#they just might all be uploaded at different times

[deadtired-highkeyenergetic]

Lonely Nights

Two uploads in one day? I'm cooking. Also inspired by @/shurisneakers grumpy x grumpy works, go check her works out they're amazing

Summary: Attending a party with the man whose whole goal in life seems to be annoying you to no end goes...not exactly as planned

You've lost count of the number of parties Natasha has dragged you to attend. You're pretty sure this is at least the tenth one in the past month, which is ten times more than the number of parties you usually attend. Then again zero times ten is still zero so you're not sure how the math adds up.

Grabbing another glass of whiskey, you stare at the golden liquid swirling around, trying to drown out the noise in the background. Parties really are far too loud for your taste, the only good thing to come out of them is the free flow alcohol that you constantly take advantage of. The drinks taste even better knowing that the tab is on a certain genius playboy billionaire and so at every party you lurk at the bar, inhaling drinks until you get hungover.

Tonight, there's a newcomer — Bucky Barnes, also known as the Winter Soldier. Turns out he's Steve's best friend who was thought dead and you have to admit, the brunette is quite the handsome man, although you'd rather die than admit it out loud. He's currently following Sam who seems to be on a mission to talk to a girl for more than a minute, and from the look on his face, quite enjoying the other's multiple failures.

You take another mouth of whiskey and look away, relishing in the way the liquid burns on the way down. Natasha has disappeared, probably to outdrink yet another poor soul, leaving you all alone at the bar counter, not that you mind. You quite like the personal space and lack of need to socialise with another human being, two things that are currently being challenged by a certain brunette you were watching not too long ago.

"Go away."

"I see you've been learning some manners." He leans over to take a glass of whiskey for himself, downing half of it in one go.

"And I see you haven't." You glare at him.

"Maybe you should introduce me to your teacher, I might just learn some manners then." He simply smiles at you.

"Hmph." You turn back to your glass. "So what are you doing here?"

"Was invited to the party by Tony." He swirls his glass before downing the remaining half. "Same as you."

"I can tell. Why are you sitting right next to me after I told you to get lost?"

"I believe you said 'go away', not 'get lost'."

"Same thing." You pinch the bridge of your nose. He was getting on your nerves as always, you sometimes swore he saved all his cheek for you and you alone.

"Nope it isn't. One is asking me to simply leave, the other is asking me to lose all sense of direction —"

"Okay Mr Dictionary, didn't ask you for the difference between 'away' and 'lost'. Why are you still seated next to me?" You grab another glass from a passing waiter and immediately inhale one third of it.

"I'm tired and want to sit down." Bucky shrugs.

"There's plenty of other seats out there." You gesture to where the crowd is.

"Here seemed the most comfy, although the company it offers could use some work." He smirks, biting back an amused huff when you roll your eyes.

"Then go and find company elsewhere."

"But you'll be lonely. As a gentleman, I cannot stand by and let a lovely person such as yourself spend the night alone." He dramatically places a hand over his heart.

"Since when were you a gentleman?" You snort, knocking back more alcohol. You were going to need more if this bastard insisted on spending the rest of the night with you.

"Since the moment I saw you sitting here alone."

"How chivalrous. You want a lordship or something?"

He laughs, reaching over the counter and pulling out a bottle of vodka. "If only you could grant me one."

"Dunno. Could try pulling some strings or something, haven't tried granting anyone a lordship before. First time for everything, am I right?" You toss a bottle opener his way and he catches it, raising an eyebrow.

"Do you have this on you at all times?"

"Swiped it from the waiter just now. Was going to open one myself but since you've already taken one you might as well share. Sharing is caring, right?" You wave a hand.

"Then sharing this bottle would imply I care for you." He pops the cap open and starts chugging.

"Hey! I provided the bottle opener! I deserve some!" You yelp, rising from your seat. He easily dodges your attempts to grab the bottle from him and grins, waving it just out of your reach. Growling, you leap onto the counter and dash along it, successfully swiping the bottle from his surprisingly loose grip. Hopping back down, you gleefully wave the bottle before chugging the remaining liquid inside, letting out a satisfied sigh when not a drop is left.

"I win!" You cheer, laughing. All that alcohol is making you giddy and you lean a little too far backwards, stumbling towards the counter but before you can hit anything, a pair of arms wrap themselves around you, stopping your fall.

"Can't have you dying before granting me that lordship." Bucky grunts, placing you back onto your seat. You try to shove his arms off, making a face when he refuses to let go before resuming your scowl and crossing your arms.

"I'm not dying before you," you huff, annoyed. More importantly, you weren't about to die from a fall when you've survived aliens, gods, superhumans and everything in between.

"Congratulations on surviving purely out of spite all this while. Would you also like a gold medal?" Sarcasm drips heavily from his words.

"I'll take one." You don't miss a beat, even when tipsy. Bucky would admire that, really he would, unfortunately he's on the receiving end of your sass so it's already less admirable because of that. At least him being here means you won't be meeting your end via counters, he would miss all that wit and sarcasm if that were to happen. After laughing at your cause of death.

"Unfortunately I don't have one right now. Mind waiting for a bit, doll?" His lips quirk upwards ever so slightly.

"A gentleman making someone wait? What kind of gentleman are you?" You lift another snagged bottle to your lips, taking a swig.

"One that knows you're caring enough to share that bottle with me." He easily wrestles the half-drunk bottle from you, chugging the rest while keeping you at arms length with his forearm pressed against your chest. "Thank you for your generosity."

"You're not welcome!" You huff, futilely hitting his arm in an attempt to close the gap. He grins, turning the bottle upside down to show you there's not a drop left.

"Asshole." You scowl, gripping his arm tightly.

"My pleasure." His smirk is infuriating and with the alcohol clouding your mind, the moment he drops his arm you close the distance, wiping the smirk off his face with a kiss. Your lips connect and his eyes widen, but he kisses back, his metal arm snaking around your waist while his flesh one pulls you closer so that he can devour you.

Bucky's lips taste of vodka, whiskey and whatever else he drank before being your nuisance and it tastes good. You breathlessly pull away, cheeks flushed and grab a breath before diving back for another round.

"You're a pathetic kisser," you gasp after pulling away for air again.

"And still you want more." He licks his lips, ice blue eyes shining with mirth. "What does that say about you?"

"That I'm going to need to teach you how to kiss."

"Then teach me." He lifts your chin up. "The night's still young."

"Step one: shut up." Your lips crash into his again and he shuts up, savouring the kiss.

"Step two: don't stop." He murmurs, threading his fingers through your hair.

"Step three: eyes on me, only me." You press your forehead against his, feeling his warmth. "Took you forever to kiss me."

"You're the one who took forever, I was always open to it."

"Asshole."

"Idiot."

"You just asked an idiot to be your teacher."

"I don't mind this idiot being my teacher." His thumb runs over your bottom lip. "After all, this idiot is my idiot."

"Hate you."

"Love you too."

[333rabbittarot]

pick a card: I'm so anxious, what should I do?

1 - 2

***

pile one:

Your mind feels overly active, making it hard for you to rest. Insomnia, restlessness, difficulty focusing. You may also be unintentionally fixating on what's lacking in yourself or your circumstances, and expressing negative thoughts and feelings in the process.

It seems you have lived diligently, perhaps even self-sacrificially, in hopes of being rewarded with meaningful relationships, friendships, or a fulfilling career where you could fully pour your heart. However, there may have been an event that shattered all your hopes and expectations, and this event might be the root cause of your current anxiety.

