#there has to be SOMETHING. to mark them as distinctively NOT working class despite the working class job

[bauliya]

my personal theory of why characters like james bond and indiana jones and batman and the line cook in bear are sexy is that that particular rogue archetype combines working class male attributes of physical violence and manual labour with a bourgeoise genteelness so middle class viewers don't have to deal with the cognitive dissonance of finding male labouring bodies hot but not wanting to fuck poor people

[verdemoun]

What happens if the gang was found a document show about the reform school sean went to? Since sean never goes into detail what happen to him, what would their reaction/responses be?

Like, say there trying to find something to watch and they find this documentary about reforms schools, “oh, didn’t sean mention he went to one? Maybe we should watch it” and then they see a photo of one of the classes and then boom!! It’s a picture of sean

(Sorry this is weird or makes so sense)

People also forget Bill canonically went to reform school too.

Sean's started to drop some reform school lore, see here and here.

Lenny would get curious because despite it having been 12 years since Sean timewarped, and therefore decades since reform school, the subject still comes up the second Bill and Sean decide to go for a drink together not long after Bill timewarps.

Bill and Sean had always been able to talk in a way the gang hadn't understood, but the pair hadn't actually made the connection they both went to reform school until after timewarping and were very quick to discuss war stories and the horrors they endured in hushed whispers and dark humored laughter.

Lenny, politely eavesdropping as a concerned partner (it's always a concern when Sean starts drinking hard, considering how long it's been since he cut back to drinking socially) finally catches the name of the reform school Sean went to.

Lenny starts obsessing. Even in 1899, they knew what reform school usually meant. He'd watched documentaries, most about schools in the 20th century. He'd privately had nightmares about what Sean might have gone through. He thinks he has an idea. But now he has a name.

Not a lot of documentaries exist from that time period. But documents? Specifically state reports and judicial inquiries into abuse in those institutions that a college professor would have significantly easier access to?

Lenny is reading a 900-page report about Sean's reform school - the abuse, the horror endured by children at the hands of staff and other children during the years Sean must've been there. And then there's a photo: Reformee 1-8-4-8. Ironic: that's Sean's pin number. There's a lot of photos, none of a face.

There's something sickly nostalgic about old photos. Because to the gang, they're not really old. Images in sepia, blurred by motion - that's how photos looked to them. It's looking at a photo the way they're meant to be looked at for the gang, the way they grew up with and knew photographs.

Except Lenny can recognise those freckles. Not really freckles: moles. Those distinct spots that look almost black in grainy 1890s photographs. And fresh, bloody whip marks that he recognizes as faint scars running along Sean's lower back.

Lenny spent days reading the testimony of reformee 1-8-4-8. He read about being locked in the chapel cells - not cellar, cells, no different to prison cells, for days or weeks with only bread and water. Straitjackets with gags that left boys almost immobilized but if they found the strength to stand they would be punished with another day of the jacket. Sweatboxes, ironically named, where they were locked in boxes as small as coffins and hosed with cold water until they agreed to submit or froze to death. Boys in the shoe shop made to tan the leather straps that would later be used to beat them. The things that happened in the night.

He reads the testimony of an anonymous victim of this reform school, and then he sees his husband: happy, safe, laughing as he gives his daughter a piggy back ride around the room and whines to Karen that he's hungry only to be met with the typical onslaught of 'I have to get Maeve ready for school pick her up from school entertain her after school and all you do is deliver pizzas. If you're so hungry you should've got something from work!!'.

That night, Sean crawls into bed and kisses him with the same 'maybe?' grin he always has. And Lenny rubs the small of his back under his shirt, not to much feeling the scars but the way the muscle of Sean's back rises between each ridge.

And he tells him he's there, if he ever wanted to talk - about anything. About reform school, about the Ike Skelding gang, about 1899, Lenny will always listen.

Sean pauses for all of a second. A long second, but a second, before he laughs and says why would he want to when the now, the present, was all he wanted?

Lenny laughed, wrapped his arms around his husband, and watched the heavy rise and fall of Sean's chest as he fell asleep. Lenny did not. He laid awake, wondering if timewarp was a second chance for some more than others.

[stories-of-the-nrm]

The Prince And The Pauper

Everyone got on well with Flying Scotsman except Henry. Henry was jealous. Despite his struggles, he wasn't nearly as respected as the Flying Scotsman. Henry pulled passengers and heavy goods and had to survive a complete rebuild. In his eyes, the Flying Scotsman hasn't done nearly enough to be respected as much as he has.

"Tenders are marks of distinction," he complained. "Everybody knows that. Why's he got two?"

Even though he knows why Flying Scotsman is famous, it still doesn't explain why he's the only engine to have two tenders. In his eyes, he can't acknowledge Flying Scotsman's celebrity status.

"I never boast, but I always work hard enough for two. I deserve another tender for that."

"Henry," Duck asked innocently, "would you like my tenders?"

"Yours!" exclaimed Henry. "What have you got to do with tenders?"

"All right," said Duck. "The deal's off. I'm only a tank engine, so I don't really understand tenders. Perhaps James might..."

"I'm sorry I was rude," said Henry hastily. "How many tenders have you, and when could I have them?"

"Six, and you can have them this evening."

"Six lovely tenders," chortled Henry. "What a splendid sight I'll be!" That'll show the others the sort of engine I am!"

Meanwhile, word had gone round, and the others waited where they could get a good view. Henry was cheered to the echo when he came, but he wasn't a splendid sight. He had six tenders, true, but they were very old and very dirty. All were filled with boiler sludge!

"Ha ha ha ha ha," laughed the engines. To make matters worse, the Flying Scotsman was laughing at him as well. Instead of looking down on him, he laughs at Henry as if he was a peer. Henry had made a big mistake.

"How do you fancy your six tenders, Henry?" asked Duck. But Henry was so embarrassed, that he said nothing. He simply slinks out of the siding with the trucks of boiler sludge until he was able to uncouple from the train.

"Oh dear! I was so silly to pull such dirty objects. Especially in front of the Flying Scotsman!" Henry wailed. "To think the Prince of the steam engines saw me in such a state. It's bad enough that I was made of stolen plans, but to see me pull something so vulgar? Why that's just despicable!"

Henry continued to moan and groan about his plight. Unbeknownst to him, his regulator malfunctions.

"Bother!" Henry complained. "Whatever will happen next? Now they'll laugh at me again. I'm a 'failed engine'!"

His driver starts to send Henry down the line in reverse. He reached a signal box and stopped, not realizing that two diesels have broken down on the other line.

"My goodness," Henry gasped. "What happened here?"

7170 groans, "Spamcan here has broken down. Sir Topham Hatt had asked me to help, but I broke down too. Can you help us, Henry?"

Henry tries to say no, but his driver intervenes. "Moving two 'dead' diesels and their trains? That's no joke for a 'failed' engine. D'you think you can do it?"

"I'll have a good try," Henry says sighing. He gently buffered up to the train. So, with 7101 growling in front, and Henry gamely puffing in the middle, the long cavalcade set out.

When he got to the next station, he was shocked to see the Flying Scotsman waiting. "Well done!" he exclaimed.

Henry can't help but blush as he's uncoupled from the train and tries to roll into a siding.

"You know, I never quite caught your name. But what you did today really showed those diesels a thing or two."

Henry stares in shock. The Flying Scotsman is actually talking with him. Despite his embarrassing situation not even a few hours ago, Flying Scotsman was willing to speak to him with respect. Perhaps he was wrong about judging the Flying Scotsman.

"I-I'm Henry," he says stuttering.

The Flying Scotsman takes in the sight of Henry. "How on earth did an LMS Stanier Class 5 end up on Sodor?"

Henry is left speechless. He wasn't aware of the horrific nature the Mainland possessed regarding the treatment of engines. Therefore, he had no idea of the significance this interaction will be.

"I wasn't originally built to be one," Henry explains. "I had a horrible crash in 1935. Instead of trying to repairing me, I was sent to Crewe. Because Sir Topham Hatt had connections to William Stainer, he had me rebuilt with this design."

If he could nod, the Flying Scotsman would do so as a means to acknowledge what Henry is saying. "So what was your original design if your controller had deemed it unreliable?"

Henry takes a breath saying, "I was made from stolen plans. They were supposed to be a prototype for the GNR Gresley A1."

Flying Scotsman's "jaw" drops. "You? You were supposed to our predecessor?"

Henry can see that the Flying Scotsman's taken aback. "No. The plans were deemed a failure as my firebox was too small. It wasn't until after I was built that they realized their mistake."

"My goodness!" the Flying Scotsman gasps. This is a lot to take in. "To think if your plans weren't originally rejected, you would've been our predecessor. Why you're even older than my brother, Gordon. How on earth did you survive?"

"Not that long after I was built, I was pawned off to Sir Topham Hatt. He needed a heavy goods engine for cheap and got me instead. I was given chance after chance to prove my worth despite my small firebox."

The Flying Scotsman whistles with joy. "Cheers! You really are an enterprising engine. Keep up the good work."

He rolls out of the station and into the night as Henry watches on in amazement. The Flying Scotsman had acknowledged his worth and determination.

"For an engine of his status, he actually has taste. Finally, someone can see how useful I am!" Henry beamed. No more angsting over his failed design. Henry is THE enterprising engine. And he hopes to stay that way in the Flying Scotsman's eyes.

AN: Thank you @klein-sodor-bahn for requesting this one shot.

Tagging: @nelllia, @gordon208, and @glitterking599.

[royalarms]

for the botanical hc meme - bay tree, lilac, poppy! ♡ ⸻ @13nth

bay tree : does your muse seek glory & accolades , or do they favour a simpler , more personal life ?

he absolutely favors a simpler and more personal life . he loves the people around him and yearns for nothing more than to experience an average life full of love and peace . from a young age he's had this title thrust upon him that he did not want , and all of these rules , regulations , training regimens , titles , events , etc . , etc . and all he's ever wanted was to be a kid who got to play outside and sleep in on the weekends . that's a lot of the reason he presses to go to a public school . despite the barrier between him and the other students , he got to experience what they experience . he got to feel closer to feeling human . it's a lot of the reason he moved into his own apartment in his late teens ; the life in the citadel ? he never felt like that was his own , or that he truly belonged there . in a life born into extravagance , he cannot help but yearn for the simplicities of life . the struggle of a day - to - day working citizen . how can he love people in the way that he wishes if he can never understand them ?

lilac : what was your muse’s childhood like ? how has their upbringing affected them as they’ve aged ?

tw : parental death !!

so this definitely ties in with my last answer ! he was brought up being told he was special , some chosen king who will purge this star of its scourge , that he is a prophesied existence , which made him feel like this life was never his to live . like destiny would have its way with him and he'd not have a say in its unfolding . when he's really young , he doesn't understand . in actuality , i don't think he fully grasps it until he's forced to during the game's canon , but as a kid , it always felt like a heavy weight . his mother , aulea , passed away when he was eight years old , and his father , the king , regis , had little time to spend with him most days . he spent a lot of time training , studying , learning , reading . . . but it always felt a bit hollow . people loved him , but he never saw it in a way that they loved him for him . he saw their love as a respect for his title as prince and nothing more , leading him to a rather lonely and isolated feeling childhood . i do think the days he spent with aulea were warm , as well as regis , but after the traumatic daemon attack , things were never quite the same . his teenage years were spent dutifully studying and attending class , making great marks and exceeding academically as well as in the eyes of society . though , he didn't have many people he'd consider his friends . this is kind of when he starts forming stronger bonds with prompto , ignis , and gladio , though , so he starts to really spend more time with them , as with them , he begins to feel that sense of belonging he's always wished for . though , he still rejects his princely duties and easily cops an attitude when forced to accept them . again , he doesn't really accept he will one day be king until we see him struggling with it in game . it really is something he adamantly fights against thinking about despite the stress it causes as he pushes it away . of all of the things his kingship would include , a prominent one is the death of his father , and he had been forced to think of that each and every time one wished to prepare him for the throne . he rejected it and rejected it , feared it , until the day did finally come , and even still , he could not bring himself to call himself king . it's an internal battle he's fought all his life .

poppy : what comforts your muse ?

i think this one has two distinct answers ! it depends on how he's feeling and how/why he's seeking comfort . usually , no matter what , he will find comfort by lakeside or seaside , casting his line and watching the water as he awaits a fish's next bite . a particular breeze is often favored , and it helps to refresh his mind and clear his thoughts . for him , it's almost like a meditation . the quietness , the familiarity of the water , and the vastness of existence . he likes those moments of solitude where he can unwind and recharge , letting go of every day stressors and allowing him a chance to reconnect with himself .

sometimes , however , he craves the comfort of another person , or people . the simple of existence of domestic living aside the people dearest to him , who have his trust and care , and vice versa . he enjoys his solitude , but too much of it can feel isolating , and he's back to his childhood miseries . he loves companionship , despite his lack of experience in showing it , and truly enjoys himself when playing video games with his friends , watching movies , camping out together , sharing stories , and bonding . he doesn't always need a hug or a hand to hold , but more often than not , he'll take a warm body to sit aside a campfire with and chat about life .i

[hgjspringbooks]

Setting the event scene: There are days when the Cloud Recesses become just a little too much for Wei Wuxian. 

Specifically, the days where Lan Zhan is busy with some manner of sect business that keeps him occupied with things other than his husband. 

Wei Wuxian understands that need, even as he plans to spend his evening bemoaning the neglect he has suffered until his husband makes it up to him. At least twice. 

On days like these, Wei Wuxian likes to take himself to Caiyi, slipping out over the walls like a wayward youth sneaking away from his studies. 

Today is such a day. 

It’s one of the first warm days of the year, the sun shining, the last vestiges of snow turning to brown slush beneath his feet. He’s underdressed, too eager for springtime to bother with a heavy layer. Lan Zhan would be sure to scold him if he saw him out dressed like it’s summertime—he’d be right too. Wei Ying has always been more sensitive to the cold, his fledgling golden core still too weak to fend off more than the most mild of sniffles. 

But it’s worth it, to feel the sunshine on his neck and wrists. Besides, there are worse things in the world than Lan Zhan coddling him through a cold. 

Caiyi is invigorated by the warm weather as well. The little city is bustling, more lively than Wei Wuxian has seen it in months. Vendors call out to him as he passes, one aunty deliberately wafting a fan over the fresh meat buns she’s selling, blowing the fragrance towards him. He buys a half dozen, sinking his teeth happily into one before passing out the others to the kids who flock around his skirts, knowing him to be an easy mark for treats. 

All in all, it’s a pleasant day and Wei Wuxian is feeling content, despite missing his husband. He hopes the weather will hold out until tomorrow. He looks forward to dragging Lan Zhan away from his work into town. Maybe they can grab a meal together at the new shop that opened last year, where a family from near Yunmeng sells food that is very-nearly as good as what Wei Wuxian remembers. None of it is quite as spicy, no doubt adapted for the sweeter Gusu palate, but it’s close enough that it settles the quiet ache that Wei Wuxian carries for his home. 

He’s thinking about whether or not he could convince Lan Zhan to break his diet and try a bit of the yingshan pork, when something strange catches his eye.

At first, he’s not sure what it is, head turning automatically towards the strangeness. White robes, he realizes. It’s not so strange, to see white robes in the streets of Caiyi. But what is strange, is that Wei Wuxian has the distinct impression that the person is sneaking. They’re moving through the crowded streets in a way that is desperately trying for discretion, which, of course, just means they stick out even more in the crowd of easygoing shoppers. 

It’s too intriguing for Wei Wuxian to leave well enough alone. He’s a curious person by nature, after all, and a genius to boot. And as a genius, Wei Wuxian doesn’t know anyone who would wear white robes out and about in the muddy, spring roads of Caiyi except the exact sort of person who should never be sneaking: a Lan cultivator.

Wei Ying takes his remaining bun of the half dozen he’d bought, dividing it in two and handing one half to the pair of siblings currently quibbling over who deserves it most. “Go on then, rob a poor man blind,” he says, winking at each of them, before wiping his sticky fingers on his skirts and following the white robes as they dart through the crowd. 

It’s a disciple, almost certainly. Wei Ying can’t recognize them yet, following at a distance as he is, but he would guess by their size and the way they move—trained, yet awkward, as if still growing into their feet and knobbly knees—that they’re around sixteen. Which means, they are definitely skipping class.

He’s impressed, honestly. They might not be particularly skilled at sneaking, but for any Gusu Lan disciple to even try it is an act of rebellion that rivals anything Wei Ying could’ve gotten up to in Yunmeng in his youth. After all, in Yunmeng, it was expected for the disciples to get into a bit of trouble. To try things, to sneak around. It wasn’t against the rules to do those things. Attempt the impossible! wasn’t just a meaningless motto, so much as an edict guiding their education. What was against the rules was getting caught. 

It would be up to Wei Wuxian to teach this little Lan a bit of the tenets of rule breaking. After all, Wei Wuxian wasn’t the first disciple of the Yunmeng Jiang back in his day for nothing. 

The white-robed disciple stops abruptly. Wei Ying continues to meander with the crowd, keeping one eye on the disciple, who looks over both his shoulders in an exaggerated display of vigilance that makes Wei Ying want to belly laugh, before ducking into an alley. 

Interesting. 

Curious, and perhaps feeling a little mischievous, Wei Wuxian reaches into the sleeve pocket of his robes and activates one of the silencing talismans he keeps there for “emergencies”. Those emergencies usually involve Lan Zhan and far fewer onlookers, though, and Wei Wuxian is a little loath to use one for this. But he’s on a mission now. He takes the talisman out and smacks it onto his own chest before strolling casually over to the alley and peeking his head around the corner.

The disciple isn’t alone. They’ve crept into the shadowed corner of the alley, beneath the canopy of one of the adjoining buildings, melted snowing dripping on their shoulder in a rhythmic plink-plink-plink as they speak with a figure Wei Wuxian can’t quite make out. 

The dark figure is shorter than the disciple, but their voice is deep. They are conversing in rapid whispers, and Wei Wuxian is so delighted to catch a good little Lan junior cultivator in a criminal act that he can’t help himself. He strolls into the alley, silencing talisman still activated, until he’s right behind the cultivator. The shadowy man notices him first, jumping back as if Wei Wuxian had drawn a sword.

Not that he carries a sword anymore. Nor does he have a flute on him. Maybe he should’ve considered this before sneaking up on an armed cultivator, but Wei Wuxian has never been one for considering things. 

The Lan cultivator is, lucky for him, slow to notice the man’s reaction, their attention fully occupied with their ill-gotten purchase. Wei Wuxian lifts a finger to his mouth at the stranger, simultaneously tearing the silencing talisman from his robes. 

“My my, Lan-gongzi, what is that you have there?”

The Lan drops what he’s holding, hand flying to his sword almost faster than Wei Wuxian can stop him.

Almost.

But open closer inspection, this Lan is even younger than he’d guessed. Maybe fourteen, and the gawkiness of his limbs is more evident than ever in the tight confines of the alley. As such, Wei Wuxian manages to easily disarm him with a simple sidestep and a well-placed strike to his wrist. The sword clatters to the ground, and the disciple stares at him.

Wei Wuxian sees the moment when the little Lan realizes who he is, and thinks that the child is about to run off, leaving his sword behind. 

“Go on then,” he says, stepping out of his way. “And don’t forget your sword! I am not carrying it back.”

The disciple nods vigorously, feet slipping on the wet ground as they dip to grab their sword and bolt out of the alley.

“And I want five copies of the rules on the desk by morning!” he shouts after them. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t have a desk, nor that he has no idea who the kid was, nor that he has no intention of following up on the punishment. The kid’s a troublemaker, but he’s still a Lan. Wei Wuxian has no doubt that the copies will be done by nightfall. 

He notices movement behind him, and turns around just as the mysterious peddler attempts to sink into the shadows and make off down the alley. 

“Ah, where are you going, friend?” Wei Wuxian asks, smiling at the man so brightly that he freezes on the spot. “Why don’t you show me what you have for sale?”

“Please, forgive me,” the man says, dropping to his knees so fast that Wei Wuxian hears them crack against the stone. “I’m just trying to make a living—I mean no disrespect—please—”

He drops his head to the ground in supplication, hands splayed in front of him, barely a cun from Wei Wuxian’s skirts. 

Wei Wuxian has no idea what the man is talking about, but he isn’t about to let him know that. Whatever it is, the is clearly expecting some punishment. Given, he does live near the Cloud Recesses, which means his wrongdoing could be as simple as a book of rude poems. Or it could be something much more sinister. Wei Wuxian would hold his judgment until he knows more. 

“Stand and show me what that disciple was buying,” he says, channeling some of his husband’s cold power into his voice. The man scrambles to his feet immediately, reaching into his robes…then hesitates. 

“I—”

“Go on,” Wei Wuxian commands again. “Show me.”

The man closes his eyes and draws in a shaky breath as he takes a book from his robes. 

Hardly a book, actually. It is more like a pamphlet, roughly bound and dog-eared. The cover is blank, piquing Wei Wuxian’s interest further. What clearly well-read book would go unnamed, and yet be of interest to a young Lan cultivator? Is it a book of illicit cultivation? He hopes not. If it is, then he’ll have to report it to Lan Zhan, and the punishment will be far heavier than copying out the rules. 

