes and hates at the same time. His kisses are frenetic, sloppy across Benson’s mouth and jaw. 

"We’re okay. Right?  We’re okay." 

Benson breathes hard. "We’re okay." The heat pooling low and heavy in the pit of his stomach is unbearable. The sense of careening towards the edge of a cliff is making him dizzy. 

Randy sucks on his earlobe, catches it with his teeth. "We’re okay," he whispers. His fingers dig into Benson’s ribs. 

"We’re okay," Benson repeats, not sure what it means, not sure of anything anymore except Randy. He’s always been sure of Randy. 

"Benson." It comes out like a plea, wavering, desperate. The rhythm of his hips starts to falter, body bucking. Fuck. Fuck.

"Look at me." Randy whines, keeps his face buried in Benson’s neck. "C’mon, baby, look at me," Benson says again. "I wanna see you, I have to–"

Randy lifts his head, cheeks flushed, eyes glazed, looking scared and ashamed and hungry, so hungry, always fucking starving for it–

"Randy," Benson breathes, and the kid shudders, claws at Benson’s waist, lets out a strangled moan and presses his brow to Benson’s. He’s breathing hard in hitches, sobbing, maybe, and Benson’s heart is going to burst from his chest. 

"You’re so fucking easy," he says softly, affectionately, and a laugh wrings itself out of Randy’s throat in spite of it all. "I like that." 

"Hey!" One of the cops finally takes notice of them and starts towards the car. "Get the fuck off him!" 

Randy doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch, and Benson marvels at him. At who he is now. Who Benson knew he could be. He sniffles, running his thumbs across Benson’s cheekbones. "I’m not leaving you," he says. 

Benson swallows hard. "Okay, Randy." 

"I said, get off him!" 

"I mean it." 

The cop pounds on the window. Randy presses his mouth to Benson’s one last time, unhurried, insistent but gentle, tender even. A goddamn miracle. 

"Fucking fags, Jesus Christ–" The cop throws the door open, grabs Randy by the arm and yanks him off Benson’s lap. He slams the door shut again and yells something to the other guy about the slipped cuffs. 

Randy folds his hands gingerly in his lap, favoring his dislocated thumb, avoiding the wet spot seeping through his jeans. His face is red and tearstained, one eye swollen shut. He's chewing a hole in his lip and Benson knows he doesn't know he's even doing it.

"You fuckin’ mess," Benson says. He can feel a sad sort of smile creeping across his face. 

Randy gives him a sheepish look and leans over to rest his head on his shoulder. Benson buries his broken nose in Randy's hair. He can barely breathe around the clot in his nostrils but he tries, he tries hard, because he doesn't want to forget how he smells until the day he dies. 

He feels Randy’s hand brush across his thigh, up over his fly, fingers working awkwardly at the button of his jeans. The sound of the zipper is loud in the space between their breaths. Benson lets out a shaky sigh, lets his knees fall wide, forces his mind to go blank as Randy touches him. Nothing after this matters. Nothing after this is real. He's just here, now, that's all. With this beautiful boy. Angel boy. 

Best thing he’s ever had. 

Never gonna see the inside of a cell. 

[sims-and-noodles]

You guys seemed to like this group a lot, so I've been giving their save another chance! So here they are properly:

James Ordinary

- Human - Clumsy, Supernatural Fan, Computer Whiz, Socially Awkward, Workaholic - Blog Artist Bridgeport local James Ordinary always felt that his home city was...well...not ordinary. He remembers a friend growing up that he swore was a vampire, but he was brushed off as having a wild imagination every time. He became fascinated with the potential occult that lived in Bridgeport. When he learned about a hidden town called Moonlight Falls with more reports of paranormal activity than any other, James packed his bags and headed that way. With hopes of being a true reporter for all things supernatural, has James bitten off more than he can chew? And what about his less-than-ordinary roommates?

Beatrice Crum

- Fairy - Excitable, Good Sense of Humor, Social Butterfly, Easily Impressed, Absent-Minded - Magic Makeover Beatrice grew up in the pretty little town of Moonlight Falls surrounded by family and fun galore. She was the baby of the family, and always loved to poke fun and pull pranks. Beatrice has never been mean though, of course. If anything, she's just hard to reel in once she gets going. Not everyone is ready to be a true adult fresh out of high school though, so Beatrice is taking it easy for now, working part-time at the spa and living with a couple fun roommates.