The cards advise that you first bring peace to the situation. You need to calm your overly active mind. It won’t be easy, but try to approach everything with lightness and simplicity for now. Just as past worries now seem insignificant, your current concerns will also feel that way to your future self. Don’t linger too long in the fog of anxiety, anguish, or regret.

Pause the urge to predict, plan, and act out of anxiety about the future. Even if your ego insists that something is absolutely necessary, listen to the signals from your body and soul—such as trembling, unease, or subtle discomfort—and stop. Sleep on it and revisit the decision the next day. Acting impulsively out of fear or worry might cause you to overlook or miss better opportunities.

To reach what you desire, you’ll need to adjust the plans you’ve relied on until now. The cards suggest adopting a bolder and more daring strategy for your long-term goals. You may have already thought of this approach but dismissed it because it seemed impractical or risky. That hesitation likely comes from your ego resisting the idea of letting go—of the career, network, or style you’ve carefully built over time in the real world. But as your intuition may already be telling you, the current path isn’t working. For the sake of your body, soul, and the things you truly wish to achieve in life, a new way forward is needed.

***

pile two:

There's a sense of calm. Rather than feeling anxious, you might simply lack a bit of confidence in your decisions.

It’s possible that you’ve had a tendency to overwork, overanalyze, and be overly critical of yourself throughout your life. But now, it seems you’ve realized that this way of living isn’t serving you as effectively as it once did. You’re at a turning point. You’re beginning to approach life’s challenges differently, and your definition of success has started to shift as well. That’s incredible! Listening to and following the demands of your soul is no easy task.

The cards advise that now, having decided how you want to live, it’s time to take the first step in that direction. There’s no need for further analysis or overthinking. Trust the inspiration and insight you’ve received and turn them into tangible results. Your work may involve writing or another intellectually engaging activity. It might be best to keep your decisions to yourself until your work is complete.

Lastly, pay attention to your home, family, and health. Even if moments of anxiety arise, don’t let them shake you.

I've re-uploaded this because of an account error. Sorry to everyone who had already seen it.

[4zahara]

01 | A stranger is stargazing

Word count: 3.1k

A/N: I just got back from a trip and wanted to upload this before studying for my algebra finals next month. This was going to be way longer but then I saw the word count and chopped it off. I have zero imagination. Used chatgpt to translate some Spanish phrases because in English they use similar terms but different meanings. Also, my birthday falls on carnivals so it's going to be a very nice last week of vacations😁

The knock on the door pulled you from your daze, snapping your attention away from the stains on the ceiling.

Outside the only window in the apartment, barred as all must be, the sky hung a deep, polluted red, with clouds stretching far into the distance. Blue-ish if you squint your eyes. You, as one far too used to the sights, needed not to look at no clock's way to know this to be an unholy hour to bother someone. The thing was broken anyway and the lack of light filtering through was telltale enough.

It was clear, however, that someone disagreed with the concept of appropriate visiting hours. Despite your irritation, you silently hoped it wasn’t who you thought of first knocking at the door—because reliving another nightmare firsthand was the last thing you could handle after an already exhausting day. The familiar fear of being alone at night when an unexpected knock shattered the silence wasn’t something you’d grown up with instinctively, as others might. No, this was a fear learned the hard way, carved into you by mistakes you committed.

Alarm bells rang deafening while you stare frozen. You found it almost cruel when everything stayed as still as you at the faintest reminder of the last time you heard knocking. Like a punishment to yourself the shelves and mess had been kept neat, framing a stop in time on your doorstep. Back then, one of the other residents had barged in, leaving you shaken—hunted by the tickling feeling of his breath on your neck when you hadn’t turned around soon enough.

You forced yourself to push the thought away, though it lingered. A ghostly feeling clung to you, far longer than you were willing to admit to yourself, when another knock shattered your fragile composure. The sound was louder this time, sharper, snapping you back into the present. Startled, you leapt to your feet, knocking over the ashtray on the armrest with your rushed and unsteady movements. An horribly loud clatter echoed against the walls for seconds too long after falling to the floor, scattering ash and ceramic across the oppressive silence. The noise startled a hiss out of you, as though the sudden disruption physically hurt.

Out of the corner of your eye, an aluminum baseball bat tucked neatly among the umbrellas by the door. It waited in its place—only silent and steady reassurance for your burning hands.

Had the thought not been so disturbingly visceral, you would have entertained the idea of describing what you felt as a hand twisting your guts as you marched toward the door. But the imagery was too grotesque to entertain, so you buried it and kept moving.

Two locks clicked open unnaturally loud. The third lock, a flimsy chain, dangled just in front of your forehead. Not much of a safeguard, but it gave you the illusion of control even knowing the thin wood wouldn’t hold if it came to a struggle.

But what you braced for never came.

On the other side of the door, the menacing face you dreaded wasn’t there. No menacing glare from fish-like, ogling eyes.

Instead, a boy. Smaller than you.

Even more fragile-looking.

It was almost embarrassing how much taller you had expected the visitor to be. Instead, you found yourself slowly—almost comically—looking down at a face twisted in a grimace, like the boy had just sucked on a lemon.

If there was anything that could have thrown you off more in this moment, you couldn’t think of it. Then came like being hit by a train the realization of your own disheveled appearance: some pale, sickly, and worn thin girl. For looking less like a witch had others been burned. Still, you forced a smile—awkward and out of place in your face. Apparently, not beating those imaginary witch-allegations in your head, smiling wasn’t the right move in a dimly lit hallway in the dead of night.

Wonder why the boy’s expression shifted almost instantly from startled surprise to wide-eyed panic as your gazes met. Both pairs of blue eyes locked onto each other, mirrors to one another.

He was drenched, water dripping from a hoodie too big for him, which clung awkwardly to his small frame. The soaked fabric looked heavy for his noddle arms. A busted lip stood out starkly for being the kind of injury that screamed ‘street-kid’ in this side of the country. Easy—normal, even—to assume a fight was the cause. Maybe at home. Maybe over food with other kids.

Wait. It was raining outside?

“I... I’m your brother,” he stammered, words tumbling out in a rush. His face crumpled almost immediately, tears welling up as if he wanted to cry. You guessed from cringing so hard.

His words, anxious and unsteady, made it hard to process what he’d said, let alone empathize. This you blinked dumb-ly. Once. Twice. Then squinted, trying to focus your tired eyes on him. Because it couldn’t be.

Your brother was hardly a toddler.

It hadn’t been that long... just a couple of years. Maybe.

It wasn’t immediate—far from the clarity you might have preferred—but recognition did dawned the longer you looked. His mop of wet messy curls struggled under its own weight, stubbornly sticking out in awkward directions, much like yours often did after a shower. And those eyes.

Willis had definitely had a thing or two for light eyes in a woman.

This time the realization felt like a sharper pain; a slap. Older now—maybe nine or ten—your brother was standing in front of you, the spitting image of his father like you were of your mother. That thought anchored you, rooted you in place as the silence grew, filled only by static.

With it, the questions began to tumble through your mind like dominoes:

How the hell did he get here?

Obviously, he walked, right? But in the rain?

All the way here from Crime Alley, in the dark?

You stared at him for far too long. So much you could've started to feel uncomfortable too. It was socially inappropriate even. But so it was disturbing people at this hour, so you bet you kept staring. Thoughts clashed and raced, refusing to settle.

“Yeah, kid, I don’t know about that—” The words came out hesitant, weak. Perhaps speaking them might dissolve the truth in front of you. But the longer you denied it, the clearer it became.

Of course, this was your brother.

It just had to be, because why the hell not?

Your baby brother.