He takes the book, turning it over in his hands, but it doesn’t appear dangerous. He sees no sign of curses tied to it. It appears to be nothing more than a book. 

Until he opens it.

It takes him several heartbeats to understand what he is looking at, his mind unable to make sense of how his own imagination has been poured into ink on a page.

When he does understand, though, he nearly stumbles, light-headed from the sudden surge conflict within him. Disbelief, awe, horror, lust, and, most of all—rage.

“Where did you get this?” he asks, his voice deadly calm. The man whimpers, and looks as though he’s about to drop back to his knees. 

“Young master, I—”

“Where. Did you. Get this.”

“I don’t know!” he shrieks, actually falling back to the ground this time. “A man, he comes through town every now and then with new copies to sell.”

“Copies? How many?”

“I—I’m not sure—”

“Then guess.” Wei Wuxian knows he shouldn’t but he reaches for the resentful energy around them, pulling it out of the stones and the mud, black tendrils circling the cowering man.

“Dozens.” 

Dozens. There are dozens of them—of these—?

“Give them to me.”

The man whimpers, and shakes his head. “I—I can’t. That’s the last. My last copy. They’re…they’re very popular.”

Wei Wuxian’s vision goes red. 

“Please—no, please!”

There’s a terrible gargling sound, and Wei Wuxian blinks the rage from his eyes. The man is bound by the resentful energy, one tendril looped around his throat.

Jaw clenched so tight that his teeth ache, Wei Wuxian forces it to let him go and the man falls into a pile on the ground with a wet slap.

“Th-thank you,” he wheezes as he catches his breath. “Young master, I—”

“If I ever catch you in Caiyi again,” Wei Wuxian interrupts, glaring down at him, “I will kill you.”

The man whimpers.

“Do you understand?”

A nod. 

“Then go. Now. Before I change my mind.”

He doesn’t have to tell him twice. The man is on his feet and running out of the alley in the span of a blink. 

Wei Wuxian, though, doesn’t leave right away. He stays in the alley, composing himself for a long moment, until he feels calm enough to open the book again.

The first page is an exquisite painting of a man, well-muscled, naked except for a sheet of fabric draped artfully over his lap. He is reclined but alert, staring off to the side as though waiting for someone. His hair is pulled back, a few tendrils escaping over his face and chest, draped over the snow white ribbon still tied along his forehead.

An inscription at the bottom of the page reads, Hanguang-Jun Bears His Light.

--------

Wei Wuxian returns home exhausted, and much later than he intended. 

He’d spent the whole day in Caiyi on an important mission: track down every copy of the damned book he could, and make sure Lan Zhan never found out.

The good news is, he’s fairly certain he has all of them. Or, all of them in Caiyi at least, unless people changed a lot more when he was gone than he’d realized and are suddenly a lot more resistant to being threatened.

Not that he’d threatened them, exactly. He’d just…insinuated that bad things might happen to them if they didn’t cooperate.

Ah, nevermind. That’s not what’s important now. Anyway.

What’s important is that it had taken most of the day, and now he has a very short window of time to work with to hide the damned books in the jingshi. It’s a calculated risk to hide them here, but he doesn’t trust leaving the vulnerable material out of reach, and for some reason, he can’t stomach the idea of just destroying them. Besides, if he studies them closely, maybe he can find some hint as to where they’re coming from.

Where to stash them in the meantime, though? The compartment in the floorboards is no good—that’s where Lan Zhan keeps the Emperor’s Smile. There the wardrobe, but Lan Zhan keeps it too neat for it to be good for hiding anything. 

The same is true of the whole jingshi, in fact, except for—ah, of course. Wei Ying rushes over to his table, where he does his work. It’s not an amazing hiding pace, being out in the open as it is, but he’s sure he left it here somewhere. Unfortunately, this is the one untidy spot in all of th jingshi, and Wei Ying has somehow managed to lose his qiankun bag under the stacks of talisman papers and notes. This is what he gets for mooching off of his husband. He never takes his qiankun bag with him—what would be the point, when he has a perfectly good husband with all those Lan muscles to carry things?

He shoves papers aside, not really caring where things end up. A pile of ground ink stick that he’d left “for later” ends up upturned over is latest notes. He ignores the ruined pages, resigned to fixing them later when—-

“Ah-ha!” He snags the bit of red silk cord peeking out from beneath the pile and yanks the qiankun bag free. “Found you, you little—”

“Wei Ying?”

Wei Ying freezes.

No no no, he’s so close. Never in his current life has Wei Ying been less happy to see his husband return home. 

“Lan Zhan!” he cries, spinning and doing his best to put himself between Lan Zhan and the pile of smutty books behind him. “You’re home!”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan hums.

“What kept you so late? It must have been something very important to demand the great Haguang-jun’s attention for so long ha-ha. If they still need you, I understand! This one will miss his husband, of course, but I understand that he is in high demand for greater things.”

Lan Zhan makes a face without actually doing anything with his face that is both achingly fond, and the equivalent to an eye roll. It’s exceedingly cute and makes Wei Ying’s heart do something flippy and fluttery in his chest. This man!

“My business is concluded for the evening,” Lan Zhan says, walking towards him. “Are you looking for something—”

“No!” Wei Ying screeches, jumping to his feet to intercept Lan Zhan before he sees.

Unfortunately, Wei Ying has created something of a series of obstacles. In the process of leaping to his feet, he lands on one of his many loose sheets of paper. It slips beneath him, and Wei Ying finds himself careening back down to the floor even faster than he’d left it.

Right until a pair of familiar, sturdy arms wrap around his middle and keep his face from making intimate acquaintance with the floor. 

“Ah—Lan Zhan, so good at catching me, always,” he laughs, patting those arms fondly. “I’m fine, though, really! I was just—ah—getting a little work done.”

Lan Zhan’s grip on him loosens and Wei Ying steps out of his arms just in time to see Lan Zhan reaching for one of the books. 

What happens next….well. Wei Ying might lose his head a little. That’s the only explanation for why he tackles his husband to the floor. It’s the only explanation for why he thought that might work.

It doesn’t, of course. Instead, Wei Ying ends up with Lan Zhan on top of him, eyes dark and heated as Wei Ying squirms to get free. He thinks maybe, for a moment, that Lan Zhan will be too distracted to notice the books, but…no. Lan Zhan is infuriatingly good at focusing on one thing at a time. 

“Lan Zhan, don’t—”

But it’s too late. Lan Zhan already has one of the books in his hand, opened to a random page in the middle, his ears immediately turning as red as if he had eaten a spoonful of Wei Ying’s chili oil.

“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, ah— I’m so sorry. I’m going to take care of it, don’t you worry. Whoever did this—well. I’ve got it, okay? Leave it to me. And don’t worry about it, okay? This book, it’s…it’s not even that good!  Well, no. The art is actually pretty good, but it doesn’t come close to capturing you! Anyone with eyes can see that the drawings aren’t even half as beautiful as you are,it’s a pale imitation, truly.”

Wei Ying’s snaps his mouth closed with effort, no longer even certain what he’s saying. But Lan Zhan’s face has gone hard, which is a bad sign. He waits, giving Lan Zhan space to find the whatever it is he wants to say. Is he angry with Wei Ying for bringing this filth into their home? But no, Lan Zhan has brought far lewder things to the jingshi himself. Is he feeling violated? Wei Ying meant to leave the killing in his past, but he can make an exception.

“You do not like it.”

Wei Ying blinks. The blinks again, as if that will make the words make sense. “Huh?”

“The book,” Lan Zhan says. “You do not like it.”

“Um.” Wei Ying swallows, feels his face heating as he remembers some of what that book contained. “I wouldn’t. Say that. But why…” he trails off, an interesting thought occurring to him. “Lan Zhan, do you want me to like it?”

Lan Zhan, notably, does not answer.

“But…Lan Zhan, aren’t you upset? That somebody used your image so…so….promiscuously?”

That makes him frown. “Books cannot be promiscuous.”

“No, right, I get that, but….wait.” Wei Ying pushes hijmself up onto his elbows, looking directly into his husband’s beautiful face. “Books? As in, more than one?”

There’s no mistaking the sheepishness in Lan Zhan’s humming reply.

“Does that mean there’s more than one of these types of books out there? And that you knew about them?” Wei Ying’s head is swimming. It doesn’t make any sense! “Why didn't you do anything about it?”

Lan Zhan doesn’t answer, but his ears are impossibly redder, the blush new spreading into the tops of his cheeks. He doesn’t look embarrassed, exactly. He looks…he looks…

Pleased.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says quietly, unable to keep the tease out of his voice, “do you maybe like having a book of sexy drawings of you out there?”

“Ridiculous.”

Wei Ying laughs and throws his arms around him in delight. “Yes, maybe, but my husband is a ridiculous man. After all, he married me.”

It’s too good. This man…how did Wei Ying get so lucky? 

“Not ridiculous,” Lan Zhan disagrees, wrapping his own arms around Wei Ying in turn and lowering him back to the floor so he’s lying on top of him. He places a gentle kiss against his neck, then bites. “Wei Ying is very marriageable.”

“Lan Zhan! Ah! Stop trying to distract me!” Wei Ying kicks his feet and playfully struggles. “Husband, gege...tell me. Do you like the drawings? Do you like people looking at them?”

“...mn,” Lan Zhan answers, hot face buried in Wei Ying’s neck.

Wei Ying thinks his heart is going to turn to go from how tender he’s feeling. He brings his hands up and runs his fingers through Lan Zhan’s hair, catching the ends of his ribbon and tugging. “Good. Thank you for telling me. But you know, Lan Zhan....the art could be better. It's so....uninspired. We could do better.”

That gets Lan Zhan to pull back out of the safety of Wei Ying’s neck to look at him.

“Wei Ying?”

“Come on, gege,” Wei Ying says, untying the ribbon and wrapping it around his hand. “Clothes off. I want to draw you.”

--------

Nie Huaisang has had one hell of a day. Running a sect is not an easy task. True, he’s managed to delegate most of the truly tedious work—nobody wants him to be responsible for things like counting anyway. But there are still decisions that have to be made that require his attention, and today had a high quantity of piddly items to handle. Truly, the worst kind of work.

It only fits that he should treat himself now that he’s done for the day, and it just so happens that he has just the thing in mind.

He unwraps the book delicately, taking time to admire the pretty cover and the new book smell. It’s the most recent installment of a new spring book series, written by a mysterious author who goes without even a pseudonym. 

The books have flooded the jianghu….secretly, of course, given the subject matter. Also, given the subject matter, he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised by his unexpected visitor.

“So, you approve, then?”

Nie Huaisang shrieks, diving beneath his desk, earning him a hearty laugh. “Wei-xiong!” he scolds, coming back out and rubbing at the space over his heart “You scared me!”

“I got that,” Wei Wuxian says, flashing him a smile. He comes away from the corner that he’d been lurking in, dropping into a sloppy seated position across from him. “But do tell me. What do you think of that?” He taps the cover of the book.

Nie Huaisang twists his fan in his hands, watching his old friend as he carefully chooses his words. “I don’t know,” he says. “I’ve only just seen it—”

“Ah, come on,” Wei Ying says, waving at him impatiently. “Don’t be so cautious with me! I want your really honest opinion! Do you like it? Do you approve?”

Wei Ying��doesn’t seem to be upset. Nie Huaisang quickly reassesses the situation. “Approve? It really is good work, Wei-xiong. Although I'm a bit surprised you're okay with this being out there!”

“Why's that?” Wei Ying asks, cocking his head to the side, the air of innocence so thickly applied that it would make a brothel worker blush. “The art is very good, I know, but it pales in comparison to the real thing. And I do have the real thing. Very real. Every night, we—”

“Yes, yes, we all know all about it!” Nie Huaisang interrupts, flapping his fan at him, really not wanting to hear it. “But Wei-xiong. Why are you here?”

Sharp is the only word Nie Huaisang can think of to describe Wei Wuxian’s smile. “I just wanted to bring you a little gift.”

“A gift?” Nie Huaisang turns redirects the fan towards himself, feeling a little sweaty. “Why?”

Wei Ying doesn’t answer. Instead, he reaches into his sleeve and pulls out a familiar book. Nie Huaisang doesn’t touch it, out of fear that it might curse him, or worse. Wei Ying must sense this, as he opens the books for him, to a particularly salacious drawing of Hanguang-Jun emerging wet from a pool of water, white robes clinging and transparent. Nie Huaisang recognizes it, of course he does, except this is different. The drawing is better, more realistic. Realistic in the way that makes Nie Huaisang certain that there had been a live model involved in its creation.

His hair blows back as he begins to fan himself harder. 

“Just a little thank you to the original artist,” Wei Ying says with a wink. “Fair's fair, after all.”

.

.

.

There is a new genre of spring book sweeping through the back alleyways of Caiyi Town...

Join the countless artists and writers paying tribute to HJG's beauty and add to their collection of Underground Spring Books from Feb 20-28, and then again March 20-28 for a make up week!

For more, check out our carrd!

Art by @lemonlushff / @lemonlushff-art Fic by @schwamb

[your-sweet-cookies]

📁📁📁

Send me a 📁 for a small random headcanon about my muse

���Kukki has a huge fear of thunderstorms. It dates back from a traumatizing event when she was little. One time her parents got stuck working late after hours, so she was all alone home by herself when a really nasty thunderstorm took place and the electricity went out too. Poor thing had to stay in utter darkness, all alone and scared while hearing the scary loud sounds of the roaring storm outside for what must've been hours. Now as an adult, if a nasty thunderstorm takes place, she's at risk of having panic attacks.

📂She was severely bullied in secondary school (and a bit in high school too) and things hit their worst peak around 6th grade, until there was a certain 'incident' that changed Kukki forever. That marked the moment when she finally stood up for herself, fighting back and never let a bully hurt or torment her ever again. It was the moment when she also made her oath of her vendetta against bullies to make them pay for what they do to innocent vulnerable victims like she used to be.

📂Funny enough, despite it now being one of her most distinctive traits, Kukki used to hate her hair originally because it was one of the 'reasons' she was bullied for. Her original hair color was black and she used to have it really long. Being naturally pretty, of course that was something which drew in the jealousy of the mean girls in her class, causing her to get picked on quite often. After the 'incident' in 6th grade, her hair became very short and she sported it like that until late into her highschool years. After graduation, since she wanted to turn a new page in her life and leave the past behind, Kukki decided to dye her hair silver (maybe symbolically expressing the deep scars left by her past traumas, since there's actually a well known syndrome that can occur when a person goes through an extremely traumatic event, which makes their hair turn instantly white. i.e. Kaneki Ken in Tokyo Ghoul) and since she slowly reverted back to a more feminine look, she also let it grow back to a longer length.

[titleleaf]

Could I get your commentary for resignation and cheerfulness?

I love your writing!!

Thank you so much! I am really enjoying the chance to revisit stuff via these ask, it's seriously brightening my week.

"resignation and cheerfulness" @ AO3 (The Terror AMC, Hickey/Goodsir mutiny camp noncon)

Mutiny camp Hickey is a real nasty one -- on the one hand here he's working through the death of Gibson but he's also acting out in an outsized, ghastly way the offense he feels at Goodsir's snobbery and perceived condescension. (Goodsir does have a capacity for class snobbishness and his comments regarding Hickey's imaginary mam show it even as he's acting out his own very warranted moral disgust at Hickey's crimes.)

Rereading multiple Hickey noncon fics (albeit with him in different roles) I've written in rapid succession I'm realizing I write Hickey with almost a fixation on dissolving the distinction between himself and others that might be made on the basis of sexuality -- it's especially nasty here when it's part of a whole complex of victim-blaming, coerced begging, and scurrilous gossip (news of the Marines includes news of the Marines' homophobic fan theories about science making you gay, I guess) but it's equal parts his own real anger at hypocrisy and stigma, and just being a nasty little bastard. "You hate me and think you're better than me, but you're the same as I am, all of you."

There's also a weird commonality of Hickey wiping stuff on people, I guess??? Dude has a prim little tidiness about him despite being a bed-shitting, brain-fingering little guy and I guess I love the derision of it, wiping jizz on people to mark them and sully them. Hickey does a lot of marking in this fic as a way of asserting dominance over Goodsir and asserting his control after Goodsir's perceived challenge to his authority, though weirdly I don't think it succeeds in reaching Harry on that level, Harry's just like "wtf, why is he biting me, I have scurvy too bad for this shit".

I wanted to do something with all the deeply humiliating and sexual mutilations that Goodsir endures in the novel -- RIP Goodsir's testicles -- and his and Hickey's parallel roles as knife-wielding dissectors, RIP Irving's dick and balls. I also lean really hard on the physical debility of scurvy in this fic, which in hindsight is really impressively nasty -- I can't remember where I read about the possibly-spurious notion that scurvy's effects on the senses render its sufferers more vulnerable to aesthetic shocks, it might have been in Caleb Crain's work, but I really laid into the absolute grimy nastiness of the body in this fic. Lots of penetrability and wounding, lots of unexpected fragility. Goodsir being especially aware, in a horrifying way, of what's happening to his body is also a fun part of using him as a POV character for physical horror. He's still a man of science to his core and he's inquiring and intellectually curious even when it hurts him.

At the same time Goodsir being both so physically and psychologically numbed that what's being done to him feels strangely distant... he is TRULY going through it.

Unintentional Christ imagery in Harry being given vinegar to drink; the use of vinegar as a would-be scurvy cure seems to be a common recurring theme in the 18th and early 19th century and it's interesting to me that it displaces the power of lemon or lime juice to combat scurvy onto their sourness and acidity, and tries to make do on that front. Fanwanking how Hickey looks so relatively hale and hearty even to the very end is one of my great joys in life.

I cannot remember for the life of me where the title of this fic comes from, which is a pain in the ass -- "resignation and cheerfulness" is a recurring sort of stock phrase for Christian endurance and it occurs in many texts, including Bligh's Narrative of the Mutiny on the Bounty. (I hc Hickey as a bit of a Bounty mutiny stan. Major first-date red flag.) I also don't think that I super get across in my Terror fic the kind of climate conditions they're all dealing with -- locating a scene in a specific physical place is a challenge for me, in general.

[witchofinterest]

So, were reading the gospels in my new testament class and I was very excited that there were two named after two of my favorite characters from the following. Sadly, I didn't see much either of them in the gospels. But I did find something interesting.

Both gospels tell the same stories with slight differences, which makes sense with them being similar twins though having distinct personalities. The gospel of Mark was written before Luke, despite in the show Luke being the older twin. Maybe these names were random (I don't believe that but I'd be remiss to not consider it). Mark's gospel is shorter and to the point while Luke's is longer and had more detail while in the show Luke dies and we get to see Mark develop for another season.

In the gospel of Mark he naively took in his first apostols while in Luke he had to work for it, which parallels how he takes in his followers in season three despite how untrustworthy they all turned out to be. In Luke it's said the followers should not bring a staff but their instructed for just that in Mark, which has another in show parallel since Luke in the show is kidnaped and still takes on the FBI with nothing while I can't remember Mark ever fully being without a weapon. Interestingly, in Mark when they go to Jesus's tomb there's one man while in Luke there's two, perhaps a hint to the eventual fate of Mark being left alone in the show. In Mark when there told about Jesus's fate post crucifiction, they tell no one while in Luke (and the other 2) they tell everyone. Another hint maybe, since Mark ends up all alone with no one to even confide his final revenge plan in.

[jjungkooksthighs]

Edacity | jjk (m)

Pairing: boyfriend!jungkook x reader

 Genre: platter of smut, the barest hint of fluff and the tiniest garnishment of angst / nonidol!au / college!au

 Rating: 18+ / nsfw

 Word Count: 8.2k

 Summary: After a rough day at college in your biochemistry class, you come home to your boyfriend, who is sweetly making you dinner. In his efforts to help calm you down, he only riles you up when you realize that it’s not the food you’re hungry for…it’s him.  

 Warnings: dom!jungkook, possessive!jungkook, jealous!jungkook, big cock!jungkook, sub!reader, lots of dirty talk (let’s face it I love that shit), praising, fingering, grinding, fellatio (cock sucking), cock worship (just a smidge), unprotected sex (reader has a birth control implant in her arm but Koo doesn’t like condoms, so yeah), breast/nipple play, nipping, marking via hickeys, sucking, pussy stretching, rough and possessive sex, begging, muscle kink, scratching, precum play if that’s a thing, manhandling, pinning down, cursing, wet and messy sex (kind of), degradation kink (koo calls you a slut a couple times but that’s about it), size kink, hair pulling

 A/N: This fic is brought to you by 201008 Jungkook from the “Savage Love” video he posted. I saw it, got horny and then wrote this filth. Blame him for this, not me. Also, please let me know what you guys think. Your feedback means more to me than you know. Tagging @nervouskiwi​ , @tricethecharm​ and @nightshadevinter​ per their request! 

The door to your apartment opens and shuts with a heaved sigh from you as you drop your bag to the floor with a thump, the day’s toil stemming from an unhelpful and unknowledgeable lab partner finally taking its toll on you while you rub your eyes as if to clear away the sight of the freshman boy who’d stared dumbly at the temperature probe and gas pressure sensor before asking you which was which in your biochemistry class. After that, he’d proceeded to clumsily knock over the catalase solution you were meant to measure enzyme activity with on several occasions in his ceaseless cloddishness.