Rosalie Holt

- Vampire - Neat, Hopeless Romantic, Artistic, Bookworm, Proper - Professional Author Rosalie spent her childhood in the big city of Bridgeport amongst the other hidden vampires. However, once the Holt family felt they were being found-out, they tended to move to a new city just to try it again. Bridgeport to Twinbrook to Roaring Heights to Midnight Hollow to Moonlight Falls. Rosalie had a tendency to fall in love wherever she went, having a devastating breakup when it was time to run away, typically because of her own actions. However, in Moonlight Falls, she'll never have to run away. Now, she writes the stories of her previous loves, and maybe one day, one of them will find her again, or maybe a new one will write itself.

Ariana Gem

- Genie - Diva, Dramatic, Over-Emotional, Schmoozer, Snob - Celebrity Psychic Let's get one thing clear: Ariana Gem did NOT want to move to Moonlight Falls. If you ask her, she's above the weirdos that lurk there. Ariana was a genie back in Starlight Shores to a glamorous musician. When he wished for her freedom, though, he took her in as his own beloved daughter. She was on the younger side for a genie, and someone needed to take care of her. So he spoiled her and catered to her every need. Once she was old enough to be on her own though, he bought her a home and found her some roommates in the town of Moonlight Falls. It's different, sure, but hopefully she'll find the beauty in her supernaturalness while she's there.

Been playing in CAS a looooot in search of sims and save files that excite me. I'm in a little bit of a Sims 3 burnout unfortunately. Maybe I should try the zodiac legacy again? Maybe I go wild and try a Sims 4 save? It's all in the air.

[frankiejay03]

KONOHA IS NOT A SMALL VILLAGE

Someone else touched up on this but I don’t tag my reblogs so I’ll never find it but like it befuddles me that we cycle through the same ten characters and ten side characters when Konoha is a huge village like just looking at the number of shapeless Shinobi in the war arc like that population has to come from somewhere right?

Like you’re absolutely joking me if absolute max of 50 of this horde of Shinobi are from Konoha (because at the end of the day, there aren’t that many named Konoha Shinobi alive at any given time, not when compared to this picture I mean for real each block here is probably fucking 100 people wide by idk 500 people long)

(The issue here is not the “lack” of named characters cause there are certainly MANY but rather the lack of unnamed characters or the lack of space in canon for unnamed characters you know what I mean? No way Kakashi and co are the only jounins in village. No way Kakashi only had like two teammates in ANBU when really there should be an abundance of people to run missions with and ANBU isn’t genin teams, so long as the job gets done it doesn’t matter if the team members have met before or even know of each other)

And yeah part of what makes KakaObi (and SasuNaru) so devastating is their shared history but imagine KakaObi rivalry as ADULTS, whatever the opposite of meet-cute is, as Shinobi of the same village who haven’t met each other before because do you really know every single person your age in your hometown? A village THAT big, a NINJA village, does not have only one (1) ninja school (imagine living in the bottom left corner of this image, the walk to school must be so long! Idc if you ninja run, what child has the mental capacity to hop over rooftops at 7am??? Certainly not Ino-Shika-Cho!) ((clearly Kishimoto never played simulation games like Cities Skylines or Oxygen Not Included because come on! The population does not meet canon requirements and for it to do so it has to outgrow having only one school for its children!! Also it just needs more children!!!))

The math just doesn’t math

So

Someone please give me bratty genius Kakashi, unchallenged until he meets “genius of hard work” Obito all the way up as a jounin or ANBU, years his senior and determined to maintain his reign of superiority and probably failing spectacularly with added affliction of gay UST to boot

Gay propaganda aside, just imagine the world-building implications. Isolated Uchiha clan further isolated by a school being built near their clan compound, act of malice or not, their kids aren’t welcome around the others anymore. Poor Shinobi children/orphans who live in the same district going to the same school versus rich clan kids going to a different school together. Remember in your hometown when you “graduated” to middle school, kids who didn’t go to your elementary school were icky or annoying or weird or lame? (The correct term here is new or maybe different but children aren’t usually so kind at that age) But ninja elementary school! No canon middle school or higher education of any kind unfortunately but what if they pair kids from different schools into genin teams? Maybe that’s how Kakashi’s team 7 comes to be (Uchiha massacre or not, doesn’t make a difference if the Uchiha have been super isolated what with the police force and their own academy), maybe Neji is somehow worse cause he’s never actually interacted with a non-Hyuga/non-clan kid before. This can apply to Minato’s team 7 as well, prodigy clan heir from fancy clan academy Kakashi paired with the runt of the Uchiha from insular Uchiha academy and idk Rin from whichever school is closest to her civilian house. Like Konoha doesn’t have cars or buses or trains (at this time and I’ve never seen/read boruto no thank you) and there’s not much room for beasts of burden so these children are WALKING EVERYWHERE thank you very much.