He had to be about ten now. You hoped he was still nine, but his birthday had long passed if you had it right.

How in the hell did he find me?

Is his lip okay? Clearly not—but how had it gotten busted?

Did he get into a fight?

Where are mom and dad?

The thought of him walking alone out there, so small and vulnerable, chilled you to the bone. The idea of walking the streets alone terrified you being his senior. Out there, death would almost feel merciful compared to what could happen.

At least the monster living down the hall was a known evil. The streets, though? They hid horrors far worse.

People often said you could sense being watched, when they weren’t alone in a

room and danger loomed nearby. Whatever that underdeveloped sixth sense was, it stirred in you, pulling your gaze away from Maybe-Jason—who, judging by his oblivious expression, has proudly evolved past any shred of survival instinct—and toward the hallway.

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

The very last, or first, of the apartment doors down the hall stood slightly ajar, its shadowed outline warped in the dim, flickering light. Large portions of the space cloaked in suffocating darkness by burned-out bulbs, but even through the haze of your blurry vision and growing dread, you could see him.

There he was. Standing just within the frame of the door, his silhouette barely illuminated. He didn’t need much light to convey what he was—a predator, coiled and waiting. The sight almost froze you in place with chills one after the other. It was like watching carnage step into the light dressed in colours to deceive.

You yanked on the door handle without thought, The lock chain vibrating sharply. The frame rattled under your grip as your restless hands itched to do something—anything. Every instinct screamed at you to grab Jason, drag him inside, and slam the door. Brother or not, scammer or not, it didn’t matter. All you wanted was to get him out of sight. Out of that sight.

From the neighbors.

From the world.

From the danger now standing on your threshold.

Of course, although you had never meant to shut the door in his face, it wasn’t hard to see why Jason probably thought you were doing just that. Looking up from frantically searching his pockets for whatever reason, only to look up and see you disappear behind the chipped wood and flaking varnish must've been disheartening. Desperation etched on his young face perfectly mirrored the ache pounding in your chest—a feeling only a boy his age could wear so openly, and one only you could understand. You knew what could happen to him, to both of you, and the weight of that knowledge crushed you. His desperation laid elsewhere, as he was yet to become aware of the danger. But the feeling was mutual. Fear smells salty.

His small fist struck the door again and again. He called for nobody, babbling something about proving his claim instead. Maybe he’d forgotten your name in the haze of his nerves, or time had scrambled the syllables and their order.

It has been a while.

His pounding made you flinch, and in your fumbling to undo the chain, your ragged nails scraped against the surface. The accidental movement sent a sharp pain stabbing under your nails, but no time for whatever that was. Not as the metallic screech of rusted hinges sliced through the air.

The sound sent your heart into overdrive.

Before let-this-be-Jason could strike the door again you grabbed his arm and yanked him inside, shoving him behind you. Behind safety. That's where your brother belonged.

Then, before your dizzy, unfocused self could register how close it had been, you slammed the door shut.

══════════════ • ✧ • ══════════════

Even before stepping out of the house, Jason knew to be digging himself into a hole. He accepted the fact for what it was; his desperation guiding him down a path of poor decisions. He just hadn’t realized a shovel was in his hands until the hole’s depth exceeded his height.

Grabbed, tossed, pulled. Weren't the walls of his vertical tomb collapsing in slow, suffocating ruin, lovely? Beautiful, even.

He would have liked to think the inside of what he hoped was his sister’s apartment might be better than the place he’d come from.

It wasn’t.

It smelled of cigarette smoke, and shadows pooled in every corner. The darkness clinging to the space, thick and uninviting, might have made Jason feel at home—dragged around and overwhelmed—if the situation hadn’t spiraled out of his control so quickly.

Sure, they were family, and blood was supposed to be thicker than water, but none of that mattered if she didn’t even know he was her brother. The memories he’d clung to, distant and blurry, painted his sister as gentle and caring.

You? didn’t match that picture.

In retrospect, he realized you weren't much taller than him, and so thin he couldn’t understand why he felt so threatened. If you did try something, he figured, he could probably win in a fight—especially if the bat he somehow now held in his hands came into play.

He couldn’t remember grabbing it. Or when it had reached his hands.

It was on the floor and he had tripped with it.

You had your back to him now, tense and uncertain, seeming just as out of it as he was. For all his distrust, Jason couldn’t tell who, between the two of them, was more afraid of what might happen next.

You were frantic, scrambling to lock all four bolts, including the padlock. Each metallic click seemed to drive Jason’s heart deeper into the pit of his stomach, where it churned in acid. But he was too far gone—trapped in fight-or-flight mode—to cry about it.

Your hand hovered near the floor, near the umbrellas scattered there. Groping blindly for a handle, probably searching for the bat’s. Or maybe, fingers crossed, an umbrella to pity him.

Call it hopeful thinking.

Jason heard you curse under your breath, blaming yourself for throwing “it” too hard behind you. Still, you didn’t dare take your eyes off the door, as if you believed your unrelenting stare could alone hold it in place, as if sheer willpower wasn't already the only thing keeping that piece of wood standing. From this side, the door looked even shoddier, barely more than splintered wood and peeling paint. Jason stared at it, and you, his mind buzzing. For a fleeting second, he thought he could probably bring it down if he wanted to, so clearly the adrenaline was getting to his head.

“I think… I think it’s safe,” you muttered. Your voice shook, but the words didn’t sound like they were meant to reassure anyone but you.

Your trembling hands dropped to your sides, and you stepped away from the door.

“Safe?” Jason barked, his voice sharp, teetering on the edge of hysteria.

That’s when he learned the first thing about his so-called sister. Other than the assumptions he’d already built in his head, you were jumpy. You flinched, almost as if you hadn’t expected him to speak or still be there. To what he had to ask; Where else would he go?

His hands tightened around the bat, frustration bubbling in his chest.

Right. He had a weapon. Maybe that explained your jumpiness when facing him.

“Wow.” Your hands shot up in surrender, in a reflexive, almost lazy gesture of defeat. You didn't want to appear threatening, but your wide eyes just ticked Jason off. “So that’s where the bat went.”

“Why did you drag me in like that?” Jason barely hides the accusation. An unspoken ‘Why can’t you be normal?’ wail hung in his mind. He decided against saying it outright—better to avoid sounding desperate or offended, even if both ships had sailed.

“Because the Boogeyman was about to get you? Obviously?” you shot back, your tone spoke to a child far younger than him. Your grimace wasn’t for him though.

“What?” Confused.

“What?” You mimicked. Jason felt whatever hope he had for your help steadily slipping away.

“What— are you doing?!”

“How about you put the bat down, buddy—back with the umbrellas? I’m not going to attack you,” Jason cut you off, his frustration boiling over. “You pushed me into your apartment! If anything, you’re kidnapping me—”

“There was a man outside!” you cut him off yourself with a sharp exclamation and throwing your hands in the air, sounding genuinely offended at being called out. Good. Jason couldn't be the only one losing it here. “And stop shouting,” you hissed, lowering your voice but glaring at him. “Other people live here.”

Jason glanced around. “This place is disgusting.” Home wasn't better, but he was pissed.

“Thanks,” There was a sharp edge, more venom in your tone than you’d intended. It startled Jason enough to make him take a step back.

Seeing your little brother back away from you should've tug on your heartstrings. It did. Almost tearing them off at the memory of a toddler gleefully making a mess of his food, yet looking so utterly blameless.

You couldn't be angry at Jason—if this was truly Jason. You had to remember who you were getting angry at and would/could cry.

Still, you should’ve been ashamed of the mess. You looked like you knew you should.