 Even your professor had not noticed your lab partner’s negligence despite the seven times that you’d had to go procure a new vial of solution from the back of the classroom and when you’d asked to just do the lab alone upon finding out that your lab companion didn’t even know how to work the magnetic stirrer, your teacher still had not yielded to your plea. You had ended up doing all of the work and your efforts had gone entirely unnoticed to all but yourself. Well, almost everyone.

 “Bad day?” The mellifluous voice of your boyfriend of three years wafts over to your ears and you don’t have to open your eyes to know he’s in the kitchen directly to your left, your body instinctively wanting to seek the comfort of his warm embrace after such a long day. The sound of him already has the agitation crumbling, his voice the music to your ears that you are sure you will never tire of.

 “Terrible,” you whine, “my professor paired me with someone that didn’t even know what the equipment we were using was called. I had to do all the work.”

 “Aww…I’m sorry to hear that. Come here, babe. I’ll make it all better, yeah?” He asks.

 Your body is already moving at that and there’s the distinct clinking of a utensil against cookware that dots the space of your shared apartment. When you breathe in the succulent smell of sundubu-jjigae (one of your favorites of his) the earlier irritation is drawn away as you take in the aroma that has your stomach rumble tellingly in hunger. You really hadn’t been in want of food before you walked in, so now you’re not sure if it’s the dinner that has you craving or if it’s the person that made it.

  Wanting to look upon the source of the delicatessen, you open your eyes to find your boyfriend who is already gazing softly at you while he-with one occupied and tattooed hand-attends to the stew and it is as if the frustration is drained from you immediately as you drink in the sight of domesticity.

 His hair has been drawn up in a manbun that would be an instant panty-dropper if he went outside right now with the way that he’s left some of his chocolate brown fringe to frame each side of his face. It is wavy with the water from the shower he must’ve taken in the way that it darkly curves to the sides along his eyes and that alone has you suck in a breath. You let your eyes trail downward, your own malnourishment throughout the day causing familiar hungry desire to begin to pool heatedly within you at the visage of the black pajamas you’d bought for him a week ago after he’d ripped his previous pair apart in one particular voracious spur of energy to hastily plunge himself into the silken depths of your pussy. The striped shirt he now wears is open deliciously into a perfect ‘V’ shape that boasts the luscious expanse of his chest all the way down before tortuously stopping at the crest before his navel. He wears the matching pair of pants, their length giving a salacious view of his calves that you are sure the gods themselves must have had a hand in crafting.

  In the dimmed light of the kitchen, you can see the shadows that curl temptingly around his abdominals, your fingers inadvertently twitching against your sides in your want to touch, to feel him again.

 You know from experience how defined his chest is. You know how hot his skin is against your fingers. You know the bliss his body grants, for he has reminded you timelessly in the way that his perfect cock finds its dwelling in the wet warmth of either your mouth or your pussy as he brings you to paradise. You’re quite sure that you’ll never be able to sate yourself of him, the memory of him driving his cock into you from this morning bringing a familiar wave of desire to wash over you. You’d left him on the bed with a hardened cock after round two upon deciding to ride his thigh, thoughts of his pleading words and strained expression living in your thoughts all day long in your decision to punish him for grinding his cock into your ass so early into the morning.

 Usually he wouldn’t have gone so easy on you, but after all your texts throughout the day that were telling of your stresses, he couldn’t find it in himself to discipline you. Wanting to ensure that you felt better, he had decided to wait. After all, patience was a virtue, as you had told him before.

 Before you know it, you’re standing before him, one of his arms winding around you to pull you close as you let your irises dip from his eyes to those lips of his that must’ve been created by the devil himself in how they tempt you. Your boyfriend watches with interest, arousal coloring him internally when you look back up at him, your eyes beginning to cloud over in lust as you slide your hand down the sliver of his chest that he’s left uncovered for you. His skin receives you as if it had been waiting for this very moment, his muscles flexing proudly as you stroke the heated skin with appreciation. He’s more taut than usual under your touch which means he must have gotten back from the gym some time ago in the way that his muscles are tightly tensed from such use.

 It is that thought that has you press your lips to his in a heated kiss, your tongue sliding through his parted lips to kittenishly lick along the roof of his mouth to earn a groan from him, the sound caught between your lips and travelling with sonic speed right down to your pussy. He takes control when you try to wrap your tongue around his, the hot muscle plunging straight into your mouth as the other hand he’d been using to stir the stew abandons its earlier movements to find purchase on your ass as he squeezes you firmly between his fingers. When you disconnect, it is with a pant after the breath he has stolen from you.

 You breathe, “You’ve already made it better, Kookie, but do you want to know something?” You question as you bring your lip between your teeth, enjoying the way his eyes fix on that action as the inklings of desire begin to manifest in his eyes, in the way the soft exterior he’d been showing earlier begins to melt into something darker and far more primal under your attention.

 “Tell me, baby,” He husks as you close one hand around the silk of his shirt to bunch the fabric between your fingers as you dare to unearth the heated skin of his left pectoral, “If this is how you’re going to greet me, I would very much like to know.”

 When your mouth descends upon him to give soft, featherlight kisses along the line of his exposed chest, you manage to utter between them, “I bet the food you made for us is delicious, but the only thing I want to taste right now-” you peer up at him through a fan of dark lashes “-is you. You’re the only one who can give me what I really crave.”

 Your boyfriend’s eyes darken instantly at that, his other hand finding its place along your ass and you need no instruction to wrap your legs around him as he lifts you like you’re a feather only to prop you back down on the cold, hard countertop as he growls, “What a needy little girl you are. Didn’t have enough of this cock this morning, huh? God, you’re such a slut for me, aren’t you?”

 He lowers his head and you instinctively bare your neck for him, your legs spreading so he can step between them as you let your head fall back while one of his hands is already there to cup your nape in his effort to hold you there. You both keep your eyes locked on each other the whole time, desire burgeoning to life wildly within you as he peers at you with a hooded gaze while he moves torturously slow to where you want him and finally, finally, his lips find their home in a hot, open-mouthed kiss on the sensitive spot on right under your ear. 

The warmth of his mouth has you gasp, your back straightening as one of your hands finds purchase in his hair to coax him downward as you mewl, “Yes, Kookie…yes. I’m only a slut for you. It’s only ever been you.”

 You hastily unbutton his shirt while he lets you and instantly you’re salivating at the perfect canvas of him that is presented to you as the offending piece of clothing is pushed off his shoulders. Your palms, magnetized to him, splay over his abs, catching on the ridges of the defined set of muscles as they jump excitedly under your touch while you trail your hands upward. He sighs in satisfaction against your skin when the pads of your fingertips graze his dark nipples and you nearly coo at the sound of that alone.

 “That’s right, Y/N. No one else makes you this desperate, huh?”  He manages between kisses.

 You nod as much as you can in this position and you feel the way his lips turn upward in a smirk borne of the boost to his ego, his lips descending down the column of your neck in a wet trail and it is when he gets to the jugular notch between your collarbones that he presses the wet, heated muscle of his tongue to the delicate skin there that you keen, your fingers curling inward within his hair as he hisses at the pull and in punishment, nips you there. 

You are utterly powerless to stop your juices from collecting along your folds that you know is going to ruin your underwear. Without thinking, your hips begin to search for friction and you grind against him, the warm bulge of his member hardening under your ministrations.

 “A-ah, Kookie, please.” You beg for his mercy and his grin deepens as both of his hands run down your clothed arms. His mouth continues to trail across the sliver of skin over your shoulders and when his hands make another pass upward along you, you watch the way that his brows scrunch together as if disturbed by something and suddenly his devilish mouth is gone. The unforgiving cold is left in his absence and you whine at his loss, not understanding why he has stopped.

 Both of his hands settle on the countertop to either side of you as he leans forward, his tongue hotly poking against his cheek in a sight that only makes you wetter when his eyes narrow, “You smell different. Why?”

 Your boyfriend has always had a sensitive nose, but right now, you’re hardly in the mindset to think about what it is that he’s disgruntled about as you whimper, “Kook, I was doing a lab and dealing with chemicals. That’s all, okay?”

 You watch his fingers curl inward until they’re white with how hard he’s gripping the marble, his jaw setting as he hisses, “This morning you left smelling like me after I fucked you,” he grasps your chin with one hand, “Now you smell like someone else. Explain or you will get none of this cock that I know you want so bad.”

 You try to think past the haze of desire, you really do, but all you can do is blink owlishly as you try to navigate the sea of want for him that has filled your mind. Under his piercing gaze, you’re frozen in place and you swallow thickly to manage the only answer that your mind can supply with a stammer, I-I… It was my lab partner,” you watch his expression begin to contort in anger and before he can sink further into the emotion, you put both hands to either side of his face in effort to keep his attention on you, “He kept brushing against me when I was doing measurements for the assignment, Jungkook. It was nothing. He is nothing to me. I promise.”

 You hadn’t really thought of the implications of the first thing that you’d said, but you could see the momentary fury that had begun to color his very irises and wanting to quell it, you urge him close, your hands falling to rest on his chest as you plead with your eyes for him to understand. You both have been together three years and deep down, your boyfriend knows you would never betray him like that, but the lion of possession within him had roared loudly and there was little he could do to quiet it without the reassurance you had been so quick to feed it with.

 Before you have time to process anything, your shirt has been torn from your body and lands somewhere behind you, but you have no care for that right now. Instead, your focus is on Jungkook, the anger that had begun to set in his irises overtaken by something far more carnal as he orders, “Get on your knees, Y/N. I think you need to be punished for letting someone else touch what isn’t theirs. You’re mine,” he boldly wraps a hand around each breast to give a harsh squeeze, “show me you can be a good girl and suck me off until all you know is the feeling of me on your tongue.”

 His words have fresh arousal depositing itself between your thighs and with a submissive nod, your body obeys. He watches you with a darkened, lustful gaze as you lower yourself to the hardwood floor, your hands still by your sides while your boyfriend, all in one go, sheds his matching pajama pants until they puddle along his feet abandonedly. 

Your mouth waters at the sight of his thick, muscled thighs that you’ve fucked yourself on more times than you count, but your salivary glands do not fully exert themselves in hunger until your irises trail up to the thick shaft that arches deliciously upward as a constellation of veins scale along it all the way up the bulbous head that is already wet with precum. His tip rests artfully along his abdominals in some kind of lewd painting brought to life that you could stare forever and a day at, a whine coming from your lips as you lick them.

 Your boyfriend watches with interest as you ogle him and when he sees the pink of your tongue draping itself sinfully against his lip, he declares, “If you don’t get your mouth on me right now, baby, I’m going to fuck your face later, yeah?”

 That one has you moaning in thought, your boyfriend’s lips turning up in a smirk as you quickly lean forward, both hands trailing slowly up his legs and compressing around the thick, corded muscle as you do. When your hands find his member, you lightly run the tips of your fingers over his aching dick, the veins there throbbing energetically at your touch. He groans at that and then one of your hands encircles itself over his base where you gently squeeze the half of him that your fingers can reach, your other hand curling around him and stroking up and down as he grunts in pleasure, his eyes screwing shut.

 You swallow with some effort when your thumb runs over his slit to collect more of his fluid before swathing it along his glans as you ready him for your mouth. He’s already substantially hard, but you have no doubt that he will become even more so when you finally do suck him off. He really does have the world’s most perfect dick and you don’t think you’ve ever seen a thicker, bigger and better one than his. 

Granted, you’ve only ever actually seen and felt his, but you have never had a wish to have anyone else’s. You couldn’t possibly have room to want anything else when he fills you so deliciously, when he fits inside you like he was made for you.

 “Such a nice, pretty cock, Kookie…thank you for letting me have it,” you praise.

 As you bring him toward your waiting mouth, you blow out a puff of air to have him suck in a breath, his jaw clenching as one hand finds itself in your hair to guide you forward. With one final look up to his face, you take him into your mouth to watch his face contort into an expression of pleasure, his eyebrows scrunched together and his hair veiling his face to the point where you can only see his eyes based on the glint in each iris that flashes erotically at you as he takes a stuttered breath. 

Your walls clench contract around nothing as his member fills the wet cavern of your mouth while you try to take him as far as you can. Even like this, your hand still holds his base in his profound length despite the fact that you’ve gotten him as far your throat will allow.

 You’ve deep-throated him many times in the bliss that you have discovered you can grant him and now will be no different. There is nothing that you enjoy more than knowing that you alone can give him pleasure.

 When you’ve fitted him inside your mouth a little bit more, that’s when you run your tongue along his length before sucking, your cheeks hollowing out as you do. Your boyfriend’s fingers tighten in your hair as he growls, “Yeah, that’s it, baby. God, you’re so perfect for me. That little mouth takes me so fucking well.”

 You swallow around him, drawing him deeper into your throat as you all but guzzle him in your ministrations. He leaves a salty taste on your tongue in the precum that you collect and you can’t say you don’t fucking love the taste of him. You hungrily slide your tongue over his slit before kittenishly licking along the sides, a guttural moan tearing itself from the recesses of his body as he bucks under your ministrations.

 When your boyfriend opens his eyes to peer down at you, it’s enough to have his cock throb inside your wet warmth. The way that his cock disappears beyond the cradle of your lips is sin itself, but the way that you stare heatedly at him with desire simmering hotly in those irises of yours…Jungkook thinks if eroticism had a picture, you would be it right now. 

He’s just hit the back of your throat and because of that, drool has begun to pool along the sides of your mouth and fondness floods him at the sight, his thumb brushing away the spit only to lather it over your lips as he croons, “Look at my beautiful, messy girl starting to fall apart on my cock. Fuck, you’re so good for me, Y/N. Such an obedient little girl,” you suction your mouth intensely around him at that, “Think you can take me farther? I bet you can fit all of me down that tight throat of yours if you really try.”

 His praises have your walls fluttering around nothing as you engulf him impossibly farther into your mouth with another swallow, the wet slurping sounds of your ministrations filling the room as he starts to massage your head through tightened fingers that pull at the roots of it. You inhale through your nose, unable to any longer breathe through your mouth through the cock that blocks your airway and in one fluid motion, you press forward and try, but fail, not to gag around him as his dick sinks further into your throat.

 Tears instantly threaten to fall from your eyes as they water, your vision becoming blurry as you sputter against his dick. The sensation of your throat closing around him earns a hiss as he responsively thrusts his cock into you, unable to stop himself from chasing his pleasure.

 You let him fuck your mouth, enjoying the sounds of rapture that tumble freely from his mouth and content in the knowledge that you are able to gift him this euphoria. Tears are quick to fall from your eyes as you suckle him, the wide girth of him easily hitting your gag reflex in the back of your throat as you trail your tongue along the underside of his shaft while you slacken your jaw to ease his access.

 Your boyfriend coos while he watches your tits rise and falls with the efforts of your breaths, “Such beautiful tits, baby. If you hadn’t been a bad girl earlier today, maybe I could have used them as a cocksleeve. I bet you would have liked that, too, you dirty slut.” 

 You preen at his words with a moan, the vibrations of that heightening his pleasure and it is when you slide a free hand under him to grasp and fondle his balls that are extremely full in the seed that aches with need to be released that he grunts with fervor and when you roll them in your hands like dice before you gently run the pads of your fingers over them, he throws his head back, his mouth parting as he drives his cock into you one more time. With how far down his cock hits at your larynx now, you can’t see him any longer through the blurred vision as tears stream down your cheeks while you cry out his name.

 “Fu-fuck, baby. I can’t l-last much longer if you keep doing that. You really love this cock, don’t y-you? Tell me how much you love it. I w-wanna hear it with my cock in your mouth.” He manages through labored breaths.

 You hum in agreeance, the burn of his dick inherently insistent as he moves and the vibrations your sound makes has his cock throbbing dangerously as it begins to swell in warning of his impending end. He’s so hard already and your pussy aches to receive him, your walls contracting around nothing at the feel of his hot member between your lips.

 “I love it, Kookie. I love it so much. Love how big you are.” You splutter despite the very large dick currently nestled between your lips.

 You make a point to show him by swiveling your hand around what little of him is beyond the reaches of your mouth at this point while your other hand drags itself downward from his balls to rub at his perineum. That one has his back bowing inward, his fingers fisting in your hair as he groans and you can feel how his cock pulses in warning of his climax that you cannot wait to taste the fruits of as you flick your tongue along his length once, twice and then three times before suddenly, with a guttural sound, his fist pulls at your hair roughly to effectively extricate himself from your mouth as he breathes laboriously above you.

 You both watch as your spittle clings to his cock in a thin line in its attempts to remain connected to him until it sadly breaks off and away. You whimper at the loss of him, blinking up at him far too innocently for someone that just had a dick rammed down their throat and you watch the way his eyes flash cravingly at you only to rub your neglected thighs together in search of some friction.

 “As good as that was, baby,” he lowers himself down to your level to wipe away the tears that had collected along the sides of your face as he darkly declares, “there’s somewhere else that I want to cum in today and you’re going to let me, aren’t you?”

 You nod without a thought, his hands are quick to wrap around your waist and lift you with ease until you’re splayed out on your back for him along the countertop that is mercifully long enough to support your torso. Your legs dangle precariously off the edge, but they never reach the floor and like this, you’re granted an unfettered view of him, his now engorged dick standing to attention along his abdominals and when you peer up at his blown out irises, you release a shaky sigh in anticipation as he licks his lips like you’re a meal he’s about to fucking devour.

 “You know, I wanted to eat you out, baby. I really did,” he husks as he steps forward between your legs that you part in invitation, “but you sucked me off so good that now all I can think about is ramming this cock into you so hard that you won’t remember anything but my name and getting my fill of you until you milk me fucking dry, Y/N.”

 Arousal ignites within you at that and you pleadingly implore, “I want you to do that, gods, I do, but first, Kook…kiss me. Please, kiss me. After that, you can fuck me to your heart’s content.”

 You don’t know how you find yourself wanting even more of him, but you do. His mouth, you are sure, is the work of an incubus in the way that it can work sinfully against you. The words that tumble from them light the fires of desire within you and just want to feel the warmth of his lips again, honestly. 

 He arches a brow at this as he leans over you, one hand finding purchase along your waist as he rasps, “You want me to taste myself, baby? Is that it?”

 You can tell by the lilt in his voice that he’s playing with you and you already know this is a game he will ultimately lose, for you have a trick up your sleeve that he forever and always falls for. You let your hand slither along your body, your index finger dipping between your wet folds while he watches with a hooded gaze as you bring your soiled hand to your lips to dapple your essence over them like a lewd lipstick before you angle your chin up invitingly to beseech, “Won’t you taste me, Kookie? Don’t you want to taste us? Please,” you whine,” all I want is a kiss. No one...no one kisses me like Jeon Jungkook. Please, Kookie. I want your mouth so bad.”

 Your boyfriend brings his lip between his teeth at that as he lowers himself down to your level, his sinful irises burning heatedly into your skin as he utters, “That’s it, baby. I love it when you beg for me. So fucking hot.”

 With that, his lips descend over your own, your arms wrapping around him as you mewl into his mouth. He consumes you and drinks from you like you’re his last means of sustenance, his lips capturing yours in voraciousness as his tongue runs boldly along them in quick movements of possession before he’s sliding the wet muscle everywhere he can reach in his mission to claim the depths of your wet cavern. He can taste the remnants of himself on your tongue and with the sweet juices of your sex that you’d lathered over your lips, it’s a combination he has come to thoroughly enjoy the taste of in how well flavor of you both coalesce into something so tangy.

When he’s satisfied with his mapping of your mouth, he draws your lower lip between his teeth before suckling the tender flesh to have you gasp at the sensation.

 Distracted by that alone, you do not notice the hand of his that isn’t currently attached to your waist that snakes slowly downward to slip with ease under your grey sweatpants and between the silk panties that cover your womanhood. Your breath hitches upon the sensation of his long, tattooed fingers dragging themselves against your slit and you’re not surprised at the generous collection of your juices that make his digits glide along your folds, but he hiss he makes is delicious when he curses, “Fuck, Y/N. You’re this wet when I haven’t even touched you? God, you really are a slut for me, huh?”

 With one hand, you entangle your fingers along the hair at the nape of his neck as you breathe, “Only for you, Jungkook. This is all for you.”

 He plunges one finger inside you at your response and immediately sibilates at the way that your wet warmth welcomes his digit enthusiastically and energetically. With as wet as you are, you know that you will have no problem taking him, the considerable amount of slick between your legs tangible evidence of your need to receive and welcome him into your sex. It takes no time at all for him to add a second finger, one thumb rubbing at your clit as you moan his name, your eyes falling shut as under his ministrations. Warm waves of heat fall over you under his touch and you bask in his avid attention. Without extricating his hand from your pussy, he orders, “Take off your pants, baby. I want to see this pretty cunt while I fuck it.”