Idk rant over, there was someone who explained this conundrum much better than I did but I cannot find their post :P

[mikuni14]

Heesu in Class 2 - Ep 9-10

I'll start with what I really liked, which is a really cool scene of a gay kid coming out to his family, one of the best I've seen in a BL series of this kind. I liked that Heesu wasn't even really nervous, I had the impression that he was more resigned (which is understandable after recent events). I liked the calmness, the matter-of-factness of his confession, without the drama. And I liked his sister's reaction: first the shock, the stuttering to indicate that she was "digesting it", but she was still present in this moment and wanted him to know that (no stupid silence, so common in such scenes, when the person coming out is dying inside from fear of being rejected), then after the initial shock, she smoothly transitioned to an equally calm and drama-free behavior, which had a very positive effect on Heesu. I really, really, really liked this scene - but in general I think the Heesu family plot is the best in this series :)

In a nostalgic way, I was amused by the juxtaposition of this nice scene with the old school coming out scene to Chan Yeong, known as "how to make a coming out scene all about straights" lol. In these kinds of scenes (which I HATE), the main character is not the person coming out, oh no! It's a straight family member, or the closest friend, who always makes this scene about themselves, about their feelings and in which they always find some excuse to blame the queer person for something. Anything: for coming out so late, or how dare that someone not trust enough them to do it earlier, or for planning it badly and not preparing poor Chan Yeong for the fact that not only his friend is gay, but also that he used to have a crush on him, which is news so heavy and crushing, that poor Chan Yeong simply COULD. NOT. COPE. WITH. IT. Which is HEESU's fault, of course, who didn't prepare a soft landing for him after receiving such devastating blow information. It's also classic that after such asshole behavior, running away, avoiding, hitting him with tennis balls, accusing him, Heesu is still overjoyed that Chan Yeong decided graciously that they will still be friends. Classic. 😂

And of course, the boys in love are "pure" and untainted by the carnal desires, their love is not in any way physical, which, apart from the poop jokes, is also a "lovely" trip into the BL series' past 😂😂

The last episodes were chaotic, very stupid, very badly edited (after every important scene there was a jump to something with a completely different vibe and theme, completely disrupting the flow of the plot). Various topics are skimmed and lack depth. Chan Yeong runs away from home and sleeps over at Heesu's, everything is fine, they joke around… a friend who ran away from home once spent the night at my house when we were teens, it's not as easy as it is shown here. Likewise, the fear of homophobia should appear as a constant factor determining the behavior of the main characters, and not appear about twice, but at the same time it turns out to be important for their behavior (when it fits). Also how's that so important, since Heesu and Seung Won ALWAYS found public places to confess their feelings not being scared of being found out (apart from the scene with the sister - probably why I liked it). It was also absolutely embarrassing to make their confessions so dramatic. It deprived these scenes of authenticity and sincerity. From the beginning, the series was about confessions, but when these confessions finally appeared - of which there were a lot, fast, cut short, overly dramatized, preceded by some weird philosophical, methaporical monologues - they lost the element of anticipation and became emotionless and anticlimactic. Tbh, instead of waiting for this One Confession in a Romantic Series, I had this exhausted feeling in the last episode like "come on, just do it, let's get this over with".

I'm sorry, but these are my feelings. This series had such potential, it had nice moments, it had good characters, it could have been a really good series about high schoolers, coming of age, about first loves, about second loves, about friendship, about being a young gay man in a homophobic society, about difficult and good family relationships. 10 episodes is enough time to show all these topics in a deep and meanigful way. In my opinion, all of this was missing, the characters were wronged (especially Heesu), the series turned out to be shallow and just irritating, but nevertheless I hope that many people still enjoyed this series and had a good time watching it 😉

[otp-after-dark]

“I love you.” —Nick Blaine, 2x06

It finally happens.

After a season and a half of quiet looks, hallway tension, “trust me”s and “stay safe”s, Nick says it out loud.

But we’ll get there.

We open with June pulling back. She’s shaken, guarded. And Nick feels it. He finds her in the house after nearly losing her last episode — and she’s slipping into “I’m fine. We’re fine” mode.

“I’ll come see you tonight.” —Nick “What about Mrs. Blaine?” —June

There it is. The wall she’s building.