The apartment was tiny, cramped, and barely livable. The peeling wallpaper was stained yellow. Dirty dishes piled in the sink, a leaning tower of neglect, and discarded takeout containers dotted the counters like forgotten relics. The lone couch sagged under its own weight, covered in a mismatched patchwork of old blankets, and the floor—God, the floor...

Jason, once a master of breaking down your stubborn resolve with those big, pleading eyes, probably for the best, didn't seem to remember his power over you even having already made you back down. You sighed and leaned against the door. Slowly, you slid down until you hit the floor. The movement felt pitiful, like a defeated video game boss collapsing after the final blow. Only there was no triumphant music playing in the background and it looked sadder.

You stared at the floor, head tilted slightly forward, shoulders slumped. “It’s been a while,” you muttered, your voice strained, “since I talked to actual people, okay? Sorry for… the mess. I guess.”

And Jason reluctantly lowered his guard.

The bat still clenched tightly in his hands, eventually lowered, no longer pointing at you. Even so, he kept it close as he sat down on the floor, mirroring your posture.

“S’okay,” he mumbled.

“You look battered,” you said before a ten year old could take pity on you.

“You look high.”

To what his sister gasped, hand flying to your chest in mock offense. “I don’t—do I?—” And stopped abruptly. A pause, a sigh, and then you scratched the back of your neck, avoiding his gaze. “Okay, fair enough. ‘m not like that, but they cut the water off Monday morning so...”

“...It’s wednesday,”Jason saw you wince.

“What are you doing here anyway? How did you find me? Or even get here in the first place?”

“I walked…” Jason admitted, trailing off. He’d wanted the silence to stretch a little longer, but…

“(Name)?”

“Hey,” you cut in, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Glad to know you remember my name.”

“I came because of mom… Was there really someone in the hallway?”

“Yeah... Some creep. I'm 80% sure he’s a pimp too.”

“A pin? What's that?”

“What's what?” Suddenly remembering the limits and implications of talking to a ten year old. Even if the streets were more home than Catherine and Willis, Jason was still a child. You too, but you have literally lived in the streets for some time.

Wonderful times.

“Doesn’t matter. Just be more careful, Jason.”

He hesitated, the weight of his next words sinking his shoulders. “Mom 's bad.”

Your face fell. “You shouldn’t have left her alone with Dad if she was already—”

“Willis is gone.”

“Gone?”

“Jail.”

“…Huh.” You slumped back against the door, your hand rubbing at your temple. “Well… you shouldn’t go back out at this hour,” you muttered, your tone softening. “Especially not in the rain.” You pushed yourself to your feet with a groan. “I’ll grab you a towel… Food?”

His stomach grumbled, betraying him entirely.

“Yeah. Food too then.”

[grey-lark]

So Steve having a different car in the the pics I saw filled me with a lot of feelings, both a really fun reason and a terribly sad one. This is the sad one! I might also upload this to AO3 once I edit when it's not 6AM, but I hope you enjoy?

The Bimmer doesn’t’ make sense in an apocalyptic situation.

Steve knows this.

As the Upside Down claws it’s way into this universe, tendrils carving pathways across the town, a luxury car just doesn’t make sense.

Steve is well aware.

Hell, Steve is even more aware of this fact because he’s stationed at the high school. Hauling supplies and survivors requires space. It doesn’t require comfort and a smooth transmission. It doesn’t require leather worn by multiple people launching themselves in with reckless abandon, or a back seat that’s somehow always sticky because of soda-stained hands.

It doesn’t require what Steve can offer.

Loch Nora has been seemingly unaffected by the upside down. Steve would say it was the wealthy’s one last jab against the town if he hadn’t seen so many of his former neighbors huddling in the high school. It seems no matter how rich you are, no one can avoid the hunger - the desperation that comes from being completely cut off from the rest of the world.

Steve lets the engine idle in the drive way of his old house. The intact windows gleam with a promise he’d be willing to brave if he didn’t know for a fact how the twisted vines covered the bottom floor of the house. Pressing his head against the steering wheel, he lets the out a shuttering sigh, feeling how the Bimmer purrs, seemingly in time, below him.

“I know, baby” he laments, running a hand across her dashboard before he steals himself and twists the key in his hand. She shutters down, his own shaky breath following.

It feels right, Steve thinks, to leave her here. To leave her in the remnants of a life he used to live. He slides her keys into the visor, in case there is some one who needs her. Someone who can justify loving her, in a way Steve simply can’t.

There’s a truck waiting for him.

Something practical and light blue; such a far cry from his maroon baby. It makes sense, he knows. He knows that a truck will help him in this new, harsh, world they live in. Knows it will be easier to ferry survivors back to the school and supplies to where they need to go. But he can’t help but look at the Bimmer, now silent in front of his old house, and remember how she safely - impossibly - carried five (sometimes six!) children to the mall regardless of seatbelt laws. How she dutifully shuffled Robin to and from school back when they thought their biggest concerns were whether a girl liked them or not. He can hear Bowie and Queen still playing from her speakers and his breath falters, gasping, as he could swear it’s not just in his head.

Maybe somewhere, there are quarters still rattling around, waiting for Dustin to pry them from her carpet, not knowing the arcade has been swallowed for months. Maybe now there’s even the tail end of a blunt under one of front seats, safely kept after Robin dropped it, laughing too hard to hold on to the last few puffs. Maybe, if Steve presses himself against her side hard enough, all the stains – all the memories – will seep into him and leave the Bimmer a little less haunted.

It doesn’t work, of course.  Even after he opens his eyes, after he peels himself from her metal chaises with a shuddering breath, she’s still standing there, same as she ever was. His childhood home too, stands there as it ever has.

They make quite the picture. The large green house and the sleek maroon car and the boy with the styled hair.

All so put together.

All falling apart.

But it’s okay. There’s a truck waiting for him. It’s practical and light blue. The kids have already climbed into it’s back; figuring out their seating arrangements before Steve even had time to yell at them about the safety issues of riding back there. Max will sit up front in the cabin with him, no matter how much she complains – Vecna assured that. But even she smiles when she hears the hoots and hollers of The Party in the back, howling their freedom in defiance to an ever reddening sky.

Steve’s finger brush the taillight of the Bimmer, before running through his own hair. He sees the house he grew up in; the streets that were his home. He sees his car, his baby, shining like she did when he first saw her. He leaves her, a useless car parked outside an empty home.

His car.

Parked outside his home.

There is a truck waiting for him.

[jaysarenice]

Current fmsh au lineup sketches so far! (From left to right: Joel, Grian, Gem, Etho)

Ignore how Jimmy’s not here I’m struggling so much on him

Individuals and some design notes below!

Joel

I didn’t want to give him too many “heavier” type clothing items. He’s constantly hot (temperature) so wanted to minimize more “hot” clothes. He wears a loose white tank top and a black pleather vest, as well as brown pants and black pleather boots. I gave him fingerless gloves for two reasons. 1: They’re cool. Joel wants to look cool, at all times. And 2: I like wearing fingerless gloves (I just like the feeling of it) so more self-projection :3 He has his usual jewelry that I give him (a heart necklace, three earrings on his left ear, an eyebrow piercing, a necklace with a feather from Jimmy and Grian, and three piercings on his tail tip) and I made his usual bug antennae into demon horns cus he loses the bug in this au (just felt it was too much) I love how pissed off he looks here

Grian

I love when people draw Grian as this tall and lanky bird human cryptid guy so that’s what I went for. I think I accomplished it pretty well :3 I usually imagine he has multiple wings so I kept that here. He’s got three sets of wings on his head/face and two sets on his back. I actually didn’t give him anything too different from my usual design for him. Same tail, same basic outfit, etc etc. Main thing different here is his little horns and hairstyle (hairstyle only because I constantly struggle with his hair but this might become a new default). Grian (and many other people with animal feet) wear basically toe-less socks that usually just cover the bottom of the person’s feet. It’s to protect them from the different textures that may harm the bottom of their feet. You can see these on Gem and Etho as well. Grian wears them for looks, since bird feet are a bit stronger than the average paw pad. Also, he wears glasses cus why not. Also also, not pictured here is a matching necklace with Joel, with a feather from Jimmy and Joel.