 You heed his command, one hand disconnecting from around his neck to hurriedly discard your pants and underwear along the floor in one fell swoop as your boyfriend’s hungry irises flick downward to feast upon the visage of your dripping cunt. Something about the way that his fingers disappear into your wet depths transfixes him, the squelching sounds that your pussy makes going straight to his core as arousal flares within him. Wanting to prepare you for him as thoroughly as he can, he continues to swirl his fingers over your clit in measured circles before the two fingers he’s got inside you curl inward in a come hither motion. The sensation has you throwing your head back, a stuttered cry coming from your lips as your fingers tighten in his hair and your unoccupied hand latches onto his strong bicep in search of something, anything to cling to.

 His vision darts upward to your face to catch your expression shift to one of pleasure under his touch, thick and heavy desire for you demandant in its need that manifests in the ache of his cock that pulses with need to find its home within your silken walls. He yearns for you so much now that it’s almost painful to bear it when the source of his relief is only a few inches away and, distantly, he thanks the gods above that you’d gotten a birth control implant before you’d both become intimate for there is no greater heaven, he is sure, than when he is burrowing his cock into you velveteen walls and finishing there where he belongs.

 He lowers himself to your ear, his warm breath pebbling your skin as he husks, “What do you want me to do to you, baby? Do you want this? Or,” you whimper loudly when his fingers are pulled from your pussy only to hitch your breath upon the hot, hard member he is quick to slide against your generously lubricated folds, the edges of him torturously dragging just above your waiting slit as he smirks darkly, “do you want my fat cock? Fuck, you really just can’t get enough of me, can you?”

 You mewl when he takes your earlobe between his teeth, his tip brushing along the tender bundle of nerves along your clit, words escaping you beyond his name as you manage, “Jungkook.”

 You watch as he angles himself along your sopping entrance, the continued sweep of his dick across your folds an erotic sight that has heat lather itself like honey over your core as you wrap your legs around him in answer. Words elude you like your mind is caught in his maze and with every stroke of his cock between your sensitive labia, your mind is brought to a dead-end that you have the truest of troubles navigating.

 Your boyfriend takes your silence as disobedience, both hands laying possessively over pierces you with his commanding gaze, “I asked a question, baby. I require an answer if you want to get fucked,” he punctuates this to mercilessly poke his tip against your entrance while squirm against him, “Use that pretty mouth and tell me what you want or else I’m going to tie you up and leave you crying for me on our bed while you get to watch me finish myself off with my own hand.”

 His words have fresh arousal depositing itself within your folds as you mewl, but under his ministrations that have him running his cock along your sex, his dick catches your newly released taint when you wrap your legs around him in your effort to encourage him inside and he hisses at the sensation as your labia embrace and enfold around his member as he squeezes your sides tight enough that there will be marks there tomorrow in the shape of his fingertips.

“Tell me now, Y/N, or you’re going to be punished. You’ve been so good, baby. Do you really want to be naughty now?” He rasps as he uses the grip he has on your hips to pull you even closer, the promise of sin flashing dangerously in his eyes through the fringe that falls along them.

 Powerless to resist his demand, you submissively whisper, “Want …want your big cock. Want you to fuck me so good with it that I can’t walk and for you to paint my pussy with your seed. God, Jungkook, I want you so much right now. Can I please, please have your cock inside me?”

 Your boyfriend leans up to tower imposingly and commandingly over you, excitement flourishing within you in the anticipation of what he’s about to do to you as he smirks while he angles himself toward your entrance and with a flick of a dark brow, he warns, “Prepare yourself, baby, because I’m not going to go easy on you. I’m going to fucking ruin you because that’s what you deserve for getting me so fucking hard for you, (Y/N).”

 That is all the caution he gives you before, all in one go, he propels his length inside you with a sharp thrust of his hips. You moan as he enters you and he doesn’t stop until he’s fully sheathed within you, his tip just barely missing the cluster of nerves hidden within your center as your mouth parts in an ‘o’ shape.

 Your walls greet him eagerly and envelop him with fervor only to cause him to groan, “Fuck, baby. How are you still this tight after I fucked your little cunt this morning and last night?”

 Lost in the sensation of him buried within you, you can’t find the words to answer him when he starts to impel himself into you without abandon, his irises glazing over in desire as he chases his pleasure. Like this, his bangs hang heavily over him and flit back and forth frenziedly in his ministrations, but you can see his eyes in their entirety now and their darkness seeps straight into your core in the lust that simmers there.

 Captured in his consuming gaze, you notice the way that his irises dip from your own to the neglected breasts that bounce in the jostling movement he wracks on you, heat licking up your spine when you watch the tip of his pink tongue hungrily dart across his lips to wet them. Before you realize what’s happened, his hot mouth is upon one of your mounds, his lips suctioning your tit against him with avid voracity as he leaves a purple petal to blossom there under his ministrations. It joins the myriad of others that he’s left from your previous couplings like brands over your skin and you relish in the new addition that marks you as his.

 “Shit, I love your tits so much. So soft and warm in my mouth. You really do have the most beautiful breasts, baby.” he mutters as you close your eyes at the sensation of him on you, your fingers leaving their own claim on him as you claw your nails down his back while he pounds into you with vigor. He seems to approve with the way that he speeds his movements like the rabbit he reminds of while in some kind of heat. You throw your head back when his velvety lips enclose around your areola, his hot tongue flicking against your pert nipple unrelentingly as you buck underneath him with a weak, broken mewl. The sinful chuckle that erupts from him is felt before it is heard, the deep thrum of the vibrations dripping right through you and straight to your core that clenches around him in response.

 “Please…” You breathe out the only word that can come to mind through the haze of hormones that now cloud your vision.

 When you sink one hand into his locks once more to pull at his hair, he makes a sound of disapproval,  blown irises heating you like a furnace as he focuses his sight on you when he growls, “I’m not done yet, Y/N. I’m going to suck these pretty nipples of yours until they’re  fucking swollen because of me. These,” he blows a warm puff of air against the sensitive areola of your left tit,” are mine. You need to be reminded of that.”

 You whimper at that, his other hand palming at your other breast while he rolls your nipple with practiced ease between his fingers. When he punctuates a particularly acute slam of his hips into you with a long, wetted lick of his tongue in a stripe over your engorged bud, that’s what has your eyes rolling to the back of your head as you wail, his dick hitting your g-spot with precision that tears the sound from your throat in the way that he pairs it with an agonizingly delicious ministration of his tongue.

 He suckles you through it all and when the warmth of his mouth finally leaves you, your breast is freed from him with a ‘pop’ from between his lips and don’t see the way that he’s painted you with his spit, nor the way that he peers longingly at the engorged, abused nipple he’s left in his wake before he’s moving to the other to latch onto your neglected tit like a newborn trying to coax the life-giving essence of milk from you. You cry out when he decides to nip at you, the hand that he’s left on your hip gripping you roughly in effort to keep you in place against his fierce thrusts of his hips inside you.

 Before long, you feel your nipple harden under his ministrations and with a groan, he releases you from his mouth only to rise and watch your freshly marked breasts move laboriously up and down in your strained breaths, the gleam of his spit shining prominently under the dimmed lights in the kitchen. Your neck is arched back and your eyes are screwed shut in the picture of submission as you let him use you for his pleasure while he continues to pound into you with the strength of an ox every single time.

 You feel fingers grasping your chin to urge you to angle your chin downward as he commands, “Look at me, Y/N. When you’re getting fucked by me, you’re going to watch me and keep those pretty eyes on me so you can burn it into that head of yours that there’s only one man who can make you feel this good.”  

 If you weren’t panting before, you surely are now as your body heeds his demand, his words playing you like an instrument as heat coils heavily in your core as you take him in cravingly while he coos, “That’s a good girl. So obedient.”

  He’s leaning above you now, the muscles of his chest flexing and contracting as he rolls his hips piercingly into you to hit just the right spot time and time again, euphoria steadily building each time. His hair, from all of your attention, is mussed and somehow the man bun he’d been sporting before is looser to allow more of his chocolate tresses to frame his face, his lips reddened from lavishing on your breasts. Sweat sluices his skin everywhere, which somehow makes him even more irresistible as you urge him down for another kiss.

 He denies you at first, deciding to smirk cockily as he angles his head and in the movement, you notice the attractive tint of rosiness to his cheeks in the blood that has rushed there through his earlier efforts as he clucks his tongue, “Words, baby. Use that mouth of yours and maybe you’ll get what you want.”

 You whine as he rams into you, your vision jerking upward as you wrack your brain to formulate some kind of response through the sea of lust that resides there now. Somehow, you manage, “I-I want another kiss.”

 His fingers sink deeper into your waist as he prods, “Yeah? Where do you want my mouth, angel?”

 In answer, you take the hand he isn’t holding you with, your digits wrapping around his index finger as you bring it to your mouth to breathe, “Here,” you lower your joined hands in a slow trail down your throat that contradicts the rapid thrusts he impels you with,” here,” you drag his hand through the valley of your breasts until it’s splayed possessively over your stomach, “and here. I want you everywhere, Kookie. Please.”

 Your boyfriend licks his lips as he lowers himself down once more to your level as he husks, “Fuck, the things that you do to me, baby. You’ll get what I decide to give you, yeah?”

 His mouth descends upon you in a French kiss that puts others to shame, his traitorous tongue leaving no part of your mouth untouched and wrapping possessively around your own in a show of dominance that you have no wish to resist. He presses his lips insistently over yours, consuming you in his wet heat that you relinquish your own mouth to. The hand that had been draped along your side before slides along your waist to relish in your contours, his other hand moving behind your head to hold you there as he drinks his fill of you.

 When he breaks for air, you’re breathing heavily and he gives you no time to recover before heavy, lingering kisses are rained down along your jawline and then he’s descending like a stream down the frontal column of your previously marked throat from last night’s exploits with him. He lathers his mouth over you in open-mouthed kisses, his tongue brushing over your sensitive skin while he keen, your back arching up and into him as you press your naked chest against his own to earn a hiss from him while he continues to pound into you relentlessly.

 His name leaves your lips in a stuttered breath, “Jungkook.”

 Your boyfriend croons, “Be good for me and take it, baby. If you do, I’ll let you cum around my cock.”

Your feel your core tighten and clench compactly around him when his mouth trickles down between your breasts, adding a few more hickeys on the way so that there are now entire constellations of his marks in mottled purples and reds all along your body. When he manages to get to your stomach, that’s when he administers a closed-mouthed kiss that is made domineering by the way his irises peer hotly at you before he parts his lips to lick heatedly above the area of your navel as you whimper out.

 With his face inches from your own, you can see the blown out irises that stare hungrily at you, your gaze thirsting to drink him in as the sounds of your coupling fill your ears. With every roll of his hips into you, his balls slap against your pussy mercilessly in combination with the lewd squelches his dick makes as it drives itself into you without pause. 

He rams into you now with the might of ten men, your core tightening around him as he groans in his ministrations. He pulls you into him with the hand that is wrapped around your side, your moans joining his when the hand he’d been holding your head with snakes heavily down your body in a hot trail from your neck and then down to your abdomen before stopping torturously just before your glistening folds. 

 You wrap your fingers around his wrist to urge him where you need him most as you breathe, “C-close, Kookie. I’m almost there. Please, let me cum.”

 Your walls are beginning to tense around him with your impending end and he knows how to play your body like an instrument to get it to sing the tune he wants. He watches you plead with your eyes imploringly at him while he denies you what he knows you want most, instead choosing to plunge himself inside you especially hard to cause you to cry out. There is nothing quite like your pussy, nothing quite like the way that you suck him in and refuse to let him go until you’ve ensured that he has released inside you like an uncontrollable pubescent boy learning how to come for the first time.

 You make him ravenous and in that appetence, the ambrosia that is you is a delicacy he will never grow tired of. So, he indulges in you and lets himself enjoy your sweet depths for as long as he can until you’re screaming nothing but his name in your need to come undone, your thighs trembling from under him as you curl your fingers unyieldingly around his wrist.

 He finally obliges you, his thumb pressing deeply down onto your clit as you wail in pleasure before he’s quickly drawing figure-eight patterns along the bundle of nerves as he pistons in and out of you deliciously. Your walls begin to quiver with your oncoming end and knowing this, your boyfriend stares zealously at you to darkly command, “Come on, baby. Cum for me. Cream all over this cock that you love so much.”

 It takes one final slam of his hips into you to have his cock bury itself so deep inside your pussy that it perfectly presses against your g-spot while his fingers rapidly attend to your clit before your body instinctively heeds his order, spots erupting behind your eyelids as thousands of tiny, warm presses inside your sex signal your orgasm while you throw your head back, your eyes still locked on him as your mouth parts and you shriek his name out for the entire apartment complex to hear as your climax explodes with the intensity of a firecracker within you.

 He groans at that to utter, “That’s right, baby. Let everyone know who has fucked you so good. Tell them all who owns you.”

 Your walls flutter and spasm deliciously around him and your boyfriend grunts at the sensation, loving the way you wrap around him like your pussy was made for this and before he knows it, he’s throbbing and following behind you with his own release as he colors your walls with his creamy seed in violent, energetic bursts.

 “Mine. You’re mine,” he repeats over and over as you both ride out your orgasms.

 You wrap your arms tighter around him to give him a light peck along his jaw as you say, “Yes, Kookie. I’m all yours. I love you so much.”

 He catches his breath as you fondly wipe away the sweat that has collected in beads along his forehead while you tenderly tuck his fringe behind one ear before he earnestly tells you, “I love you more.”

 Sometime later he feeds you the stew he made for you as you moan in delight at the warm trickle of it down your throat while he spoons it to you from your place  on his lap. Your sounds of enjoyment had been quick to get him hard underneath you as you’d knowingly fidgeted in effort to drag your ass over his member that you found yourself longing for once again. Your antics had proven successful in the fervid way he’d eaten you out like a five course meal before you fed him the dessert of your sweet juices before he’d dragged you to the bedroom for round three. 

Hours after that find you both well into the night with the window open so that the moonlight can spill in on the two of you atop your shared bed. You are sure to remind him just how much you love him then when he wakes to find you grinding on top of him as you welcome him once more into your wet warmth that has only and will only ever belong to him.

[cappymightwrite]

What draws you to incest ?

*sighs* Ok, here we go. I'm a real card carrying Jonsa now aren't I?

Anon, listen. I know this is an anti question that gets bandied about a lot, aimed at provoking, etc, when we all know no Jonsa is out here being all you know what, it really is the incest, and the incest alone, that draws me in. I mean, come on now. Grow up.

If I was "drawn" to incest I'd be a fan of Cersei x Jaime, Lucrezia x Cesare, hell Oedipus x Jocasta etc... but I haven't displayed any interest in them now, have I? So, huh, it can't be that.

Frankly, it's a derivitive question that is really missing the mark. I'm not "drawn" to it, though yeah, it is an unavoidable element of Jonsa. The real question you should be asking though, is what draws GRRM to it? Because he obviously is drawn to it, specifically what is termed the "incest motif" in academic and literary scholarship. That is a far more worthwhile avenue of thinking and questioning, compared with asking me. Luckily for you though anon, I sort of anticipated getting this kind of question so had something in my drafts on standby...

You really don't have to look far, or that deeply, to be hit over the head by the connection between GRRM's literary influences and the incest motif. I mean, let's start with the big cheese himself, Tolkein:

Tolkein + Quenta Silmarillion

We know for definite that GRRM has been influenced by Tolkein, and in The Silmarillion you notably have a case of unintentional incest in Quenta Silmarillion, where Túrin Turambar, under the power of a curse, unwittingly murders his friend, as well as marries and impregnates his sister, Nienor Níniel, who herself had lost her memory due to an enchantment.

Mr Tolkein, "what draws you to incest?"

Old Norse + Völsunga saga

Tolkein, as a professor of Anglo-Saxon, was hugely influenced by Old English and Old Norse literature. The story of the ring Andvaranaut, told in Völsunga saga, is strongly thought to have been a key influence behind The Lord of the Rings. Also featured within this legendary saga is the relationship between the twins Signy and Sigmund — at one point in the saga, Signy tricks her brother into sleeping with her, which produces a son, Sinfjotli, of pure Völsung blood, raised with the singular purpose of enacting vengence.

Anonymous Norse saga writer, "what draws you to incest?"

Medieval Literature as a whole

A lot is made of how "true" to the storied past ASOIAF is, how reflective it is of medieval society (and earlier), its power structures, its ideals and martial values etc. ASOIAF, however, is not attempting historical accuracy, and should not be read as such. Yet it is clearly drawing from a version of the past, as depicted in medieval romances and pre-Christian mythology for instance, as well as dusty tomes on warfare strategy. As noted by Elizabeth Archibald in her article Incest in Medieval Literature and Society (1989):

Of course the Middle Ages inherited and retold a number of incest stories from the classical world. Through Statius they knew Oedipus, through Ovid they knew the stories of Canace, Byblis, Myrrha and Phaedra. All these stories end more or less tragically: the main characters either die or suffer metamorphosis. Medieval readers also knew the classical tradition of incest as a polemical accusation,* for instance the charges against Caligula and Nero. – p. 2

The word "polemic" is connected to controversy, to debate and dispute, therefore these classical texts were exploring the incest motif in order to create discussion on a controversial topic. In a way, your question of "what draws you to incest?" has a whiff of polemical accusation to it, but as I stated, you're missing the bigger question.

Moving back to the Middle Ages, however, it is interesting that we do see a trend of more incest stories appearing within new narratives between the 11th and 13th centuries, according to Archibald:

The texts I am thinking of include the legend of Judas, which makes him commit patricide and then incest before betraying Christ; the legend of Gregorius, product of sibling incest who marries his own mother, but after years of rigorous penance finally becomes a much respected pope; the legend of St Albanus, product of father-daughter incest, who marries his mother, does penance with both his parents but kills them when they relapse into sin, and after further penance dies a holy man; the exemplary stories about women who sleep with their sons, and bear children (whom they sometimes kill), but refuse to confess until the Virgin intervenes to save them; the legends of the incestuous begetting of Roland by Charlemagne and of Mordred by Arthur; and finally the Incestuous Father romances about calumniated wives, which resemble Chaucer's Man of Law's Tale except that the heroine's adventures begin when she runs away from home to escape her father's unwelcome advances. – p. 2

I mean... that last bit sounds eerily quite close to what we have going on with Petyr Baelish and Sansa Stark. But I digress. What I'm trying to say is that from a medieval and classical standpoint... GRRM is not unique in his exploration of the incest motif, far from it.

Sophocles, Ovid, Hartmann von Aue, Thomas Malory, etc., "what draws you to incest?"

Faulkner + The Sound and the Fury, and more!

Moving on to more modern influences though, when talking about the writing ethos at the heart of his work, GRRM has famously quoted William Faulker:

His mantra has always been William Faulkner’s comment in his Nobel prize acceptance speech, that only the “human heart in conflict with itself… is worth writing about”. [source]

I’ve never read any Faulker, so I did just a quick search on “Faulkner and incest” and I pulled up this article on JSTOR, called Faulkner and the Politics of Incest (1998). Apparently, Faulkner explores the incest motif in at least five novels, therefore it was enough of a distinctive theme in his work to warrant academic analysis. In this journal article, Karl F. Zender notes that:

[...] incest for Faulkner always remains tragic [...] – p. 746

Ah, we can see a bit of running theme here, can't we? But obviously, GRRM (one would hope) doesn’t just appreciate Faulkner’s writing for his extensive exploration of incest. This quote possibly sums up the potential artistic crossover between the two:

Beyond each level of achieved empathy in Faulkner's fiction stands a further level of exclusion and marginalization. – pp. 759–60

To me, the above parallels somewhat GRRM’s own interest in outcasts, in personal struggle (which incest also fits into):

I am attracted to bastards, cripples and broken things as is reflected in the book. Outcasts, second-class citizens for whatever reason. There’s more drama in characters like that, more to struggle with. [source]

Interestingly, however, this essay on Faulkner also connects his interest in the incest motif with the romantic poets, such as Percy Bysshe Shelley and Lord Byron:

As Peter Thorslev says in an important study of romantic representations of incest, " [p]arent-child incest is universally condemned in Romantic literature...; sibling incest, on the other hand, is invariably made sympathetic, is sometimes exonerated, and, in Byron's and Shelley's works, is definitely idealized.” – p. 741

Faulkner, "what draws you to incest?" ... I mean, that article gives some good explanations, actually.

Lord Byron, Manfred + The Bride of Abydos

Which brings us onto GRRM interest in the Romantics:

I was always intensely Romantic, even when I was too young to understand what that meant. But Romanticism has its dark side, as any Romantic soon discovers... which is where the melancholy comes in, I suppose. I don't know if this is a matter of artistic influences so much as it is of temperament. But there's always been something in a twilight that moves me, and a sunset speaks to me in a way that no sunrise ever has. [source]

I'm already in the process of writing a long meta about the influence of Lord Byron in ASOIAF, specifically examining this quote by GRRM:

The character I’m probably most like in real life is Samwell Tarly. Good old Sam. And the character I’d want to be? Well who wouldn’t want to be Jon Snow — the brooding, Byronic, romantic hero whom all the girls love. Theon [Greyjoy] is the one I’d fear becoming. Theon wants to be Jon Snow, but he can’t do it. He keeps making the wrong decisions. He keeps giving into his own selfish, worst impulses. [source]

Lord Byron, "what draws you to—", oh, um, right. Nevermind.