And Nick — sweet, doomed Nick — admits it: He thinks about it all the time. Her. The baby. The three of them.

A family. Their family.

June tells him not to. He says he’ll stop. She rolls her eyes. And then softens.

“I think about it too.” —June

The way his face changes — that’s the moment. That’s the I would burn this place down for you look.

Meanwhile, Eden — still 15, still terrifying — tells Nick:

“You’re my family now.”

And you can see him flinch. Because she’s not. Because his family is June and the baby. Because he’s been forced into a role he never wanted with a girl he can’t even look in the eye.

When Eden starts asking questions about why Nick hasn’t slept with her, it sets off a chain reaction — pressure, guilt, and quiet devastation.

She goes to June. June goes to Nick.

“She’ll make trouble.”

And suddenly Nick’s caught between duty and desire — survival and love.

He doesn’t want to sleep with Eden. For a hundred reasons. She’s a child. She’s not his choice. She’s not June. And more than that, it would be a betrayal — of the only real thing he has left in Gilead.

But now? He’s being told he has to. That this girl will put them both at risk if he doesn’t perform the role Gilead assigned him.

And then June — finally — gives him the one thing he didn’t know he needed to hear:

“I can’t lose you.”

That’s what breaks him open. Because Nick has been holding everything back — every feeling, every longing — just to stay strong for her. He’s always put her safety first. Always stayed quiet. Always carried the weight without asking for anything in return.

But now? She’s saying it too. She needs him.

And that’s what makes it possible for him to finally say the thing that’s been building for so long:

“I love you.”

It’s not grand. Not dramatic. It’s quiet. Honest. Almost shy.

But the weight of it? Massive.

He’s not just saying he loves her. He’s telling her: You’re the only one. You’ve always been the only one.

She doesn’t say it back. Not yet. But her whole face softens. Her eyes fill. She can’t look at him. Because she feels it. She knows it. And she’s not ready — not because she doesn’t love him, but because the truth of it terrifies her.

He knows. We know. It’s there. Just waiting.

And then the other side of it: Nick and Eden. The “ceremonial” wedding sex.

It’s cold. Distant. Detached. A hole-in-the-sheet nightmare. And afterwards, Nick is done.

He goes to Pryce. Asks to be reassigned.

“Promise me you’ll protect the handmaid.”

Because in the end, even if he can’t be with June, even if he can’t save himself — he’s still trying to save her.

And then, as if the emotional damage wasn’t enough, we end on a literal bang:

A Handmaid bombs the Red Center.

Gilead just got shook.

[zenkor123]

WIP Weekend

“Did she ever visit you before you became a citizen” Leeg asks

Peeta, answers following his orders, to answer every question asked truthfully, even if the rule is being abused in this case. Tong and Leeg were on his rotation as guards yesterday, though they never served their rotation, Finnick did so instead, but their names in the rotation roster ensures that they are owed total honesty. When they tried this yesterday and asked Peeta about his time in the games, Peeta complained but the commander of Training Center 42 made it plain, total honesty towards guards. Sometimes Peeta thought to himself, District 13 made no sense.

He sits up.

“Not really, except for after Finnick's wedding, she didn't see me that often. I mean when they had me train here for propos, she was glaring, stewing, and complaining to Plutarch, but  I just ignored her, and pretended she wasn't there. "

"I bet she was shitting her pants" Leeg gleefully says.

Peeta stares at her

"Was Kat shitting herself yes or no" Leeg continues.

"Her name is Katniss and no, she wasn't shitting herself, she was just a bit nervous " Peeta says.

"Have you ever seen Catpiss shit herself" pushes Leeg,

Peeta remembers "when I ate with her in the cafeteria, I’m not kidding, the second Katniss saw me, it looked like she was about to spit out her drink. But that's not quite shitting her pants."

Tong says "it so is, didn't Annie say your the reason Catpissy went to 2 rather then any noble motive?"

"Dells told me that before her trip to the nut, Katniss watched me ranting. It is said that my insane screeching drove her all the way to District 2. I don't know if that's true, I think she just wanted space after I strangled her."

Leeg tells him, “When you invited Pissy did she show you any compassion? Or was it all about her?” 

“It just hasn’t gone well, I’m not proud of the way I treated people back then. I was something of an ass, even to Prim, and one time when I lashed at Johanna, I got a well deserved punch in the face. Today is the first day we've been civil to each other since my rescue. I still don't know why she even made the visit, or why she even bothered with Haymitch's updates. Did I answer your question? Or do you have more?" Peeta hopes that they are done.