Gem

Gem pretty much barely changed. Her hairstyle changed, and I added some skulk bits on her back. Also I changed her ears a bit. But she’s still a jackalope centaur with semi-curly hair, and wears a sweater beneath a pair of overalls. I did give her a wrist thing cus she’s the gadget maker of the group (don’t know why, just felt it cool). But that’s about it

Etho

Etho didn’t change ate all. Actually this is just the best I’ve drawn his jacket (I struggle with it). His hair is a little different than the last time I drew it but other than that Etho’s the same as ever

Jimmy and some others (Scar, Tango, and Pearl most likely) will be coming soon. I’ll be trying to work on these designs while I wait for the ao3 invitation thing so I can make an account an upload more of the full fic there for you guys :3 (the expected day for it to get to me is January 28th so it might be a bit but it’s fineeee)

[winxngasks]

🎸 Brio, (AU) son of Musa and Riven, Specialist 🎸

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FINALLY GETTING TO THESE!!! Did not mean to take so long to get to these, but I've just been pretty busy with life + other projects that I didn't take the time to put these together till recently. I also had some trouble at first trying to find proper references and figuring out everyone's individual styles, but I have them all done now!

So, starting up the AU kids' fashion boards, we first have Brio! Honestly the hardest part of his was finding a close/good enough reference for his hair, but I ended up just using the one I put in his moodboard. I hope you enjoy!

More details about his looks can be found under the 'readmore'!

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. For Brio, he has short bluish-purple hair, done in a punkish undercut style where it is a little longer on top. Doesn't mind wearing makeup as he will usually wear a little eyeliner on a daily basis while going a little bolder for performances, and usually has his nails painted either black or dark shades. For a physical detail I wanted to highlight, it would be that he has several ear piercings, which include double lobes and two sets of cartilage.

. For his color scheme, he usually wears only dark colors or neutrals, though has a few pieces in lighter or bolder colors. Blacks, grays, and blues and purples in various shades or his most favorite and worn colors. Following after both his parents his style leans more on the alternative side, mostly punk-rock and grunge. A lot of studded leather jackets, ripped jeans, and tall, combat-style boots. A lot of band tees or t-shirts with other cool graphics, but he does have some solid-color pieces and enjoys a plaid look occasionally. His style is more on the casual side but he does have a few dressier pieces, mainly some silk dress shirts and some traditional Melodian clothing.

. For accessories, he does enjoy wearing them and usually has a few layered with his outfits. Studded belts, chains to attach to his belts, fingerless leather and fishnet gloves, chokers, chain necklaces and bracelets, and a lot of spikes and pointy details. Usually keeps his earrings simple, with either simple studs or rings, but sometimes connects his piercings with chain-cuffs or wears dangling earrings for performances. Most of his accessories leans into his alt aesthetic, but he does have a couple of 'cuter' and matching accessories with his girlfriend. The main accessories I chose to give him here are some layered necklaces, as those are the kind he would wear on a daily basis.

[aro-aizawa]

going to lose my mind. i've had three people comment on my dead fic asking to post it to youtube.

HI MAYBE LOOK AT THE COMMENT DIRECTLY ABOVE WHERE I SAY IN BIG BOLD LETTERS NOT TO POST MY FIC TO YOUTUBE

[sorikkung]

people interacting w wgoin in my notes... this would be a rly bad time to say all my writing will probably be on hiatus for the indefinite future huh

[bweirdart]

nearly oc-tober time again - time for some prompts for 2024

F.A.Q

do i have to draw?

not at all! you are free to participate with any medium that suits you... writing, artwork, free bases and templates, simple text posts, in-character-as-your-oc roleplay, whatever! (just no stealing or AI)

do i have to make new content?

nope! re-uploading old stuff that fits the prompts is allowed (and encouraged) ... old art that didn't get the appreciation it needed always deserves a chance to be shared again, it's a fun throwback!

do i have to post every day?

nope! only 10 days are mandatory (the ones in red with a star symbol) and everything else (yellow) is 100% optional! if you're busy or tired, please skip as many as you want

can i start early?

you can prep your posts in advance if you need to ... but please wait until the right day in october to share them!

can i re-upload your prompt list to another site?

i would prefer if you dont - i have accounts on most sites, so just reblog/retweet/share from me!

event tag?

#bweirdOCtober

have fun!

image desc/text version ↓under the cut↓ or on bweird.art/october

prompts:

WEEK 1: OC INTRODUCTIONS

⭐ 1: FAV OC

what makes them your fav?

2: NEW OC

how recently did you make them?

3: OLD OC

how long ago did you make them?

⭐ 4: UNDER-APPRECIATED OC

an oc you feel like you don't talk about enough, or you haven't fleshed out as much as you would like

5: RE-DESIGNED OC

an oc who has changed a lot (what changed about them?) or, if you haven't redesigned an oc: is there anything you might want to change about an existing oc?

WEEK 2: BUILDING BACKSTORY

⭐ 6: PAST

where is your oc from? what did they look like as a child?

7: LIKES

what do they like (and why?)

8: DISLIKES

what don't they like (and why?)

⭐ 9: RELATIONSHIPS

doesn't have to be romantic! can any kind of relationship (frienship, family, rivalry etc)

10: PERSONALITY

what are your oc's main personality traits

11: SYMBOLISM/THEMES

what represents your oc? is there a specific colour you associate them with, or a specific animal?

12: FUTURE

what will your oc look like in the future? do they have any plans or goals?

WEEK 3: FUN + GAMES

⭐13: MEMES

do any memes remind you of your oc? are there memes your oc would find funny? maybe you want to redraw your oc as one?

14: WHO/WHAT INSPIRED YOUR OC

are there existing characters that your oc looks like? was your oc based on yourself? is your oc originally from a specific fandom?

15: MUSIC

share a character playlist, write a songfic, post lyrics that remind you of them, etc

⭐16: EYES CLOSED or NON DOMINANT HAND

draw a picture of your oc with your eyes closed or with your non domminant hand, write or type a paragraph about them without your eyes closed, etc ... have fun, and don't worry about it looking "bad" -it's meant to!!

17: DnD ALIGNMENT CHART

put all your ocs into a DnD alignment chart, or any other similar chart if you prefer

i've compiled a few templates on my site, but you can find more easily if you google "oc alignment chart"

⭐18: SWAP

swap something between your ocs - their role in the story, hairstyles, personalities, fashion taste, species ... whatever you want! how would this difference change them?