I'm not going to repeat myself here, but it's worth noting that there is a clear through line between GRRM and the Romantic writers, besides perhaps melancholic "temperament"... and it's incest.

But look, is choosing to explore the incest motif...well, a choice? Yeah, and an uncomfortable one at that, but it’s obvious that that is what GRRM is doing. I think it’s frankly a bit naive of some people to argue that GRRM would never do Jonsa because it’s pseudo-incest and therefore morally repugnant, no ifs, no buts. I’m sorry, as icky as it may be to our modern eyes, GRRM has set the president for it in his writing with the Targaryens and the Lannister twins.

The difference with them is that they knowingly commit incest, basing it in their own sense of exceptionalism, and there are/will be bad consequences — this arguably parallels the medieval narratives in which incest always ends badly, unless some kind of real penance is involved. For Jon and Sansa, however, the Jonsa argument is that they will choose not to commit incest, despite a confused attraction, and then will be rewarded in the narrative through the parentage reveal, a la Byron’s The Bride of Abydos. The Targaryens and Lannisters, in several ways excluding the incest (geez the amount of times I’ve written incest in this post), are foils for the Starks, and in particular, Jon and Sansa. Exploring the incest motif has been on the cards since the very beginning — just look at that infamous "original" outline — regardless of whether we personally consider that an interesting writing choice, or a morally inexcusable one.

Word of advice, or rather, warning... don't think you can catch me out with these kinds of questions. I have access to a university database, so if I feel like procrastinating my real academic work, I can and will pull out highly researched articles to school you, lmao.

But you know, thanks for the ask anyway, I guess.

[quicksilverrwrites]

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: peter maximoff x reader 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: you can’t sleep and neither can peter, but at least you both know exactly how to comfort one another. 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2.4k 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: 18+, fluff, peter and reader are early to mid twenties, british reader 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: y/n is known by the mutant name “scribe” and is charles xavier’s niece.

It’s eleven-thirty, and you can’t sleep.

Your thoughts shift to your lessons in the morning; to how tired you’re going to be; to that iced coffee you’d had while getting your assignment done after class; about how that drink was definitely a bad idea considering how you’re lying awake now. It had tasted good then, and it had given you the energy you needed to fire out five thousand words in the span of a few hours… but now you regret it.

Sighing, you roll over. Your eyes glaze over the objects on the nightstand beside your bed. Your alarm clock, rectangular in size and wooden in material, glares at you. Eleven thirty six. Eleven thirty seven. The time seems to spiral, and you realise that you might as well do something with yourself if you’re awake.

You eye the books stacked on top of the alarm clock; you’d been reading one before and it had bored you half to death, so you can’t bring yourself to pick up any again. What else? What else?

Your gaze settles upon the picture frame on the dresser next to your nightstand, and you let out a sigh as you settle upon the silver-haired speedster within it. You’re next to him, a mere blur since he’d sneakily taken the camera from your hand and taken a picture with an expression that radiates cheekiness, but you’d liked the picture enough to keep it.

You’ve got a few more picture frames scattered around your room—photos of you with Scott, Jean, Jubilee and Kurt. Even some of Charles. You might not be close, but he is your uncle, after all. He’s still family.

And yet it’s Peter you keep your eyes on. It’s Peter's mischievous aura which calls to you across the room.

What would he be doing right now? He’s probably playing video games or practicing on one of his guitars. You’d been surprised to see him play well; you’d been surprised to see that he actually had the attention span it takes to successfully learn an instrument. You would know: your mother used to nag you about practicing the piano to perfection. Practice makes perfect, she’d always said, and yet she’d always left out how much energy it took to practice in the first place.

Is it too late to reach out to him? The two of you have a specific way of speaking to one another across distances by now, although even the thought of doing such a thing due to the time seems rude. Your mother had always told you that it was your duty to be polite, and your father had by example. You think you picked it up from him rather than her, but—

Don’t think of him right now. Don’t think of what happened. Don’t.

As if in an effort to push the memory of that night from your head, you move. You pull the drawer attached to your nightstand open to reveal a mess of junk inside, but what you need—and what you spy—is a pen and paper. You pull it from the drawer and slam the nightstand drawer shut quietly, and after, you get to work writing:

Are you up? Can I come over?

Your fingers buzz with azure energy as you feel your mutation working in your favour. A tiny portal of blue opens before you, one you could make larger if you wished but one which you keep small for now. It’s no larger than a letterbox would be, and the faint sound of music from the other side tells you that Peter is very much awake.

You slip the note through the portal, and then you leave it open as you wait.

When you receive no response for a solid fifteen seconds but can hear movement on the other side, you wonder if this was a mistake after all. It’s too late, you scold yourself, mentally preparing for rejection. Oh, god, this is going to be awkward. What if he—

An empty Twinkie box falls at your feet.

You blink at it, momentarily confused, and then you pick it up. You glance about the dessert’s display as you begin to turn the box over in your hands. Nothing on the front, but on the back—

Scrawled in pink glitter pen—probably his sister’s—, the box reads on the back: Yeah. Come through.

You grin lazily as you set the box down on your bed and extend the portal with your fingers like you’re prying open a heavy door. The orange light from Peter’s basement slips through and becomes one with the light of your dorm, which is yellow and warm with your room’s wooden accented walls and flooring. And as you slip through the portal and your bare feet touch the soft tartan carpet of his room, you let the portal shut with a soft shum behind you—

But Peter Maximoff does not look his best. In fact, he looks downright miserable.

His eyes are red as if he’s been crying, his hair is messy—messier than usual, at least—and he’s wearing a band tee and some tartan pajama bottoms that look intended for comfort rather than style. You were about to say hey, but you stop in your tracks. You tilt your head as you look at him.

Peter is still. It’s strange, especially since he’s usually so eccentric. He blurts out, “What?”

You frown, momentarily stuck for what to say. “Nothing,” you respond, but it doesn’t seem right.

Peter stares at you. You stare at him. You’re both quite similar, so it strikes you then that you both know that you’re each not telling each other something.

“You okay?” You ask, suspicion clear in your tone.

Peter shrugs nonchalantly. It’s a rigid movement. “Yeah,” he says, far too confidently to be true. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You narrow your eyes on him. His tone of voice has all but solidified your suspicions. “Okay, first of all,” you say, crossing the small space of the room between you and the sofa, “you use a very distinctive tone when you lie.” You settle down on the sofa as you cross your legs under you. “Second, your eyes are really red. Have you been—?”

“No.”

Crying, you were about to ask, but he cut you off. You narrow your eyes again.

Peter sighs and averts his gaze, running a hand through his hair. “Tonight’s just… not a good night.”

You press your lips together as sympathy wells in your eyes. “Why not?”

“Can’t sleep.”

“That makes two of us."

Peter inhales deeply, and before you know it, he’s sitting on the sofa next to you. You’re used to how fast he moves by now. Something warms your heart in the way he sits with his body angled towards you. Like he’s opening himself up to you.

“Wanna stay here tonight?” He asks.

You glance at the other end of the sofa and then back to him. You’re reminded of how he took the sofa to sleep on that night after you guys got caught in the rain. “Here?”

Peter’s brows rise. “Is my basement not fancy enough for you?”

You know he’s joking even despite the lack of humour in his tone, and you let out a small huff of laughter as you flash him a lazy smile. You sit back on the sofa, reaching out your hand to intertwine it with his. Things between you are still blooming after your first date, but you both feel comfortable enough to do this. Peter’s fingers wrap around yours as he starts drawing patterns on the back of your hand with his free one.

“I just mean,” you murmur, just loud enough to be heard over the backdrop of quiet music, “won’t your mom mind?”

“She didn’t mind when you stayed over last time.”

Your lips quirk upwards in gentle amusement. “That time you slept on the couch. This time I was thinking, I mean, if you want to, then maybe—”

“Oh,” Peter murmurs. His head lifts upwards in a sort of understanding motion. “Yeah, I mean… ah, I can deal with whatever safe sex talk she wants to give me in the morning.”

Your cheeks flush red. “I didn’t mean that. I just meant maybe we could…” Oh, god, embarrassment— “cuddle.”

Peter grins. “Cuddle, huh?” He pauses, until— “Okay,” he murmurs, reaching an arm around the back of the couch to wrap around you. “I guess I could be down for cuddling.”

You snicker softly as you lean into his touch, your head resting against his shoulder. “Do you want to tell me why you looked so upset when I arrived?”

Peter tenses. “It wasn’t because of you, if that’s what you were thinking.”

“Mm,” you murmur, “I think I’m confident enough in our relationship to know that your reaction when seeing me is generally excitement rather than the dread that accompanies sad under eyes and red markings around them.”

He pauses for a few seconds before he lets out a long breath of defeat. “That obvious, huh?”

“Mm,” you murmur, looking up at him. “A little.”

His lips twist to the side as he lowers his gaze. “I was thinking about my dad.”

It’s your turn to pause now, looking up at him in a way you didn’t before. You assess every detail of his body again: the way his shoulders slump, the way his head hangs low, the way his hair falls in the way of his view and his eyes are heavy with something you haven’t seen in him before. He’s usually so full of life.

Is this what he’s hiding deep down?

“Tell me about it,” you say softly.

Peter grimaces. “It’s a long story, and the stupid thing is it’s mostly my fault.”

Frowning, you sit up and face him. “I don’t believe that.”

Peter lets out a humourless laugh that might be bitter if he showed a hint of anger, but he doesn’t. “It’s true. The only time I’ve ever been too slow and it’s in finding the most…”

He trails off, pulling his arm away from around you so that they both now rest in his lap. He continues, “It’s a mess.”

“Start from the beginning."

So he explains, if not vaguely: about trying to find his father, about finding a house empty and police arriving on the scene. Peter had fled at the sight of them, and—

“His name’s Magneto,” he admits. “Erik Lehnsherr. You’ve probably… seen him on TV or something."

Suddenly, it all adds up. You weren’t at school to see what happened with Apocalypse, but you’ve heard about it from your friend group. Peter doesn’t talk about it very much, and now you know why; had he been part of that whole adventure because of his father? He hadn’t been involved with Xavier’s School before, that much you know.

You suck in a breath. Okay, Y/N, push the fact that his dad’s a known terrorist aside— “Does he know?”

Peter shakes his head. “Nah. I had the chance to tell him and I didn’t. I screwed it up. And now I’m right back where I was before all of it, because I have no clue where he is and no way of telling him the truth. I couldn’t even do it for Wanda.”

“Hey,” you murmur, your fingers moving to cup his cheeks. “Fight or flight, right? It’s normal. To see him right in front of you—to have to muster up the courage to tell him? Knowing what a change that would be for you? Peter, that’s normal.”

Peter’s eyes well with softness as he listens to you, gazes upon you, and you think you’ve never seen him look so vulnerable as he lowers his head to your shoulder. He takes in a shaky breath; wraps his arms around you; pulls you into his lap—

“Thanks,” he murmurs into your shirt. It’s not his shirt this time; you’re wearing a pyjama set that consists of blue silk shorts and a top. “Not sure I believe you, but thanks, Y/N.”

“Is there anything I can do to make you believe me?”

Peter takes a deep breath. “Aside from mind control? Not sure.”

You press your lips together and begin to stroke his hair. “To be honest,” you murmur, “I’m not sure I’d believe you if you tried to tell me something similar about my father, either.”

Peter lets out a choked laugh. “Maybe that’s why we work together.”

Your lips curve upwards, still stroking his hair. His face is still buried in your shoulder. “Maybe,” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his head.

Peter shifts so that he’s leaning against the back of the sofa and you’re in his lap again. You turn so that you’re straddling his waist, but your fingers find his jaw to cup the skin there. Your thumb brushes soothingly against his skin.

“You mean a lot to me,” Peter murmurs, staring up at you. It’s almost as if the music in the room has stopped; it’s almost as if the two of you are the only souls left in existence. His brows are slightly raised and there is awe in his voice as he says, “I don’t really believe you’re real half the time.”

You let out a soft laugh. “Definitely real, Peter. Definitely here.”

“Yeah,” he says, his tone riddled with amusement, “and here of all places. You could be anywhere. You’re like, perfect and—”

“Ssh,” you murmur, pressing a finger to his lips. “I don’t want to be anywhere but here with you.”

Peter tilts his head up towards you, a silent request for consent, and you kiss him in answer.

He wraps his arms around your waist as he deepens the kiss, your tongue slipping out to meet his own. He makes a low, guttural noise between pleasure and content at the feeling of it, and your free hand clutches at his shirt as your other hand remains at his jaw.

You spend the rest of the evening like that, whether it's on the sofa or in his bed, but in those moments together there’s nothing carnal about it. Your touches are soft and comforting rather than lustful and yearning, and as much as you’ve thought about him that way before, you know that now’s not the time.

Tonight, you both need this. Tonight, your sole purpose is to be there for one another.

“And for the record,” Peter murmurs between kisses, his words random and uncalculated, “I think your tragic backstory’s way worse than mine.”

[hyuckssunchip]

Here’s The Deal

Pairings: Mark x Reader, ft. 00′ line (Renjun, Jeno, Haechan, Jaemin)

Words: 5.9K

Warnings: Language (there is almost always language in my writings), slight smut, angst

Summary: 

Y/N gets caught in a tight situation as she discovers that her relationship was a lie. Mark knows just how much she really means to him, but how can he prove it after what he’s done? How much was real?

“Hi Y/N!”

“Oh hey Mark,” you say as you slide into your seat and rest your forehead on your desk. You let out a deep sigh. 

“What’s up?” He asked laying his own head down to face yours.

You let out another exaggerated sigh, “Nothing. I just didn’t get much sleep last night. I was up all night working on my writing assignment for philosophy.”

“Oh… Well maybe you and I can go to that one cafe to get coffee together. Maybe lunch?” Mark offered quietly.

“Huh?”

“You know, after class so you can wake up.” He said, quieter and less sure of himself.

“Oh… Well, I actually don’t like coffee. But thanks for the offer anyways.” You said, lifting your head up slightly, just enough to give him a weak smile.

Mark looked at you, furrowing his eyebrows and biting his lip. He gives you a slight nod before leaning back in his chair. He then turned his head to the right shaking his head at his friends that sat adjacent to him.

THE NEXT DAY

“Just ask her!”

“Shhh! Don’t talk so loud!”

“Grow some balls man!”

“Guys can you just shut up?! This is not helping. Telling me to man up is not going to get her to say yes.”

“Well maybe, stop beating around the bush and straight up ask her!”

“Would you two shut up? You are not the one who has to---”

“Oh hey guys. What are you still doing here? Class ended like half an hour ago?” You say, accidentally interrupting their conversation.

“Uh.. We’re uh… just discussing our project for uh… drama? Yeah. Drama.” Mark’s friend Jaemin answered. 

“Drama? Why the hell would we be in drama?” Renjun hissed at Jaemin. After a couple seconds of painful silence Jeno nudged Mark forward. 

“Uhh.. yeah. What are you doing here?” He asked stumbling towards you a bit.

“Oh… I just left my notebook here.” You said pointing towards the blue spiral notebook on one of the desks. “I’ll just grab it real quick and let you guys get back to your… discussing.” You said, giggling a little at the thought of them doing drama. 

“Mark! Do it now!” Haechan whispered to Mark pushing him into you. As you struggled to keep your balance from the new weight of Mark, he wrapped his arms around yours to stabilize the both of you. 

“Oh, sorry.” he said, quickly shoving himself away from you as if you burned him.

“Actually we’re done discussing our project, right Jaemin?” Jeno said, looking sharply at his younger friend, who nodding vigorously at you. Before you knew it they were gone and you were left alone with Mark.

“Hey, maybe… do you want to… watch that new movie that came out? Crazy Rich Asians?” Mark suddenly asked out of the blue.

“Oh! Yeah I heard that was going to be really good. I’d love to go! My roommate really wants to see that, I’ll ask when she’s free.” You reply excitedly.

Mark let out a sigh of exasperation before grabbing your shoulders and forcing you to face him. “Are you totally oblivious or just trying to let me down easy?” He asked staring into your eyes. For some odd reason you couldn’t seem to look away and suddenly your heart skipped a beat. 

TWO WEEKS LATER

You and Mark had been dating for a month, ever since he confronted you and made you realize your feelings for him. 

For the short amount of time that the two of you had actually been dating, you two were really close. You had gotten physical pretty quickly, although you didn’t mind it too much. Mark was something else, he made you feel things you had never felt before and it had become almost addicting.

However, despite this the two of you haven’t slept together yet, after all it was only a few weeks of dating, way too soon for you. On multiple occasions you had gotten close but were interrupted, you were secretly thankful that the two of you couldn’t go further.

Your relationship wasn’t about the physical, Mark made you happier than you thought was possible. His constant laughing and goofy smile always had you thankful to have him around. He really did brighten your day.

Mark was sweet and thoughtful, always coming up with spontaneous dates for the two of you and kind gestures that made your heart skip.

You’ve never been in love before, but maybe, just maybe you were on the right track this time.

It was Saturday, and for once you had panned a surprise for your boyfriend. A picnic date. You climbed the few flights of stairs that led to his dorm, which he shared with Haechan and Renjun, two of his friends that you were acquainted with. Nothing more than a couple of interactions, but you’ve never run into them at their dorm, save for the time they caught you and Mark in a compromising position.

Just as you were about to knock on his door, you heard voices behind the door. You knew that you shouldn’t eavesdrop, but you couldn’t help but lean in. 

With your ear pressed against the door, you could clearly distinct between each of their voices.

“I don’t know. I’m so close it's just frustrating!” Clearly Mark.

“Why don't you just go for it? Why are you dancing around?” Jeno?

“I don't want to make her do anything that she doesn't want to. Especially if she’s not ready.” Your heart swelled at Mark’s response.

“What do you mean? Why do you care?” You frowned at Haechan’s response, why wouldn’t he care?

“Ha! Don't tell me you’re actually starting to like her?” You froze.

Her? Is there someone else? Is he talking about me?

There was a pregnant pause.

“Dude?!”

“... guys… stop.”

“She’s a fucking bet! Just finish it quickly, you’re so close. If you don’t we’re all fucked! You know that!” You felt like throwing up. A bet?

“Mark! Tae Oh will kill us if you don’t finish this! Please!” Finish this? Am I a game?

“I know! You don’t think I know that?! You think I want this?!”

With your ear still pressed firmly against the door, you let out a muffled cry.

“Fuck!”

As he yelled, you flinched and backed yourself away from the door.

You let out a silent sob and rushed back to your dorm room, leaving spilled contents of your picnic along the way. As you pushed your way into your dorm, thankful that both of your roommates happened to be gone, you threw yourself on your bed. 

Your emotions were all over the place, you were sobbing, upset that you weren’t enough for him, upset that you were a bet, upset that he had made a fool of you. But like a flip of the switch you became pissed. He played with you, with your feelings as if you were nothing. Nothing he said or did was real, your whole relationship was a lie.

You wiped your eyes dry and wrung your hands, pausing when you felt the promise ring Mark had given you just recently for your one month anniversary. More angry than you had ever been you ripped your ring off your finger and chucked it across the room hitting the door. It bounced off and landed under your desk, but you didn’t care enough to pay attention.

Just as you were cooling off you got a goodnight text from Mark. On any other day you would be swooning at the cute text, but today you were not having it. You ignored his texts and ended up falling asleep before your roommates ever made it back.

The next morning you woke up to your alarm blaring, looking at the clock you realized you hit snooze one too many times and rushed to the door. You made to class with little time to spare and even before the professor made it. You scanned the room for a seat, and found a few. There was one next to Mark, saved for you as usual but you stopped yourself, opting to sit next to Jisung. You smiled awkwardly at him as you sunk into the seat. You felt your phone buzz again and ignored the text as soon as you saw Mark’s name on your screen. You sigh and ignore the text, pulling out your notebook and start doodling.

Mark frowned to himself a couple of rows behind you. He couldn’t focus the entire class and couldn’t help but stare at you confused. Before he knew it the class was over and you were rushing past him, not even sparing a glance. Before he could gather his things you were gone.

To be honest, it was a lot of work avoiding Mark. It’s like he had it on his agenda to track you, normally you would absolutely love it, but as of right now that was the last thing you wanted.

At some point you were out of energy and could no longer continue the chase.

“Can we talk?” Mark asked, nervously wringing his hands together. 

You sighed, thinking that there wasn’t really much else you could do. Stopping in your tracks you plopped down on the empty bench you were close to passing. You tried to hold back a scoff, sure that he was worried about losing his bet. It took everything in you not to throw that in his face and stalk off.

You heard Mark let out a relieved sigh, collapsing into the spot next to you, but consciously leaving a respectable gap between the two of you.

For a moment the two of you sat in silence, neither wanted to get to the discussion at hand.

“What happened?” There was a quiver in his voice and you cursed your heart for wavering at the sound. No matter how upset you were, you still liked him and could’t help but feel guilty at suddenly ghosting the desperate boy.

You glanced at his side profile and admired him. He was leaning over his knees, staring intensely at his shoes. 

For the first time since you overheard his conversation you thought about his position. 