“She's a piece of work, we all know that, we love listening to your roasts of Catpiss, I bought a tape recently, it’s comedy gold! I order you to tell us about the time you visited her.”  Tong says 

Peeta rolls his eyes “Where did you get the tape?” Peeta is mad and he wants to have it destroyed.

Leeg says: “An order is an order, comply, forget about the tape” 

Peeta continues: “When she came for some reason, I made sure to strike where it hurt. Back in 12 she was forced to be a star-crossed lover even in private. Cheating on Gale must have messed her up, but it didn't matter to me, I twisted the knife and called her a peice of work for all her troubles. And that's not all, you see, I was trying to find out why Peeta Mellark loved her, while insulting her at the same time. "

Tong says "Yeah she's short and ugly, and not particularly nice"

"That’s literally the bar I set, childish mudslinging." Peeta complains.

"It's the only bar Catpiss deserves, your orders are to reveal, what else? " Tong Says.

"In the cafeteria I was so petty, that I roasted an entire table. I joked about taking Annie from Finnick, and she was still mad at me about it when I reached out to them. I'm glad, they were willing to forgive me. Katniss seemed pretty devastated by the things I said to her, that shallow look in her grey eyes speaks for itself." Says Peeta

Leeg and Tong break out in laughter, and Tong says while laughing; "We know that look, we've seen it before as we were hosing her down"

Peeta feels disgust towards them, and tries to ignore them, he continues wondering if there is anything intimate in the hurt he caused her. "I’m not sure if she was just insulted or if my words have some sort of effect on her. Does she actually care about what I say because I’m the one who said them? No, I think she was just another person I bullied, which is a good thing since I said some nasty stuff to her.” he says.

“Shallow teenage relationships aren't the same thing as real love, lovers don't abandon each other  in their time of need” Leeg says 

“Yeah, I know that's what Coin said!" says Peeta

“And Coin as always is right” Tong says

Peeta says, “I've thought about it alot, and gone over all my interactions with her, I'm not Katniss but she could just as well be grieving me, and it would look no different from not caring at all. If Katniss was my lover and not Gale’s I don’t want to know the effect my words would have on her."

Peeta feels a relief that Katniss and he were not really lovers, that he's just a human muttation meant to kill, not emotionally maim. He just can't wrap his head around the idea that Peeta Mellark was loved, but it's just a scenario, his memories provide no answers, and some questions will never be answered. But he knew what Peeta Mellark wanted the most was to be unconditionally loved and to be loved back, it was so sad. He hoped that when he got better he would succeed where Peeta Mellark failed even as a human muttation. As he healed with 13's help he would be indistinguishable from any human. Peeta thought about how all the charm in the world could not give Peeta Mellark what he wanted, how his mother Myrna never fell for him. It isn't only the worthy who are loved, even the vilest creature can be loved, but Peeta Mellark put on a masks and was loved by no one. Who would love someone who's very existence is a drain on others? The shame of this consumed Peeta Mellark even if Mellark didn't know for sure who his father was, trying to overcompensate,Peeta reasoned created a person who deep down everybody knew was a fraud.

Leeg says: "Wake up!"

"Oh, sorry, what were you asking?" Peeta asks.

Tagging

@mollywog @persephoneprice @rosegardeninwinter @waywardangel-wilds(what's in the next chapter of a boy a girl and everything else? @strawberrymelllark @mega-aulover @writejenwrite @justafewberries @pitualba2015 @bentknife @tenaciousmoneymuffinzine @fyreflys @arthdoesart @dumbasswhorebug @the9thring @unnamednarrator @tryingssss @cutpaperbleedswater @arxhslayer @cutchh @eleanorjane0690

[nervouspearl]

"I will wait for you. Every time."

[daisybell-on-a-carousel]

"Jason was the happy robin" this, "jason was the angry robin" that. Let's all be fully honest here Jason was the lonely robin

[wolfwarrior142]

Callum has asked Rayla twice now to kill him if he's ever corrupted again. This time as like a barter. And this time, despite looking devastated, she finally (begrudgingly) agrees. And later this season, Callum is cleared of his dark magic corruption, but it also warned that if he does dark magic again it'll overwhelm him.

Man my dreams have already been haunted enough by death foreshadowing I can't take much more of it for these two.

[thealdersgateoffice]

Jackson Lamb and Catherine Standish: glances and gazes

Slow Horses | Season 3 🐌🐎