19: PALETTE CHALLENGES

draw your ocs with as many of these colour palettes as you want (or just skip if you don't draw/don't like doing these!)

hex codes for the colours:

palette 1 - #3C1E81 #6D1EA2 #B059E8 #FE0876 #FE5284 #FE7C96 #E0CFE3 #FFD5C3

palette 2 - #352823 #673F28 #AB541C #BA8233 #897128 #A68B2F #F7BF6A #DAC3A4

palette 3 - #A42E25 #D7412B #E47C29 #F7A233 #FCC02D #FCE4A6 #486548 #FEFDE8

palette 4 - #2F4769 #39597E #53779C #94D1E7 #AADDE7 #D48DB7 #D498B5 #D2BABA

WEEK 4: COMMUNITY

20-26: A WHOLE WEEK OF SOCIAL STUFF

if you don't have the time/energy to do every day this week, ⭐ day 23 is the only one marked as mandatory! you can skip the rest!

some ideas for what you could do: talk about a friend's oc you like, make gift art/writing of them, collabs, trades, reblog/appreciate ocs in the event tag, make interactions between your ocs and other people's

WEEK 5: HALLOWEEN

⭐27: FEARS

is your oc scared of anything? do they have any phobias? are they startled easily? would any of your ocs try to scare ppl on purpose?

28: MONSTER

what would your oc be if they were a monster (eg: werewolf, vampire, eldritch beast.. whatever) or, do you have an oc who is already a monster?

29: PUMPKIN CARVING

your ocs carving pumpkins, a drawing of a pumpkin carved to look like your oc ... or even carve it in real life!

30: GHOST

this can be literally a ghost, or a concept that haunts your oc! up to you!

⭐ 31: COSTUMES

what are your ocs wearing for halloween?

[vatelixx]

The enormity of my desire (disgusts me),

Very very early seasons (1 — start of 2) Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader

SMUT!! (and fluff, some angst in relation to Spencer’s past because it can never be too happy, we’re not allowed nice things here). first times & explorations of intimacy.

──── autistic spencer (it’s a central theme to the plot), reader is actually morally good (for once).

Warnings: sub spencer (what did u even expect?), heavy corruption kink, first time for Spencer (all i do is sit around and think about how i’d like to devirgin that genius), HEAAVY praise kink, very very inexperienced Spencer, slight? oral fixation, they’re both just rlly down bad (i told u i would write something light, i delivered), Reader is whipped, Spencer is sooo much worse. Biblical references, Religious imagery, i think i talk about math equations???? And random metaphors/complexes.

w.c: 4k

a/n: i rlly wanted to explore aspects of spencer that criminal minds swept under the rug (cough cough his undiagnosed autism, cough cough his social exclusion, cough cough his crippling fear of forever being alone). Next upload will prob be heavy angst/no smut post-prison spencer (god help me please, i must be a masochist for the way i make myself suffer)

───────────────

There’s a lot Spencer hasn’t done.

He knows he’s behind, that he never quite caught up when it came to the taboo of sex and intimacy. Everything, everything, he’s ever had has been centred around exclusion, alienation, he feels like he’s lived on pause. Frozen, never advancing, stuck on ‘go’. Touch isn’t easy for him, interpersonal relationships are worse. He’s different, god he’s heard that his entire life. ‘You’re not weird, you’re just… different’, but maybe he is weird. Maybe his whole existence is just one big cosmic fuck you, because he’s missed out on so much, so much that he can’t understand, comprehend, act out against. Falling behind; this is the only area of life where he continuously comes up short, inexperienced, naive, he’s not used to being incompetent.

He’s never experienced want the way others do. He could never just hook up, fall into the body of another, expose them to the vulnerable elements of his stature. Open himself up to scrutiny. He might be a genius, he might be intellectually advanced, accepted into a multitude of ivy leagues before he was old enough to vote, but there’s drawbacks to his success. Social awkwardness, an inability to blend, mould, be one of the crowd. Sometimes he wishes he was average, something grey and mundane, so far reduced from the person he is now— it would all be plainly simple.

But he’s not, he’s not. So, this is the weight he has to bare for the brain he never asked for.

Pyrrhic victory, he’ll always be renowned for his intelligence. ‘You’re going to change the world kid,’ maybe, but simultaneously, he’ll never get to experience said world. There’s a chance he’ll always be on the outside, watching normal people gravitate towards each other. Live dreary lives of domesticated simplicity. Stacked bills, arguments over money and parenting techniques. Going to bed angry, only to turn around, mid-night, and resolve it, to not sleep on bad blood. To take them off the couch, to settle into predestined sides of the mattress.

There’s not enough possessions in the world he’d sacrifice just to experience love.

Hedgehog dilemma, the challenges of human intimacy. The hedgehogs want to move closer, to preserve heat during cold. But, they are forced, biologically cursed to remain apart, in order to prevent themselves from harming each other. Spencer doesn’t want to be hurt, to hurt, it’s a morbid byproduct of his upbringing; all he ever endured was mockery.

He thought he’d never get to experience the physical, carnal aspects of existence. And sure, he made peace with the notion, accepted the consequences of being born atypical. Learnt to live without.

But then, oh then there was you. Pretty, intellectual you who quite literally tipped his world on it’s axis. Upheaved the most stable of routines. New to the BAU, he wanted you to last. To stay around, endure the worst of the job. If only for his selfish benefit of orbiting in your presence.

He remembers how it all started: Detroit, another case, more budget cuts, forced proximity that sent you spiralling into a shared bed for the night.

“You’re my favourite person in the team.” you admitted, “And I know that’s dumb, because we’ve spoken the least, but… you’re just, so you. That’s a good thing by the way, a really really good thing.”

He couldn’t quite believe you were talking about him. Spencer, who spilt coffee, and slipped into ceaseless tangents about obscure information. Spencer, who walked into walls when you were around, stumbling over his sentences before deftly, very astutely, giving up, walking away mid-conversation. He wore sweater-vests and colourful mismatched socks, it’s not like he was going to be crowned ‘white boy of the month’.

“Not dumb.” Spencer had responded, shifting closer to tangle further into the warm mess of this accidental situation. “That’s good. I like being me.” he mumbled. “Sometimes…. sometimes it sucks. But that’s okay. I think it’s okay?”

He moved to press his face into the crook of your neck, but you were faster, gathering him by tousled hair, forcing him to look you in the eye.

Oh.

“Please. Please.” he whispered, breaking apart, fracturing, “Please like me. And more than in a weird, ‘just friends or coworkers’ way.”

You did. You do. He should’ve kissed you then, but maybe he was scared, maybe he couldn’t quite discern his feelings, separate the logic from the emotional. So he waited, waited, waited until now. Your third date, you take him to an exhibition within a science centre: replica models of the solar system, filling rooms up, papier-mâché sculptures illuminated by light.

Best date ever. You listen, even when he’s rambling about planets, when he’s pointing out that yes, Jupiter’s density is less than water. That, technically, it would float in a bathtub, if one was built to accommodate its size. You don’t care that he’s not exactly the staple-piece for conventionally attractive males. That he’s nerdish, and awkward, and so so inexperienced when it comes to this.

In his apartment, later, much later, he looks at you, looks at you like you’re the one who just solved the fucking Riemann hypothesis.

“What do you want the most? Like,… if you could ask for one thing.” you say, and god, Spencer loves when you pose these deep, hypothetical questions. When you make him think, because you, you are the biggest challenge to his intellect yet.

You. He wants to say. But he settles for ‘Being remembered,’ instead. He works to untangle layers of fabric, your scarf, your jacket, letting out an exasperated laugh when he meets your amused gaze. “Right now though? I think I’d settle for kissing you.”

You cup his jaw, tracing your fingers along the sharp curve, and god he has perfect anatomy. “Settle huh? You should be more appreciative.”

He leans forward to press a chaste kiss against your lips. Drawing away for a moment, just to return because he’s never had this before. Because for the first time in his life, he gets it. He gets physical attraction, even if it took time. He’s kissed, been kissed, yes. But he could count those moments on one hand, and if you asked how many he truly enjoyed, he’d be left with no fingers raised.