Why did he even do the bet in the first place? Mark was a nice guy, at least that’s what you had always thought. And why was Tae Oh threatening them? 

You recalled what you had heard. Jeno had said that Tae Oh would kill them if Mark couldn’t finish the bet. Did that mean he was in trouble?

With one last glance at the forlorn boy next to you, you had decided. It was a stupid idea, and it would only hurt you, but for some reason you couldn’t stand the thought of Mark suffering. To the point where you would put him before you.

“Nothing happened.” You mumbled out, your internal conflict starting to give you a headache.

His eyes searched for yours, “Why are you avoiding me?”

“I’m not.” You gulped, refusing to meet his eyes.

“I swear you just ran the other direction, and it took me so long to get you to talk to me. If I did something wrong we can talk about it, otherwise we can’t fix it.” He pulled your hand into his hesitantly, rubbing softly over the skin, sending warmth through your body. You didn’t miss the frown on his face when he noticed your ring wasn’t on the usual finger.

You pulled your hand out of his, wiping your palms on your jeans and fumbling with your fingers. 

“I promise you nothing is wrong, I’m just stressed about school. You know cause finals are coming up.” You hoped he would fall for it, after all he knew how you were during testing periods.

“Right.” His eyes shook, “How about we have a small date night, that’ll make you feel better, right?” 

You nodded at nothing in particular, eyes now trained on the bird that was digging for dinner in front of you.

“I’ll pick you up at seven then? We can get take out a watch a movie.” He asked, nodding to himself.

“Uh, I’ll just go to your dorm, I have stuff to do anyways, it’s on the way.” You rejected his offer, not thinking you would be able to pretend for a whole car ride.

“Right.”

You stood up abruptly, not able to take the tension any longer. “I’ll see you tonight then.” 

Then as fast as you could you escaped.

You had spent the last few hours thinking about what the bet could possibly be. Tae Oh was one of Mark’s seniors, you often saw them in the same group, but he was notorious for be an ass. There was nothing more to say about that. Tae Oh was an ass and you didn’t doubt for a moment that he was capable of making Mark’s life hell.

Groaning, you ran your hands over your face. Why did you have to care? 

You racked your brain for any clues. The other day you had heard Mark saying that he didn’t want to push you. Push you into what? 

Tae Oh would’ve only had two things in mind when making the bet, break your heart or sleep with you. You frowned, Tae Oh didn’t know you that well, why would he want to break your heart, and as a horny college student it made more sense for him to want Mark to sleep with you.

Your eyes widened in realization. That’s why they said he was so close. Mark and you had gotten intimate, but never actually did anything. He must have told them that and that’s what they meant by getting close.

You chewed on your bottom lip. Could you do that for him? Honestly, before this whole situation you would’ve been more than willing to sleep with him on your own accord, god knows you were close. But you were starting to feel uncomfortable with the thought after knowing his intentions.

“Y/N?” You jolted up straight, “What are you doing? How long have you been there?”

Mark rubbed the back of his neck, tilting his head in confusion.

“Oh, not long, I was just about to knock.” Your face heated up in embarrassment.

“Oh hey Y/N.” You made eye contact with Renjun who was sitting on the couch with a book, feet in the position of kicking a very focused Haechan. 

“Stop it. You’re going to make me die.” Haechan retaliated with a quick shove, “Hey Y/N.”

Though he didn’t look at you, you still smiled at the interaction.

“Let me kick them out, I told them you’d be over around seven.” He laughed quietly at the scene.

“Renjun, you asshole! I died!” The bright flash on the TV screen was proof and Haechan didn’t look like he was going to let it go.

“Guys! Y/N’s here, I told you she was coming.” The other two froze, staring at Mark like they were having a silent conversation before Renjun slammed his book shut.

“Right. Haechan, there’s that new place down the street that has great tacos, let’s go.” He nudged the pouting counterpart aggressively.

“But my game-” 

“Haechan.” Renjun raised his eye brows while staring down Haechan, no doubt a sign that it was a chance for Mark to complete the bet.

“Oh. Yeah... I like tacos.” He stood up giving you a short salute. “Bye Y/N.” 

He couldn’t help but send a wink in your direction, making you wince in reminder of your situation.

Before you knew it, it was once again just you and Mark.

“So I already ordered, do you want to choose a movie?” Mark made his way to the now unoccupied couch.

“Sure.” You shuffled behind him, mind not really thinking about the movie.

As you fell into the cushion of the couch, Mark slid close to you, eliminating any space that might’ve been between you two.

He pulled you into his arms, gripping you tightly as if he was worried that you would slip away.

“Let’s just stay here for a moment, we can choose a movie when the food gets here.” He mumbled into your neck, eliciting an automatic sigh in response.

“You know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you on purpose right?” You tensed at his confession, obviously referring to the bet.

“Hmmm.” There was nothing that you could do but hum in response.

Mark began to pepper soft kisses along your neck, leaving a little trail of love bites. You unconsciously opened your neck, giving him more access.

His kisses got deeper, leaving what you know would be dark spots, proof of possession. Soon he reached your mouth, pulling you in. He nipped at your bottom lip, asking for access, to which you gave him without hesitation.

Your hands moved to tangle in his hair, gripping softly and tugging him closer. He groaned into your mouth in response, and you could feel the tips of his mouth curve into a smile.

His hands which were once rubbing your waist, gripped you tightly, pulling you onto his lap where you were forced to straddle him. 

For just a moment he was forced to pull away, looking up at you with smiling eyes, searching for the same in your own.

You couldn’t do anything but crash against his lips, leaning your body into his. There was nothing but the thin layers of your shirts, the rapid beating of his heart easily felt, and you knew that he could feel yours as well.

One hand reached up for your neck, a way for him to lock your head in place, digging deeper. The other hand meandered its way to your thigh, massaging your inner thigh, causing you to grind yourself on his lap, getting growl from him underneath you. 

You felt a change in him, his grip became more needy, you were sure there would be marks in the morning. 

You pulled back for air, startled at the sound of someone at the door.

“Delivery!” Mark sighed, shaking his head for you to ignore it, as he leaned back in to resume.

“Mark, the food’s here.” You mumbled, keeping the distance between you.

“Forget the food, we’ll just order again.” You kept a hand on his chest, preventing him from starting again.

“Mark.” 

“Ugh, fine.” You wiggled off his lap and collapsed in the seat you were originally in. Your eyes followed his back as he opened the door, paying for the food and holding the bag in his tight grip. He was especially tart with the man, in an obvious hurry.

Once the door was shut again he slid the food on the coffee table, and crawled on the couch towards you, having every intention of picking up where you left off.

“Mark, the food’s going to get cold.” You giggled at the sounds he made in protest.

He leaned against the back of the couch, throwing his head back in frustration.

“Fine, we’ll eat first.” He cocked his head at you slightly, choosing to ignore the feeling arising in the pit of his stomach.

You stuck your fork in the first container, popping it into your mouth before chewing thoughtfully.

“Mark...” you sighed, “I actually have something to talk to you about.”

You felt the knot in your stomach dissipate, knowing that confronting him would ease your mind. The plan of going through with it tonight didn’t sit right with you, and you knew it would bother you if you didn’t say something.

“Shoot.” He nodded, chowing down himself.

You let out a deep sigh, instantly catching his attention, and put down your fork.

His brows furrowed as he too set his down, a feeling that things were about to become serious.

“I uh...” you cleared your throat. “I actually know about the bet.”

He clearly stiffened and eyes widened at your admission.

“I can explain!” He rushed out, interrupting you in hopes of stopping whatever you were planning on saying.

“Okay.” You said, shocking him with how calm you were.

“Huh?” 

“Go ahead, explain it to me.” Although you knew the gist of what was going on, you were actually curious to know how he got roped into something like this.

“Uh... how much do you know?” He cut himself off. “Actually I’ll just tell you everything.”

He reached for the cup of water in front of him, quickly downing it in hopes of drowning his nerves as well.

“Do you know who Tae Oh is? I swear it wasn’t a bet between my friends, they would never do that.” He gulped, watching your blank expression. “I think you’ve met him before, he’s not a great guy.”

There was an obvious shudder from him. “About a month ago he made a bet that I couldn’t get with a girl, and I honestly didn’t care what he thought. But... he has some stuff over Jeno’s head, and he promised that if I succeeded he would let it go.”

You pursed your lips at the mention of Jeno. 

“I... I know I told you I’d tell you everything, but I’m not sure it’s right to tell you about Jeno. I can ask him to talk to you, but I can’t tell you.” He bit his lip anxiously, praying that you would understand.

You nodded, admiring his loyalty, despite his current situation. You gestured for him to continue.

“It’s not like I chose you, I would never purposely hurt you or do that to you. I... I honestly liked you a lot before he even suggested the bet.” He gave you a bashful look, a sudden switch from his nerve wracking expression.

“Tae Oh chose you, I think he did it because he knew that I liked you. I mean back then I wasn’t exactly subtle about it.” A nervous chuckle escaped his lips. “I totally understand if you absolutely hate me now, I mean I would too.”

You looked at his dejected form, “I don’t hate you. If I did I would’ve broke up with you the moment that I found out.”

He looked at you with a confused expression, “Why didn’t you break up with me?” There was a hint of hope in his voice. He wondered if it was possible for you still to like him after what he had done, or was supposed to do.

It would’ve hurt your pride to admit you still liked him despite his actions, so you chose to go with the pity card. “I overheard you talking in your dorm, and someone mentioned that Tae Oh would kill you if you couldn’t finish. I know Tae Oh could really make your life miserable, and I didn’t want to be responsible for that.”

Mark visibly saddened at the idea that you didn’t like him, that you didn’t want to feel guilty about the aftermath.

“Here’s the deal,” you let out, finally coming to a conclusion, “I can’t sleep with you. I don’t feel comfortable with that anymore.”

Mark winced, feeling a tight lump grow in his throat at the thought of you not able to stand him, and the thought that he makes you uncomfortable.

“I don’t want Tae Oh to win though, for both your sake and Jeno’s.” He made eye contact, clear that he was shocked.

“I don’t know what the rules are, or what proof you have to have, but I’ll help you with that. But that’s all I can do.”

Mark didn’t look thrilled at the idea, if anything he looked dejected. However grateful he was that you were willing to do this to help him, he couldn’t help but wish you didn’t pity him. If it weren’t for Jeno he would’ve rather taken punishment from Tae Oh, after all that’s what he deserved.

“Mark, you have no idea what this means to me. Thank you so much.” Jeno grinned at him, wrapping him in a suffocating hug, making Mark feel worse.

“Right, it’s not like I couldn’t do it for you.” It was monotone, he was unable to show his real feelings about the situation.

“So how’s Y/N?” Jaemin asked, watching the interaction.

“What do you mean?” Mark furrowed his brows and directed his attention at the other boy.

“Well, you guys can still date, she doesn’t have to know it was a bet.” He shrugged as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. Oh how badly Mark wanted that statement to be true.

“No.”

“No? What do you mean?” It was Jaemin’s turn to be confused.

“We broke up.” Mark avoided eye contact with anyone else, staring up at the sky and squinting in the bright light.

“Why? Did you tell her?” Haechan asked, “I didn’t think you had it in you to do that right after the bet was over.” He frowned to himself. “Don’t you think that was too harsh?”

Renjun elbowed Haechan in the side, shutting him up. As one of the more attentive of the group, he could see the way that Mark was acting in response.

“What could I do?” Mark shrugged, trying so hard not to let his voice crack and play it off like he didn’t care. If only they knew that it was the other way around. But he took Haechan’s blows, after all he deserved it, he was the cause of it anyways.

“Y/N! Hey!” You heard Jeno’s footsteps sidle up beside you, the faint breathing evidence that he had jogged to you.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, suddenly embarrassed to thank you.

“Um, thanks. I just want to let you know that it wasn’t like it seemed, Mark was just trying to help me. He’s not a bad guy, I know he probably seemed harsh, but he really didn’t want to do it.” 

He gulped, and peered over at your face, more than shocked at the fact that it was expressionless. Too similar to the one they had gotten used to seeing on Mark.

“I know.” You hiked your bag up higher on you bag, gripping tightly on the straps for support.

“Mark really likes you. For real. He’s been really upset, beating himself up for it you know. He won’t admit to it, but we all can see it.”

You squinted your eyes closed, trying to ignore the underlying meaning of Jeno’s words.

“He wouldn’t ever just use you like that. You know him.”

You had enough.

“Do I? Because this was a far cry from the Mark that I knew, or at least I thought I knew.” You sent one last look before escaping out the doorway, leaving Jeno behind with a hurt look.

Jeno never wanted to hurt either of you, but it was a consequence of his stupid decisions. And now other people had to pay for his mistakes.

“Y/N.” You stopped in your tracks, it seemed that no matter where you went you couldn’t get away from them.

“Renjun.” You replied curtly, having nothing else to say to him. Beside him was the familiar pair of shoes, one’s you would always recognize.

Mark shyly lifted his hand to greet you, but dropped it as if he realized that he no longer had the right to.

Renjun, ever the observer watched the interaction, taking in the tense air between the two of you.

“Guys I’m telling you something’s not right. I know it was stupid, but Mark is really suffering.” Renjun spilled to the rest of the boys, “We ran into Y/N and he looked so depressed. It was really bad.”

“Well, of course it’s gonna be bad, Mark basically used her.” Haechan let out, never thinking about his words.

“Haechan!” 

“What am I wrong?” He raised his eyebrow in question.

“You don’t have to say it like that.” Jaemin scolded, glancing at Jeno who seemed more stoney than usual.

“He’s right though.” Jeno let out. “It’s my fault, I never should’ve let Mark do it.”

“Jeno, you didn’t know what Tae Oh was going to do.” Jaemin comforted him, to which he was met with empty eyes.

“I ran into Y/N, but she wasn’t having it. I don’t think she’ll ever forgive him.” Jeno dropped his head in his hands.

There was a silence as none of the boys knew how to comfort him.

“What’s going on?” Mark stood in the doorway, watching the scene before him unfold.

“Nothing.” Renjun quickly covered up. 

“Jeno? What’s going on?” Mark ignored Renjun’s excuse and focused on the downtrodden boy.

“I’m sorry.” Jeno’s voice sounded broken, leaving Mark on edge.

“Why?”

“It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have let you do it. I swear I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt. I tried to explain everything to Y/N, I’ll try again, I promise.” He pleaded with Mark, hoping that he would forgive him.

“Oh.” Mark stepped back from Jeno, the emotionless tone coming through again.

“Please, I promise I’ll try to fix things.”

“Don’t, it’s fine. There’s nothing to fix anymore.” Jeno hated the look Mark had on his face. “Don’t bother explaining, she already knows everything.”

“What?” Renjun butted in, unable to hold his curiosity.

“She overheard everything. We didn’t actually sleep together, she just let me pretend so we would win the bet.” Mark picked up his bag that he had dropped on the floor earlier. 

“But-” 

“Jeno, it’s fine. Explaining won’t change anything. There’s nothing you can do to change it. Don’t stress yourself out, or blame yourself. I’m just as much at fault, I chose to do it.”

With that Mark, left the same way he came in, no longer feeling like he could stand to be under the scrutiny of the other boys.

“Wait, she knew? And she faked the whole thing for him?” Haechan scratched his head, still processing the bomb Mark dropped on them. “But doesn’t that mean that she still cares about him? Why would she do that for him?”

“Haechan for once you didn’t say something stupid. I agree. I think we should talk to Y/N, chances are if she did that for him, she still cares about him.” Renjun nodded enthusiastically, eager to fix the situation.

“I’ll do it.” Jeno said, gritting his teeth. 

“Jeno.”

“No, I fucked everything up, I need to fix it.” He turned to Jaemin, placing a hand on his shoulder, reassuring him.

“I know what you did.” Jeno blurted out, startling you. 

“What do you mean?”

“I know you and Mark didn’t actually sleep together.” The look on his face slightly scared you, and you weren’t sure whether him knowing was a good thing or not.

“Did he tell you that?” You cocked your head to the side, trying to feel out the situation.

“Yeah, and I know why you did it too.” Jeno leaned down, getting eye level with you. “You still like him don’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I did it cause I felt bad. I didn’t want to feel like it was my fault you guys would suffer.” You looked away from him, watching the stream of students exit the library. “And no, how could I like him after that? He used me.”

“You know exactly why though, if you’re going to hate anyone, hate me.” His words more aggressive, a tactic he was using to redirect your anger.

“I don’t hate him,” you mumbled out, “and I don’t hate you.”

“See, you did that because you still care about him.” He prodded, “If you didn’t you would’ve never let him pretend to go through with it.” 

He paused letting that sink in, “For what it’s worth, he still cares very much about you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so depressed.”

You sighed, “I don’t want him to be depressed.”

“Then you should talk to him. I know you guys still have feelings for each other, and honestly it’s hurting you guys more to ignore it.” He raised his eyebrows earnestly, giving you a tempting offer. 

“I know for a fact that if you were willing to take him back, he would beg for forgiveness. Mark loves you Y/N.” The last bit came out soft, but it had the biggest impact.

Your heart ached, yearning for him despite the situation.

“Just talk to him. I know I don’t deserve to ask that of you, but I’m begging you, for Mark’s sake.” You had never seen Jeno this distraught before.

All you could do is nod.

“Y/N?” Mark froze at the sight of you standing on the other side of the door.

“Can we talk?”

“Yeah, com- come on in.” He stuttered, embarrassed at how nervous he was. “Do you want something to drink... or?” 

“No, I’m fine.” You mumbled, staring at your sleeves. “I just wanted to talk about, you know.”

“Right.”

The two of you took the chance to settle into the familiar couch, memories of your relationship coming back to you.

“I don-”

“I know-”

You blushed at the awkward atmosphere.

“You first.” Mark let you continue.

You cleared your throat. “I talked to Jeno.”

He nodded silently, “I told him to stop bothering you, I’ll talk to him again.”

“No, there’s no need.” You let out, “We talked about some things, more specifically things between us.”

Mark gulped, unable to see where you were going with this. 

“I’m probably really stupid for doing this, but I’m obviously attracted to stupid.” You tried to joke, referencing Mark. No matter how much you tried to relieve the tension, it still hovered over you like a think cloud.

He let out a nervous laugh, dying out to let you continue.

“You have no how much I wanted to hate you when I found out. And you have no idea how much I hated myself for not hating you.”

Mark sat up at the insinuation that you didn’t hate him.

“Mark, I still like you a lot. There’s a part of me that hates myself for liking you even after everything, but there’s a larger part of me that tells me that this is more important.” You took a deep breath, struggling to finish your thought.

“I love you.”

You choked back your breath in shock, you weren’t expecting him to confess so bluntly.

“I was stupid and I hate that I did that to you, but I want you do know that I don’t regret helping Jeno, I just should’ve gone about it a different way, one that wouldn’t have any casualties. I would’ve begged on my knees if I had to, but I didn’t feel like I had the right to. Honestly, I figured I would be doing you a favor by leaving you alone.” His nervous tick of picking at his nails made it clear that he was just as nervous as you were.

“I don’t want to praise you for doing something like this, because it was stupid and hurtful, but I’m glad you were able to help Jeno.” You smiled at him, “He’s really thankful, you have know idea how many times he let me know that. He also kept me updated on you, and that definitely didn’t help my feelings go away.”

Mark felt a surge of happiness rise in him, the realization that you still like him, the hope that this wasn’t the end of your relationship, and the gratitude that his prayers were answered.

“Mark, I love you too.”

© Copyright 2021. hyuckssunchip. All rights reserved.

[cozycryptidcorner]

Avery the Fae/Reader, Lemon

You don’t dress up for Halloween.

Not your fault, though, really, because your professors show no mercy for holidays, especially not ones that don’t land them a day off. Classes go on as usual, and so you wake up the latest you can without risking a tardy and go off in the comfortable clothes you slept in. Except for some cat ears and one superman, everything is perfectly normal, and the day passes like almost every other, save for a ‘spooky drink’ coupon at the local cafe.

I probably don’t even need a costume, anyways, you think as you catch your reflection when passing those special mirror-like windows on one of the campus’ buildings. Frankly, you look like you crawled out of hell itself. Dark circles under your eyes from lack of sleep, hair all askew and uncooperative, mouth in a permanent stressed line.

A zombie, probably, you decide, taking a sip of that hot caffeinated mess you ordered from the cafe. A hot zombie, for sure, but a zombie no less. A part of you wants to skip your next class and take a nap, but you’ve already used up your one absence, and you aren’t in a position to risk your grade for sleep. No rest for the wicked, right? Right. Everything else goes as smoothly as can be expected for being sleep deprived, and the night class seems to drag on for a fully stretched eternity, but you are finally free to go home and do your five hours of homework. Maybe if you’re lucky, you can squeeze in two or three hours of sleep.

It’s because you’re tired, you think, stopping for a hot minute when you realize that you’re lost. You hadn’t been paying attention to campus’ many twists and turns in its paths, and so you must have wandered away from the buildings and onto the forest trail that hugs the dorms, except there’s no cement beneath your feet. Not even a dirt trail marks a way out, and you take a full moment to come to terms with being lost, on your own damn campus, no less. You aren’t any kind of simpering pansy, so you turn around and begin to retrace your steps. Which doesn’t work, unfortunately, because after a couple of minutes of walking, there’s nothing to suggest that you’re only a couple of paces from civilization.

Except a drum beat, behind you. It’s faint, probably a half-mile away, but it’s the closest thing you have to a way back, especially since your phone can’t seem to pick up any signal. Maybe one of the school’s many bands are practicing? Right, you’re just going to stumble out into the football field, twigs in your hair, looking very much like you’ve gotten into a fist-fight with the entire forest…

And… Not a band, you realize, stepping into a clearing, but a party.

A costume party, too, by the looks of it, with everyone in soft, flittery clothing and fitted masks. Interesting how everyone seems to be on the same page with the dress code, there’s usually that one dick who shows up in a hotdog suit, regardless of any previous agreements. Elegant is the word you’re looking for, you decide, running into something tall and solider, correction: running into someone tall and solid.

“Oh, hey, sorry,” you apologize, shifting your weight on either foot, “I’m a little lost.”

“I think that you are right where you want to be,” your stranger says, mouth turning up into a strange, fanged smile. His black mask is trimmed with gold, and it doesn’t seem like he’s costuming as anything specific; rather, it appears to be just for anonymity.

“I think I really want to be in bed,” you say, trying to share a mutual we’re in college and want to die of exhaustion moment, but he doesn’t respond with the same energy.

“Perhaps a drink of wine before you go?” He offers, holding out an actual goblet of some kind. Maybe the metal-working students pitched in? Or accepted a particular commissioned order? It looks like genuine gold, which adds to the whole aesthetic of the party.

“Uh,” don’t accept drinks you haven’t seen made, “I’m good for now, really. Just trying to get back home to study.”

“Hm,” he says, taking a good swig from the goblet he had just offered, “good question. Through the trees from whence you came, most likely.”

Of fucking course, he’s drunk and doesn’t know left from right. Great. What an excellent position you’ve put yourself in. Frustrated and confident he wouldn’t roofie himself, you snatch the goblet from his hand and down several large gulps of shockingly sweet wine, maybe a sangria? Or something sugared up to be palatable?

Swirling the goblet around, to seem sophisticated, you ask, “so is this some kind of rich person party? Like an Illuminati meeting or something?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you speak of.”

“Right.” You draw out the single syllable, landing hard on the t. LARPers, probably, but not unattractive ones. Those masks don’t hide everything, and the shape of his jaw is not something to balk at, and those lips? Not to be forward in your own brain or anything, but they’re certainly decent to look at. This has to be some kind of weird-ass club, or like a rich dumbass ritual or something, definitely not your average frat party with a variety of random drugs mixed into the mystery punch. “Do you go to school here?”

He looks down at your university sweatshirt, cocking his head slightly. “A place of learning, is it? No, I’m afraid I have not attended such an institution, but I must admit that I have been tempted.”

“Well,” you take another sip of wine, “it’s not bad, as far as universities go. With decent financial aid, too.”

“Best not to drink too much of that,” your stranger says, “it’s much stronger than it tastes, and it’s best you stay clear-headed for the evening’s festivities.”

“One cup can’t hurt,” you say, and then realize that he’s just volunteered you to join in on the fun. Which is kind of weird, you guess, but then again, you aren’t going to complain. This is a way more interesting place to spend your evening, but might as well prop your backpack underneath one of the tables, hiding it beneath the skirt of the pale white cloth. You eye the unmarked bottle that one of the party-goers holds, but set your goblet down by the expensive-looking chinaware, flexing your fingers as they begin to tingle with the warmness that comes with alcohol. “What’s the party’s theme?”

He cocks his head, as though confused.

“Like a…” you try to think of a different way to phrase it. “A topic you pick, and everyone has to adhere to it. The people here all look like they’re, like, what Victorian thought the fairies looked like or something. I think it’s the clothes.”

“We are Faeries, though,” he says, the sides of his mouth curving upwards.

“Hm,” you say, “of course you are.”

“Join me for this dance?” Your stranger asks instead of any rebuttals, holding out a hand.

You look over at the band that plays, masks of distinct animal-like features flickering in the light of the bonfire roaring in the center of the clearing, all instruments vaguely familiar, yet not. Some of them you think you’ve seen before, at maybe renaissance-themed festivals, but the others must be from some kind of distinctly obscure genre of music.

The heat from the fire seems to lick out at your fingers, or maybe it’s the alcohol, already making its way through your system, but you stare, transfixed, at the way the lyre player plucks at the strings of their instrument. The quick movement plays too much with your eyes, you barely see anything more than the blurs of fingers, and you suddenly realize that you are swaying in place.

“I don’t know how,” you say, snapping out of whatever trance you had been in.

“It’s rather simple, come here,” he takes one of your hands, shockingly not unwelcome. Perhaps the warmth of his skin against yours brings you a kind of peace that you need during this period of your life. “I will teach you.”

Your stranger is correct; the dance is fairly simple to learn, mostly because there are very few rules. Sway your hips. Let your feet bounce against the soft forest floor. Let him spin you around and around until your head almost feels light. You’ll be honest, he’s the one doing all the work, guiding you, adding more flair to your steps, one hand resting on your waist, the other weaving its fingers with yours. Now, you may not be one to go out and ballroom dance on the fly, but you would be alright admitting that this is kind of fun.

So you dance. And you dance. And you continue dancing, letting the music remove you from time and space, everything else fades away except for the thrumming drumbeat, the wind in the trees, and your partner. You don’t feel the need to gasp for air, nor do your legs give out and collapse, but you aren’t even aware of how much time has passed. You dance out your pain, your stress, and any alcohol that lingers in your system, a layer of sweat keeping your body cool in the autumn night’s air. An eternity, perhaps, a small piece of infinity shared between you and this stranger, or the briefest of moments that still yield the most intimate bit of time that two people can share.

The song ends- or perhaps, the band finally runs out of music to play. You don’t know what time it is, but you aren’t finished with the party, not yet. The stranger sets his hands on both your hips, eyes as red as the fires of hell, and offers you a promising smile, his shirt loosely clinging to his body, having lost the fancily embroidered vest at some point while dancing.

“Do you want to get out of here?” You ask, making a snap decision not to let the night go to waste.

His smile widens.

The trees are your only audience when he brings you away from the rest of the party, the moon staring over the tops of the red and yellow leaves. The chill of the night might have discouraged anyone else, but you are broiling with energy and ready to continue moving wildly to keep warm. Despite barely being out of sight, you’re already working on his clothes, trying to find velcro or snaps of a cheap costume and failing rather miserably. He seems amused with your attempts, guiding your hands to find a variation of ties and buttons. Soon enough, you have his shirt off, his pale skin gleaming in the moonlight, revealing a chest etched in dozens of tattoos, red like blood against his pale skin, though it’s too dark to make out precisely what they are.

He seems to have a destination in mind, even though you steal most of his attention with kisses and touches. Even though you are in a place you’re sure no one would bother finding you in, he still seems determined to herd your desperate body further away from the camp, until the both of you get to a clearing, free of roots strangling the ground. Jupiter and Saturn stare blankly down from their perches in the sky, the stars surrounding them twinkling, as though applauding your conquest.

“I didn’t catch your name,” you gasp after a breathless kiss.

He pauses, almost put off by the request, like he’s startled you would even ask. Before you can even regain the ability to feel nervous, he says, “Avery.”

“Avery,” you repeat, running your fingers through his hair. “That’s a nice name.”

“And what may I call you?”

Like a fool, you give up your first name without much thought, but you are too excited about where the night is going to remember what you said even a second later. It doesn’t seem to matter, though, because his mouth is against yours, and your back is on the cold, dewy grass before you even register that he pulled your legs off balance. He’s a good kisser, you think hazily, his lips traveling down from your mouth to your collarbone. His mouth is nice and hot against your skin, already sending pleasant little shivers down your spine as he works, and you find yourself grasping at the cold, dying grass of the earth in order to pull your spirit back to reality.

The insides of your belly melt as he lifts your shirt up over your breasts, and you’re quick to discard the garment as he sucks at the skin just above the hemline of your pants. He needs help with the button and the zipper, his lithe fingers struggling to figure out the mechanics, so you undo everything for him. After letting out a thankful grunt, he leans forward, pressing his lips right on your stomach, sucking hard enough to leave a red mark that may bruise in the morning.

Then he kisses the skin just above where your underwear ends, a jolting shiver pulsing through your core at the contact. When you glance down at him, the barest light emanating from the roaring bonfire only a few meters away, he seems so… focused, you think, at his task of slowly stripping the last bit of fabric away from your body. Methodically, he tugs, fingers threading through the straps at the side, his eyes glimmering in the light bleeding out from the moon herself.

Slowly, steadily, he presses his mouth where your leg and torso meet, nibbling at a bit of flesh before moving ever so slightly downwards, opening your legs and seemingly liking what he finds down there. Carefully avoiding any of your puckered, wet skin, he instead moves his lips just to the side, clearly enjoying the act of driving you to the brink of insanity. You can feel the smile he wears as he teases you further, switching over to your other thigh.

Almost impatiently, you wrap one of your legs around his shoulder, arching your back when he finally lashes his tongue out to trace the outline of your flower. A heated spark ignites through your nerves, a charge of fiery need flooding your body and into your core. He seems to enjoy the breathless whine you offered in response because he does it again, inching closer and closer to your clit.

Roughly, you tangle your fingers into his long, flowing hair, pulling him closer and begging with no words for him to stop teasing and finally give you the pleasure you need. Avery finally complies, pressing his tongue right up against your clit and tracing little circles on and around it. The heat of his breath only helps further stir the coals in your womb, your back arching against the gentle curve of the world as you cry out.

He seems to deeply enjoy your keening, popping off your puckered flesh in the brief moment it takes for him to smile up at you, like a beast satisfied with the tortured screams of its prey. The way his tongue moves up, around, and down your clit makes you want to die, dirt clinging underneath your fingernails, bits of grass tearing as you claw at the ground. Still, he takes your keening reaction to double his efforts, using his fingers when his mouth is busy elsewhere, rubbing gentle little patterns in the opening of your slit.

There, you can feel your orgasm approaching as he begins to explore your core with his thumb, pushing and rubbing against the throbbing folds with some level of curiosity in his eyes.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, a passing observation.

You’re so beyond the point of return that you could barely even draw in the words to thank him before you’re overcome with shaking trembles emanating from your very core, your insides quick to bend and break at his beckoning. It doesn’t take much more teasing from Avery before you’re crying out for him, voice cracking with pleasure and desperation, your fingers threading through his hair so tightly you don’t know where you end, and he begins.

When you are nothing more than a heaping, teary-eyed mass of trembling flesh on the ground, he crawls up from between your legs, kisses your stomach, your ribs, your breasts, your collarbone, all the way up to your mouth once more. You can taste yourself on his tongue and lips, warmer than the wine and almost twice as intoxicating, and by the wild stare in his eyes, he’s drunk with your nectar. And, quite frankly, ready to devour you, his kisses all teeth and heat, mouth dexterous against the curves, rises, and plateaus of your body, like he knows so very intimately every square centimeter of you.

There’s a hard rock length against your stomach, one that you can feel, almost tragically against your skin as he lavishes your lips and chest with his blessed attention. Even though you walked into this situation expecting a one-night stand, you don’t know, this feels light it could rocket through your life and end up becoming

“More,” you rasp, surprised that your voice is even working, ” more.”

He understands that rough and demanding command, stroking your hair with one of his free hands, mouth offering up a myriad of kisses to your neck and collarbone, an odd, overcoming need to please you emanating off of him, one like you’ve never dealt with before. Out of the corner of your eye, you think you see the familiar masks of those at the party earlier, but Avery turns your wandering gaze back to him with his insistent, feral kiss, his chest trembling with heated need.

“Do you want my cock inside you?” He asks, wanting to hear you say it.

“Please,” you almost snarl, wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Hmm,” he almost manages to fool you that he could care less, but by the way his body grinds and presses against yours, he’s so, so close to traveling the radius of the earth itself to comply. You can hear the rustle of fabric as he strips away what’s left of his ensemble, moving away from your body and leaving you almost horrifically cold.

It doesn’t take a lot for him to angle your legs properly, your thigh rubbing up against his throbbing member. He’s at least gentle with how he impales you, his entrance slow and gradual, kaleidoscope eyes staring so intently into your very being that you wonder if you’ll survive the next time pleasure crashes down around you. And he feels so good, the crisp, autumn grass against your back the only thing keeping you from becoming so lost beneath his trembling body.

He must share your thoughts because even though he’s only eased in, his forehead pressed against yours, his breathing is short and shallow like he could hardly believe the pleasure your body gives him. Once he’s fully sheathed, he swears, voice quiet, yet filled to the brim with lust. You wrap your legs around his waist, hoping to feel him further, your voice and your body begging him to continue, to move, but he’s almost in a trance.

You’re impatient for movement, for that slick friction between your thighs, so you quickly take matters into your own hands. With no finesse, fueled only by spite and determination, you shift, switching positions using your legs and arms. Avery simply rolls with it, a ghostly smile on his mouth as you pin his hands to the ground, chest heaving from the effort, a layer of sweat misting your skin despite the chill of the night.

That seems to break whatever space he had retreated to, eyes lit like a roaring forest fire as he beholds your body from beneath your legs. His voice is raspy, but the demand is calm, collected, like he’s waited for thousands of years for this, for you. “Use me.”

You let out a breath, steadying yourself on his body to comply, and grind. His eyes roll back as you do, starting slowly, his back arching off the ground, his chest heaving with pleasure at the loss of control. Careful to control the pace, you let yourself be taken by the pleasure, the joining slick and hot, your core roaring with approval and greed. More, more, more.

Everything is suddenly vibrantly alive, the forest rustling with a wind you don’t feel, crickets singing hymns in the open field, the moon herself licking at your bodies with her soft, precious light. You think you hear chanting in the distance, your brain muddled with his delicious praises and lust that you don’t try to investigate, too focused on feeling his length pulse and move through your folds. Tears prick at your eyes, not from sadness, no, and you couldn’t possibly know their purpose because this feels so good, like his body was made for you.

This climax almost hurts, you felt it approaching and you knew it would be a lot, so you brace yourself, both hands gripping his shoulders like a lifeline. You look into his eyes, and you see… more, than just fundamental attraction, more than pure, unadulterated lust, but you’re so far gone you can’t pinpoint what it is, exactly, before you’re overcome.

Everything in your body is aflame, your core quaking enough to make you think, for just a brief moment, that the earth itself is tearing apart, you cry, you whine, you scream for him, and he’s there, holding onto you for dear life. Telling you that you’re perfect, you’re beautiful, that you’ll never want another man so long as your legs are wrapped around him so tightly like this. You think you believe him, gasping for air, fingernails digging into his skin hard enough to draw blood, though he doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest.

It takes a lot of concentration to bring yourself back into your body, your soul and spirit so besotted with desire, but you manage it, feeling his hands grip your thighs so tightly his fingers may leave bruise marks. You bend forward, letting him take the reins as you try to stay present enough in the moment to kiss and nip at his neck, teeth tugging at his skin, the aftershocks still moving through your nerves like waves on a storming night. Still, though, you want him to feel what you did, to become undone by your hand.

And he does, his thrusts becoming so uneven that you begin to grind, ghosts of your orgasm weaving through your flesh and womb. A crescendo of noise seems to overtake the clearing, the air becoming like static, the hairs on your arms standing on end. Overcome, he curses and snarls in a language you don’t understand, his voice hard and soft at the same time, his hips jerking as something warm and wet pulses out of his member, filling you up and spilling out onto his pelvis.

Avery sits up, still joined within you, shaken, but startlingly and brilliantly alive, chest heaving with the effort of breathing. He presses his mouth against yours in a myriad of kisses, soft, possessive, tender, needy. There is still some amount of desire on his lips, but without the same uncontrollable yearning broiling just beneath his fevered skin like before.

Then he says your name, and a shiver goes down your spine, your very being somehow attentive to whatever he says next, as though your entire universe suddenly floods down and descends on this one, single person. He says it again, rolling it over his tongue like a wine taster, trying out each of the letters as though they offer a different kind of sweetness, his eyes just as wild as they had been when you held him pinned to the grass. A sliver of fear pierces your chest, making you want to push him onto the ground and take him again, but he has other plans.

“I’ll walk you back, dove,” he says, pressing his mouth against your collarbone, though he doesn’t kiss you again, not yet. “The sun will soon be up.”

[dumbgothbunny]

Give it all to Me (Subaru x Reader)

TWs under the cut (NSFW)

TWs: NSFW (obviously), Sex at school, Subaru bein Subaru

~ * ~

“S-Subaru-Kun”

His name rolls from your tongue in an airy purr, the pad of his index finger just barley touching where you need him. Your captor has you right where he wants you, bare back pressed against his chest, shoulders bitten and bruised by his fangs. Your legs are spread eagle, the fabric of your uniform skirt bunched up to your waist. He noses at your exposed nape, fangs ghosting over sensitive flesh. One of his strong arms is wrapped securely around your stomach, the other resting on your thigh. His long fingers roam the valley between your parted legs. Outside you hear students chatting as they pass by, completely unaware of the events taking place just behind the door. Your head lulls to the side, hair falling over your shoulders to expose the rest of your flesh. Subaru takes his time, his nose and lips trailing across the expanse of your neck, only stopping to suck against the faded love bites his siblings had left upon your skin, overriding the yellowing bruises with new, intense purple ones. Your lips part as you cry out for him, your breaths hot and needy. You’d become a slave to their every desire, giving in to each one of them almost too easily.

“Ayatos been spoutin’ all this crap about being your first everythin’ ya know?”

His voice is a raspy whisper. His fingers move across the cotton of your panties, pressing into your throbbing hole through the fabric. Your legs, despite already being parted, attempt to widen even more, your body desperate for his touch. Subaru’s fingertips press further against your panties, teasing your eager body.

“I know its all bullshit. Your taste hasn’t changed at all.”

You attempt to choke back a whimper by biting your lip but it doesn’t help, the noise that escapes you is utterly deplorable. He strokes his fingers upward, playing with the elastic band of your panties briefly before sliding his digits downward. You relish in the sensation of his cool fingers gliding across such hot skin. Subaru chuckles when you rock your hips into his hand, desperate to feel him inside of you.

“Ya really are a disgusting woman. Just lettin them take advantage of ya whenever they want. Che…”

Despite his words he also has taken advantage of you. In fact, more so than the others. Toying with you has become his new method of blowing off steam  the past few weeks.

“I’m surprised none of ‘em have fucked you yet. Especially with that Teary little face you make while being violated…fuck.”

You wiggle against his fingers, each word cascading over your skin as he speaks. Your flesh feels like it’s on fire, pleasure and need twisting in your stomach. His fingers feel so good, twisting and scissoring at your spongy insides. Lips part, your body arching against his chest. Your arm reaches back for him, fingers tangling in his snowy hair. You’ve become a complete slut for them, a toy to be passed around and played with. These brothers were merciless in their teasing. Maybe they’d wanted to break you, to bend them to their will before devouring you entirely? They all made you feel good, but Subaru was different. You didn’t comply with what he did to you simply because it made you feel good. There was something else…

“Su…baru…”

Your inner thighs are coated with slick, three of his fingers probing deep in your quivering heat. He’d never let you cum, only tease you until you cried for him. The way you sigh his name, voice thick and dripping with pleasure, frustrates him more than anything. Subaru removes his fingers, each digit soaked with your juices down to the knuckle.

“How do ya think they’d feel… if I took you away from them?”

The vampire pushes you forward. You fall over like a rag doll, chest pressing into the dusty hardwood flooring. From this angle he can see everything. The hem of your skirt is flipped upward, exposing the soft mounds of your ass. There are two distinct bite marks marring the usually flawless flesh. Subaru grunts in annoyance.

“Even here…. Who was it? Eh? Ayato? Or that Pervert Laito?”

You whimper, the toes of your shoes pressing into the floor so that you can balance yourself better.

“R-Reiji-San…”

“Che. That closet perv. Fucking disgustin. Did you like it?”

When you shake your head no, Subaru scoffs. His palm gently rubs at the wound, the scarred flesh scraping against his skin.

You aren’t prepared to feel his own fangs break through your skin, reopening the barley healed scabs. This feels different than before with Reiji, however. The vampire drawls his tongue along your heated flesh, lapping at the delicious blood pooling to the surface. You moan, pushing your toes into the floor, pressing your ass right against his lips. He indulges in you briefly, unlatching from you with a satisfied smack of his lips. Subaru peers down at you with intense eyes, the blood on his lips smeared across his cheek. You’re tempting him with that tearful expression, your legs quivering as they hold your body in place, baring it all to him. You’ve made a mess of the wood below you, the juices soaking through your tasteless panties to pool below. It’s been two months since this has started, but he’s never seen you so ready. Despite being unwilling to admit his feelings for you, his body knows what it wants. You’re his prey, your sweet blood belongs to him alone. It’s about time he stopped playing games and let his Brothers know just who you belonged to.