“Believe me, i’m very appreciative…”

This isn’t like before, what he felt in the past; he expected something monotone, flighty, a brief fleeting moment of satisfaction. Means to an end. No, it’s actually the best thing he’s ever experienced, and he’s going to become so insufferable after this, because he’s just found out he is very very into kissing.

Correction: he’s very into kissing you.

In the moment between parting, and touching again, he assumes you to be divinity personified. Spencer has never been religious, but something of this magnitude should be canonised. He wants to ask you. Ask you when you became this beautiful. When you became the person he needs to kiss a second time, kiss a third time, kiss until his lips go numb.

A shaky inhale, a pause. “I hope… I hope that it was okay - I mean, it was good for me. Really, really good. Um—“ to be honest, he’s just glad he didn’t say thankyou.

“Yeah, Spence. That was… wow.” you draw your bottom lip between teeth, press into tissued flesh. Jesus Christ. “Wanna try again?”

Yes yes yes yes. He looks at you, pupils blown obscenely out of proportion. Part of him wants to say, ‘why didn’t we do this sooner?’ But that’s not fair; he’s only ready now. Now that he feels, now that he might be a little in love with you.

“Please,” is his answer, and then he’s catching your face in the palms of his hand, tugging your lips back to his, because admittedly, they have ached in the long, extensive period you were apart (53 seconds).

This time it deepens and Spencer sees stars. It’s an astronomical phenomenon, something interstellar— and god, he’s relating kissing to space. They should just tape the word ‘virgin’ to his back and call it a day.

There’s soft little breathy sighs escaping his mouth now, bleeding into yours. And yeah, spontaneous combustion might be a real threat. Actually no, it would hardly be spontaneous; there’s a clear, clear cause, and it just so happens to be your ruinous lips.

This is an entirely new facet of the human experience. The kiss is electric; he’s always been partial toward physics, and right now his veins carry an alternating current.

You know, he could probably write a thesis based on this.

You both stumble back back back until he’s hitting a wall, and yes, thankyou. He’s making all sorts of sounds he can’t justify, and it’s a supernova, an infinite black pool of— oh, he thinks he might die, ascend, transcend, when you press your thumb against his chin, hold your lips at just a little slant from his. Force him to wait there.

“Please,” he’s never been above begging. A worthy sacrifice, one he’ll certainly repeat again because you return to the kiss, and the world around him dissolves.

You’ve got one hand tangled in his hair. Tousled auburn, fingers sinking into strands, pushing all the way down to the root. The other is still cupping his face, keeping him close, keeping him selfishly close actually.

“Spence,” you murmur. And yes. Yes. He likes that. The way his name sounds rolling off your tongue, like it was destined to be there. Like he was destined to be yours.

His world is ending. So is yours. Fuck it, he presses himself against your thigh, and ohmygodohmygod. He’s being loud, he’s actually being so criminally loud right now because apparently he’s the most whorish virgin to ever exist.

“I lied, I lied,” he admits between messy kisses, “When you asked what I wanted the most? It’s not to be remembered, well it is, its on the list. But—“ he groans, kisses you again because talking interrupts matters that are more important. Like your lips.

“I wanna cum.”

Eloquent.

Spencer Reid being dirty? Oh, it’s hot, it’s so hot to reduce someone to such an obscene state. To reduce him, the boyish fumbling nerd (who just so happens to be the most beautiful person in existence) to such a degrading mess.

Still, there’s shock. Not because he said it (you greatly appreciate the indecent things falling from those pretty lips right now), but because—

“You’ve never? Haven’t even experienced it once? By yourself?”

He should be embarrassed, but his lips are red, his eyes are glassy, and the bulge in his pants is straining to be touched. “Never,” he sighs shakilly. “Never, and i’m— i’m starting to understand why it’s so popular.”

He whimpers, pushes himself against your thigh, because the friction, yes. “Is that weird? Please don’t think i’m weird. Because I’m really, really weird. Just maybe… not in that way?”

It’s never been enough. His body sometimes feels numb to the touch, and yet still so very overstimulated. Like he manually blocks himself from feeling, already prepared for the flinch. How does he explain that life hasn’t been kind to him? That he hates his body because of what people made it out to be when he was a child. Stripping him naked, tying him to a goalpost, always the underdog. The one to be targeted, tormented.

“It’s actually kinda hot,” you interrupt his thoughts, and just because you’re evil, corrupt, the worst, you press your thigh harder against his clothed cock, palm covering his mouth when a plethora of whiny sounds escape his mouth.

It’s performative, really. Alone in his apartment, there’s no need for noise control. So when your thumb slips between parted, swollen lips, he knows to suck. The average human hand has between 10,000 and 10 million bacteria, and Spencer does not actually give a fuck anymore.

“To think that you’ve never even felt what it’s like. That you’re gonna feel it with me for the first time. I get to see that shit— god, you’re going to look so fucking pretty for me.”

You draw your thumb out of his mouth, and he has the audacity to whine.

He’s never wanted anything more in his entire life. It’s all tertiary now. Only this matters.

“Please don’t praise me—“ he protests, “I’ll probably finish in my pants.”

“Praise kink, noted.”

You laugh, and he can only groan, curse existence for being this cruel to his overworked, undervalued body. “Don’t— don’t laugh. You’re not supposed to laugh, that can heighten performance anxiety. Increase insecurity, and…” he sighs, “You do not care. Sadistic tendencies, noted.”

“Shut up. Wanna see you.” you say, and he’s just muttering breathless mhm’s, too delirious to function; his body is betraying the last iota of self-control like the little whore it apparently is.

His sweater comes off first, then his top. Discarded fabric, his raised arms when you mutter a candid ‘up’, giving way to exposed skin. In response? Your pupils dilate. Spencer knows because he’s analysing, profiling. If you hate him like this, he’s fairly certain he’ll drag himself into a self-dug early grave. He wishes he was being melodramatic. That your approval didn’t have such a substantial impact on his carefully-constructed ego. But, oh, it does. It does.

Thin, with a long, defined torso, he blushes, rose blemished skin, when your hands drag across his stomach. He’d love to say he reacts sanely, suavely. Urbane to your touch. But that would be a total, discreditable lie. Instead, his back arches, seeking contact, following the path of your fingertips with pitiful desperation. He feels malleable, willing to bend and contort, if only to feel more.

“How can you not think you’re pretty, Spence?” His pants are gone next, then his stained boxers, fabric borderline sheer now, soaked through with pre-cum.

Spencer feels betrayed. His body never responds, not to his own hands, not to his own thoughts. And yet, the moment you’re on him, he’s a live-wire. It’s sick, heinous, double-crossing. Maybe it’s purposeful, done just to spite him. Figures.

“Holy shit, look at you. Look at how perfect you are.” Spencer wants to object, because he distinctly told you not to praise him. However,.. right now, the lights are on but nobody is home. Brain-death, he’s certainly in a vegetative state.

“Ohmygodohmygod,” he whimpers, because no amount of knowledge about human anatomy and physiology could prepare him for how he feels under your touch. No amount of education in the psychology of relationships could inform him of how viscerally wrong the way you look at him feels.

Because it’s not wrong, not all. It’s the most right he’s ever felt, and he’ll tell you that if you’ll just keep it up.