“P-please… Subaru-Kun”

He closes his eyes, nostrils flaring. He wants to ruin you for anyone but him. To make you his in body and mind. You’re begging for it- but can he? The little bit of doubt torments him.

“There’s no going back after this-“

He curses his softer side, his own cheeks burning with embarrassment.

“You’ll be mine and only mine. If anyone tries to fuckin touch you I’ll kill them”

His words make you shiver. Your trembling fingers press against your soaked panties, pushing them to the side, blessing him the perfect view of your swollen, pulsating opening.

“P-please…. Subaru-Kun… that’s okay b-because… I love you…”

His eyes widen, warmth radiating in his chest. The feeling angers him almost as much as it pleases him. The vampire licks his lips, watching as your fingertips become slick from your own juices.

“Che… you say these fuckin’ crazy things…”

Subaru’s voice is shaking with anger and frustration, his fingers trembling as he pushes the trousers of his uniform down over his hips.

“You’re gonna take responsibility- “

His fingers tangle in your hair, pushing your face down against the wooden panels under you. The bell rings over the intercom, signaling the start of another missed class.

“If any of them fuckin touch you after this…”

Your lips part, a loud mewl ringing in his ears as he slides into your body, fully taking you as his. Subaru grits his teeth, cursing as your body tightens around him. Your insides feel like liquid velvet, pushing and sucking against his cock. The sensation makes his head spin.

“Sh-Shit”

He falls forward, pressing himself hard against your back, sandwiching you between the hard ground and himself. It feels amazing- the stinging ache between your legs accompanied by blinding pleasure. Your body makes lewd noises as he thrusts his hips into you, not bothering to start with a slow pace.

“I’ll make your body remember who it belongs to…che…. Will stretch your insides to my shape-!”

Subaru’s breathless growls cause the knots in your stomach to tighten. You’ve never heard him sound so unhinged, not even during his many tantrums. His fingers grip your thigh, jerking it to the side. Your leg rests on his shoulder, your entire body twisted to the side. He grunts, intense gaze fixated on you. You look helpless, your eyes glazed over with lust, drool dripping from your lips. Each merciless thrust of his hips knocks the wind right out of you. One of your breasts has popped free from the lacy cup of your bra, the nipple swollen and hard. He wants to memorize this, memorize the way you come undone for him.

“F-Fuckin slut…”

You attempt to muffle your sob with the back of your hand, but it doesn’t work.

“Ehh? Did you hear something?”

The muffled voices outside the door barely register in your mind, Subaru has completely overtaken every thought. Another, louder whine bubbles up in your chest.

“A-Ah!? Let’s get back to class!”

Subaru chuckles as footsteps quickly lead away from the storage closet. He leans forward, bending your leg back. This allows him to fuck you deeper.

“They heard you, (Y/N)”

The tone of his voice is low, lust thick in his voice. Tears roll down your cheeks.

“Fuckin’ in the school closet…. Ya can’t put up that goody two-shoes act anymore”

Your eyes close, more tears escaping. Subaru was right, you definitely were no longer a saint. His hands grip onto your thighs, hips drilling into your cunt at a bruising pace. The pleasure is making your head spin, consuming you completely. Your fingers press against the floor, using them to gain some sort of leverage, you push your hips against his own, meeting each of his hard thrusts with your own. The ringing in your ears grows more intense, heat radiating through every nerve ending.

“S-Subaru-Kunnnn~”

You say his name like a desperate prayer, your muscles tensing around his cock. He curses through gritted teeth, nails digging into your supple flesh. Your hips wiggle against him frantically, desperate for more. He watches as you gyrate against him, pink, swollen lips engulfing him down to the hilt. You cry out for him again, this time louder than the first. Your leg arches, eyes rolling back. Subaru fucks you through your orgasm, too engulfed in pleasure to care that you’d made a mess of his trousers. Fluids trickle down your thighs, pooling beside you on the floor. He hadn’t counted on you being a squirter, but he definitely wasn’t upset. The vampire waits for you to fall limp before dragging your body onto his lap, not once letting your bodies break contact. You’re still quivering around him. Subaru takes a firm grip of your hips, his own thrusting up into your slick heat. Each thrust earns him a weak gasp or exhausted sigh of pleasure. Your fingers have tangled in his hair, weakly stroking against his scalp. The vampire shudders, closing his eyes and basking in the feeling of your fluttering insides. This pace is much sweeter than before, as if he knows your body can’t take anymore. His thrusts gradually become sloppy, his fingers gripping tighter and tighter against your skin. Subaru holds you tightly as he cums, burying his face into the crook of your neck. You’re fingers fall from his hair, moving to grip at his shirt. The two of you stay connected for a moment, the vampire slowly regaining his composure. He slips out of you without a word, standing and adjusting himself in his pants. You’re completely wrecked, your skirt and underwear ruined. There’s a lazy look in your eyes, as if you can’t bring yourself to focus. The vampire scoffs, picking you up and throwing you over his shoulder effortlessly. While the thought of leaving you here to wonder the school crosses his mind, he decides against it.

By the time he lands on the steps of the balcony you’re already snoozing, clinging against him like a child. Subaru kicks in the door to his room, lifting the lid of his coffin with his foot. You mutter his name in your sleep, refusing to let go of his blazer when he tries to lay you down.

“Che…. Troublesome. Oi! Let me go!”

However, you don’t pay him any mind. His cheeks heat up, frustration bubbling in his chest. Why’d you have to be so damn cute? Subaru carefully toes off his shoes, kicking them off before settling down in the coffin. He doesn’t bother closing the lid, not that he could anyway, Your body is draped over him making it almost impossible to move. The vampire closes his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips.

When he wakes up he’ll have to make it clear to his siblings that you’re his.

[marzipanandminutiae]

you asked and I am desperate for an excuse to happy to deliver! presenting A Point-By-Point Takedown of This BS Doll Article By Some Lady Calling Herself A Professional Antiques Appraiser

so she starts off with a random story about how she was in a warehouse doing appraisals and a dresser started glowing, and when she looked in the dresser the source of the glow was an antique doll. this convinced her that dolls “carry the energy of wicked little girls.” but not all of them! anyway now she’s scared of dolls. but not really. but yes, really

...okay then

she then shares a doll one E.H. sent her photos of for appraisal

(Pretty! French fashion doll, I’d say maybe a Barrois or an early Bru, late 1860s.  You can tell by the distinctive “cobalt blue” eyes, that deep sapphire shade that only appears in the earliest era of FFs. Wig looks original, almost certainly mohair, and she has some sort of blouse or gown on that seems antique from the look of the lace. Could be a modern-made garment with antique materials. She’d probably fetch over $1,000 at auction unless there's some REALLY bad damage elsewhere on her person.)

EH’s one doll has a fabulous body that points to its age as 3rd quarter 19th century, because the body is made of fine-grained hand stitched leather. So what follows is a rough explanation of how you can determine if your doll is OLD, and that of course influences value – to an extent. The older dolls that are valuable are ALSO rare. And by the 1890’s dolls really were NOT rare.

Couple of issues with this. first of all, kid leather bodies can be seen on dolls as far back as the 1820s and as late in time as the early 1920s. the typical French fashion bodies were fairly distinctive,  but just saying that the material determines the age isn’t correct. or if it is, it’s not a very precise dating

also like...what even is the last sentence? dolls weren’t rare in the 1890s. dolls weren’t rare in the 1860s. dolls can be made out of literally anything, at any price point, and have been present in almost every culture in human history. dolls, as a broad category, have never been inherently rare

if she’s saying dolls from the 1890s are not considered rare by today’s standards...oh honey, meet my dear friend the Simon and Halbig 1159

(This doll is c. 1900. This doll fetched $1,800 at auction. What was that about age determining value, again?)

also maybe Google “German art character dolls.” friendly suggestion

Another fact about doll valuation is that the best antique dolls are not replicas of children, but are replicas of fabulously well-dressed young women.

this is so ridiculous I laughed out loud. there is no single “best” type of antique doll. some people will pay top dollar for Kewpies, others for 1880s child dolls, others still for first-issue Barbies. there are examples that are the rarest in their class of doll, sure, but no one class dominates across the board. it’s one thing to say a certain type is your favorite and another to say it’s the Best(TM) as a professional appraiser

My favorite fashionable young lady dolls, French or German, have leather bodies made of kid leather, stuffed with cork or sawdust. When you check the bodies, look for tight stitching at the joints, because, if the arms and legs are meant to move, they must be compress seamed. That makes sense because with the stuffing, a moved joint will pop open if not sewn correctly. Look for another overlay of leather at the joint called a gusset, which indicates greater value. Only the legs, the body, and the top of the arms and shoulders will be made of leather. The arms will be creamy porcelain or bisque, or sometimes a wood pulp combination composite material. You will notice the head and shoulder plate fits in a U-curve around the shoulders, which are leather and affixed expertly.

couple of things

1. not all FFs have the bisque lower arms- that’s a rarity point, not the norm. most with leather bodies have leather arms, too.

(This is my Jeanette. She has leather arms. Guess she’s not really a French fashion doll, then, despite her markings, face painting, face mold, body construction, eye type, and literally everything else about her!)

2. this describes most reproduction FFs out there, and many bodies used for German child dolls later on. so unless you’re planning to give people other things to look for, not entirely helpful

oh but wait! here are the other things to look for! let’s venture

The best French Fashion dolls wear the latest styles and little girls never played with them. Wealthy fashionistas in the 3rd quarter of the 19th century collected them.

remember, all that contemporary hand-wringing about little girls being corrupted by their fashionable “Paris dolls” was planted by Big Children(TM). #wakeupsheeple #thetruthisoutthere

These come in the finest white leather bodies with a nice bust line and quite wide hips, as we know as the style for the shapely ladies of the 1870 and 1880’s.

...who’s going to tell her leather bodies are definitely not the finest

can it be me

can it be me with my Charlotte, who has one of the rarest wooden body types that I’m still not sure how I got for such a (relative) steal

can it be us, perched on the end of her bed, at midnight

The hairstyles of real human hair will also be ‘period’, and some will have real gem jewelry. These weren’t meant as toys for a middle class little girl. These were expensive and can sell today for a couple thousand dollars in perfect shape. Surprisingly the leather has withstood time if well preserved.

as I said earlier, for French fashions, mohair (wool from an angora goat) was a WAY more common wig material than human hair. sometimes the hair will be down, not in a “period” style, because it was meant to be played with and styled by the child owner

real gem jewelry DID exist for these dolls, but most of what you’re likely to find is of rhinestones and gilt. that was much more common, as you’d expect

a middle-class little girl, if she was very lucky, might be able to count one middling or lower-range French lady among her dolls. they were expensive, but, well, middle-class girls often have one American Girl doll today, right? these dolls ranged in price from AG-level to “this was bought for a young princess and has that real gem jewelry mentioned above”

her price assessment is accurate for the majority of FFs, with outliers on either end ranging from “got really lucky with a seller who didn’t know what they had” to “a museum bought this doll because not even the richest collectors could afford to.” but...well, just keep that “couple of thousand dollars” figure in your mind for later

Let’s compare this leather-bodied doll with another cheaper type of body. In the late 19th century a ball-jointed body could be made of a wood pulp composition material, or even Papiermâché with little hinges of wood at the joints. Of course, since these bodies are wood based, they’re painted, and you’ll find the ghastly colors, as the once flesh tones turn to green or olive.

remember that doll from 1900 I showed you? 

she has a jointed composition body

$1,800

I do not feel any further comment is necessary at this juncture

(leather bodies came to be considered something of a budget option when the jointed compo bodies came into common use, because they couldn’t be posed and took less work/expense to make)

Finally, let’s think about the heads, if we dare.

oh bite me

Most heads are made of a porcelain type of material, and in this case, the porcelain is usually white with a painted ON skin tone. If the head is Bisque, bisque is material that will take a color or stain into itself and is often not painted nor glazed. The porcelain heads are more prized.

okay kids

porcelain is a type of very fine, translucent ceramic. it can be made matte, often called bisque, or shiny and glossy, often called china

(this stylish miss by Francois Gaultier is of matte bisque, the most common type of porcelain finish used for French fashion dolls. she’s also rocking the baby bangs look, and kudos to her for that)

(this early girl by Rohmer, on the other hand, has a glossy, shiny china head. note again the cobalt-blue eyes, another clue to her age. this is rarer than matte bisque for French fashions, though German glazed china dolls with molded hair could be quite commonplace depending on many factors like size, body type, hairstyle, etc.)

complicating everything further, a lot of older and even contemporary sources can use “bisque,” “porcelain,” and “china” interchangeably. context is key. but in modern terms, that’s sort of the breakdown

ding dong this blogger is wrong

You’ll see what I mean when I say dolls are sometimes too lifelike for my taste–or my nightmares. Notice the toes on EH’s doll. Pretty obsessive. The value is unknown until I find the maker of the doll, but a rough estimate might be $600, because the outfit seems original.

stitched toes are normal on kid-bodied French fashions in the most common size range (14″-17″). also

(The actual picture provided)

THIS gives you nightmares? really? I have Many Questions

also remember that valuation from earlier? a couple of thousand dollars? yeah. now she comes back with $600

depending on size, condition, and costume intricacy, I’ve seldom seen a doll of this type sell for less than $1,700 at auction (source: the online catalogue of past auctions at Theriault’s, the premier doll auction house in the U.S., and also personal experience)

and that’s a problem because the doll’s owner is PAYING for this “appraiser’s” services. they’re PAYING for an accurate idea of what they have and what it’s worth, whether for selling or insurance purposes. even if it’s just out of personal curiosity, you shouldn’t be swindled for a slew of misinformation and half-truths capped off by a wildly inaccurate dollar value

also the Creepy Doll stuff is massively unprofessional

Marzi out

[artsy-moonwalker]

Would you go into more details about your OC’s backstories?? They all look so cool 😆

I would love to! Thank you so much for this question :)

I'm going to focus distinctly on their childhood for these descriptions.

(mentions of drug addiciton, war, and violence)

Before I get into their backstories, it is important to address their environmental situation for context.

In their childhood, there was a civil war going on within America. This is a fictional war, of course, taking place in the early 2000s. Lenis, Everest, Flint, and Darryon all have their parts to play, and the war affects the four in different ways. While Lenis, Everest, and Flint are trying to escape war from their hometown and cross the country, Darryon and his siblings are attending shelters and risk their lives trying to help in any way they can.

So now that we have some context of their biggest childhood dilemma, let's get into the four individually. I won't go into complete detail to avoid any spoilers I'd like to share later on, but I will dive into their personalities and importance. I don't know how long this post will be, but I'll try to keep it as short as I can.

Lenis, 13 years old - tall, blond, a bit tan, a distinct scar on his left jaw, brown eyes

Lenis lives in a small town in Ohio. It's a bit run down, and his house is in bad shape. Considering his family is lower class, he doesn't have much money to spend, and he gets by with what he has. He lives with his two strict parents, him being an only child. But he takes care of a stray cat that lives in a forest behind his home that he calls "Otter." Whenever he tries to get the cat to stay in the house, his parents don't allow it. They can't exactly afford to take care of an animal, especially when they have to pay for his monthly medication and doctor visits.

He has a bone condition where his bones are incredibly fragile. He can't walk for very long, and running is even worse on him. It doesn't take a lot of force to break a bone either, and he's had to visit the doctor numerous times for fractures and snaps. So he has a medication that helps him not feel the aching as much, and allows him to walk or run for a time. He is in no way a strong person. His physical strength is constantly challenged and he feels like a burden to those he loves whenever they have to make sacrifices to just to help him. Especially when it comes to his best friend, Everest.

He is always being protected by Everest. He's taken multiple punches for him, he has to carry him sometimes, he can't do a lot of outdoor activities with him due to how easy it is to get injured. Lenis hates this. He hates being held back and he hates that his best friend has to be held back too because of it. He often tells Everest that he can do things himself, but that ends with him getting hurt more than not.

Lenis really is a grateful and humble soul. He tries to find the good in every situation no matter how painful it can be. This is especially apparent for his friends. If anything is troubling them, he will do what he can to get them through it. His optimism was a lot more prominent when he was a child, though. After escaping war, he finds it difficult to find the good in bad situations. But that doesn't mean he won't try to. It's safe to say the light in his eyes are faded as he grew older.

Everest, 13 years old - short, red head, blue eyes

This is Lenis' best friend, that's how everyone at his school titles him. Because he is constantly by his side more than he is alone. He knew Lenis since he was a toddler due to their mothers being friends, and ever since then, Lenis would nickname him "Evvy." Everest was always like a brother to him. He was incredibly protective and would often put Lenis before him.

Emotions and Everest don't exactly work well together. He tends to be reserved. Cold and bitter, even. If he's showing any extreme emotion, it tends to be anger or frustration. But he has a soft spot for Lenis. He's really one of the only people around him that can make him smile. Other than his mom, of course, who he lives with down the street from Lenis. His mother was pregnant before he left home; his father having left after a short and abrupt divorce. Little information was given to him about why that occurred. But his mom was happier, and that's what he wanted. He was never close with his father anyway.

Everest knows that his protectiveness over his friends, especially Lenis, can be a fault at times. He's gotten hurt many times due to it, both mentally and physically. And it isn't even because his friends are defenseless. He knows they can protect themselves if they need to, but he cannot help himself. He can't let them get hurt if he can stop it. He speaks bluntly, and his words may go over a few lines, or he may be prone to starting arguments, but he is incredibly selfless. He means well in every action he takes despite all of that.

Flint, 12 years old - short, black buzz cut, large dark eyes

Flint is a troubled child to say the least. He's callous towards others, he seems to only care about himself, and he isn't afraid to use force and threaten violence. He was Lenis' biggest bully after ending his friendship with him in a desperate fit to steal his pain medicine. Yes, Lenis and him were friends before that. And Flint truly wanted to continue the friendship, but he needed those pills. Lenis wasn't going to just give them to him. So he had to resort to violence, thus harming Lenis, and regretting it later.

It's easy to think that maybe Flint had a drug addiction, and stole Lenis' pills because of that. But that isn't the case at all. It wasn't because of an addiction, it was for a much deeper reason.

His younger sister, Penny, was facing a horrible sickness that was going to kill her if she didn't get the right treatments. His mother, being constantly intoxicated with alcohol, spent all of her money on things she didn't need. So she couldn't afford Penny to have any treatment at all. Flint, who has been basically raising his little sister, decided to take matters into his own hands, and find any possible way to make her feel better. Even if it meant harming Lenis for some pills.

Flint loves his sister more than anyone. Or loved, at least. She unfortunately didn't make it long after the pain medicine incident.

He wants to be good, he really does. But Flint is difficult to get along with. Especially with Everest. Much like the red head, Flint has a short temper, and they always fight with each other. But also like Everest, he has a soft spot for Lenis (he is sort of like the peacemaker of the group). Flint is incredibly emotional, and he always says what's on his mind, even if they're not so nice things. He feels regretful for a lot of things, though. He's trying to be a better person, and befriending Lenis again is something he is determined to do.

Darryon, 12 years old - Average height, black curly hair, dark eyes, has an intense burn scar along his face

Darryon lives in California with his siblings, and only his siblings. His parents died in a car crash while they were on their way home from a relative's house. The war was breaking out, and they were caught up in it at the worst possible time. Darryon's oldest brother was a soldier in the war, and his oldest sister was her younger siblings' guardian while he was gone. He has five siblings, not counting himself. Three girls and two boys. And he is very close with each of them, especially his oldest sister, Carlitha. She followed shelters, and he did the same. For a long time, she was concerned for his wellbeing considering just how dangerous a job like this was. They were always venturing in war zones and had to face many hardships. But even at a young age, Darryon wanted to be part of something bigger than himself. His parents' death were a big motivator in his efforts, and he found that helping others get through the war was an effective coping mechanism.

He didn't go through these hardships without consequences, though. On one occasion, a shelter he was attending got bombed, and he was caught in the flames, leaving the brutal burn marks you see on him now. These marks filled the mouths of the other kids at his school when he tried going back. But how can anyone go back to a normal life after that? Luckily he had a good group of friends to back him up during his good and hard nights.

He has a very distinct sense of humor, and finds it easy to entertain himself when no one is around. Some of the kids at his school think he's weird because of his behavior at times. He talks to himself out loud, he has a funny laugh, he has a few imaginary friends (one stays with him even in his adulthood), etc. But he embraces those things more than anything, and his friends don't care, so why should he?

When he isn't helping at a shelter, he finds time for himself or his family. For example, he's very fascinated with nature, and enjoys drawing what he sees around him in a sketchbook. He's pretty good at it too. What started as drawings of birds or gardens soon turned into drawings of burnt landscapes and debris of towns. He liked to draw the people he would meet in shelters as well, and he kept every drawing, not knowing if that person survived after they parted ways or not.

Darryon's story does collide with the others at some point. He and his sister go to great lengths around the country, of course they're going to befriend Lenis, Everest, and Flint at some point, and it will certainly stay that way.

If you read this far, thank you! I really hope this little introduction to them has intrigued you, and if not, that's okay too :) I want to share more about them later on, and I plan to write out chapters to get the full story soon as well. I've been working on this story for more than a year now in private, and I'm really having fun, so I'm excited to share it with you. Thank you again!