The sounds he’s making are phonographic, lewd, you’ve given up on trying to stifle them now. Where have you been hiding? Your eyes fall, and he wants to blush away from the exhibiting gaze, but he’s just…. too far gone; the thought of your touch outweighs any previous reticence. Then, oh then, you drop to your knees, and shit. He expected your thigh, maybe your hand if he was lucky, not—

This. Your mouth, your tongue, your pretty lips; god, god, is this a sin? Because if it is, he’ll take it.

“Please,” he whines, and he can’t look anymore because the sight alone is going to send him over the edge. He’s gripping the wall, scrambling scrambling for purchase, because he’s trying not to grip you, but how exactly does he keep this respectful?

He’s pretty sure they’re past that, considering your mouth is currently wrapped around his cock, and he’s debauched.

You want this, you want him, he feels like he’s transcended humanity, like he’s become someone, anyone and anything, that deserves the way you’re taking him apart, piece by piece. In the aftermath, he hopes you don’t leave a single ounce of him intact.

“Wanna kiss you. Oh— oh oh,” he’s sobbing now, “Come back here. Miss your mouth— even if it’s,” he looks down and that’s a mistake. “Please.”

Of course it would be Spencer to disrupt the best (and admittedly only) head of his life because he needs you closer.

You oblige, raising from your knees, and Spencer thinks it might be sacrilegious. But then again, he feels religion in your touch so it can’t be too profane. Maybe? He’s not sure, he’s not sure and it doesn’t matter. Ethics and morality have long since disintegrated, sins are engrained into humankind. He almost wants to thank Eve for tearing into the apple, because it’s allowed this irreverence to occur.

Spencer blindly follows you through the apartment, stumbling and muttering until he can collapse against the bed. Baring his pretty neck as his head hits the bedframe. Tangled in sheets, draped over his lap, his deft fingers run across your waist, mapping out the structure of your frame. If only to remember, recite this act of blasphemy.

“Spence,” you whisper, and then his lips are crashing into yours, stealing breath, stealing sanity. He whimpers, murmurs a protest when you draw back, and you can only laugh. “Lets get you off, yeah? You wanna feel an orgasm, pretty boy?”

“Yes, yes please. That would uh— yes.” he’s not even sure how he’s conscious right now. His body, god his body, has endured more pleasure in the last hour than it has for the majority of his life. Your hands scathe, and Spencer is willing to indefinitely burn, if just to feel them one more time.

You only stop to take off your clothes, and surely there needs to be prep? To reaffirm, he knows anatomy, the correct procedure, how the transgression is supposed to occur. And yet, that’s from a clinical, objective mindset. Do this, do that, etc etc. Nothing works out like that in practice.

You’re so wet, panties stained through, he spares a moment to run his fingers across your thighs, hand slipping beneath fabric to graze your clit. The moan that follows has him distracted, thumb tracing circlets, over and over until you’re pulling back to return the balance. The balance, which admittedly is skewed, tipped scales, you’re on top. He falls to the weight of your influence.

And yeah, he’s more than fine with that. Jesus, you drag your panties down, down your thighs, your legs, then they’re reaching your ankles, pooling there for a moment before they’re being discarded, tossed somewhere on his floor — leaving behind a souvenir that yes, yes this happened.

“I can’t,” he says, burying his face into your shoulder when you take him. It’s slow, sinking onto his cock like every inch of warmth will destroy him. Maybe it will. Maybe he doesn’t care, because he deserves this. He deserves to feel after so much repression.

Or maybe, maybe he’s just become the biggest slut known to mankind. Likely.

Your body presses against his, and he thinks he’s going to disintegrate, because he feels so good. He understands now, he understands why people do this. Why it’s integral to the function of most. This is the best day of his life. This. Is. The. Best. Day. Of. His. Life.

There’s this noise, this pathetically loud whimper when you start to roll your hips— and oh your body is wet against him, and you’re so tight, and it’s perfect because he doesn’t have to do anything.

He can just sit here, look pretty, and cry.

He knows he’s a giver, that he’d bleed himself dry for you. It’s a curse, he supposes: so willing to bend backwards for the satisfaction of the people he trusts. But, this is foreign, and he wants to watch you, aimlessly stare, dumb and empty-headed as you wield his body like a weapon. Turn him into something perniciously yours.

Spencer has no reference for what an orgasm is supposed to feel like, and yeah, he’s really good at guessing in these type of situations. Because he’s rolling his thumb over your clit again, and he wants to draw it into his mouth, to see you laid out across bedsheets, writhing, unable to do anything but suffocate him with your thighs.

You clench around him, back arched, releasing a series of strained moans. With one hand tangled in his dishevelled hair, the other pressed against his chest, your face contorts, your body stiffens. There’s no way his incessant whimpering just got you off?

Okay. So you like him desperate. Point taken.

“Please— please, wanna cum. Wanna feel it so bad,” he’s slurring over his words, sentences punctured by devastating whimpers. And look at him, asking for permission, waiting even though his body has been teetering on the edge for so long now.

“Shh, shh..” you press your forehead against his, and he melts. Reoccurring theme. His hand grips your jaw, thumb pushed firmly against your chin, keeping you close. “You wanna cum for me, baby? Gonna give me your first?”

“Mhm— mhm…” is all he can say. When you pick up your pace, he has to burrow his face into the crook of your neck, whimpers messy and broken off, suppressed against your warm skin.

“Oh. Oh…” he repeats, again. Like there’s anything else he could utter, because this is earth-shattering.

It’s the sun, and all eight planets combined, and the universe collapsing in on itself, and he’s bucking, squirming, releasing into you, spilling deep.

He sobs. Breaks down. Because it’s so so good, and he can’t believe he ever deprived his body of this.

Neediest whore to ever exist, apparently.

It takes him a while to come back. Longer to regain motor function, to sink into present day. Life, and expectations, and everything, everything, your touch eradicated.

“Just… just stay like this?” he asks, collapsing against your body after he’s drawn out of you. There’s mess, evidence of your ministrations, but cleanliness seems futile when he’s blissed out, caught in a post-orgasmic haze that yes yes yes he needed so badly.

You card your hands through his hair, watch the way he stares up at you, large, widened eyes, chin resting against your chest. “Hi,” he mutters dumbly.

“Spence,” Spence, Spence, Spence. He could drown himself in that nickname.

“Yeah?” he breathes out.

“You we’re so good—“

He rolls away from you, finding a home for his face in the pillow. “Stop. Stop.” he groans, “Don’t do that. You’re going to destroy me. I’m not… equipped for this, for you. Someone should just sedate me, put me out of my misery, a coma sounds like—“

He tilts his head to the side, relinquishing, “Okay. Sorry. Meltdown over. Can we shower? Then maybe do this again? Which will make the shower inconsequential, I suppose. There’s a new documentary I want to watch, and oh, you still haven’t seen the third Star Wars—“

He’s happy, content, over the fucking moon, to be silenced with your lips. “Yeah,” he murmurs, hand interlocking with yours as you both fall back against the mattress, “Let’s do this again.”

[thatsveryvortex]

Writing Tools for Planning Your Story

I've tried tons of writing apps and sites, so you don't have to. Here's a list of free sites to plot out your novel, with my review and some images of how I use it.

Milanote

Milanote is like having a giant pinboard with folders. You can upload anything onto it [yes even your main doc] and then draw over it or connect things with lines and arrows

Milanote lets you add up to a hundred things for free, not including drawing. This is one of the downsides of the site as I've found myself reaching that limit recently.

For me, the best part is being able to draw over stuff, and the color swatches.

Milanote is a lot less structured than other sites I've used, and personally, I don't think their templates are worth using.

8/10 overall, Milanote is what I mainly use. Here are some pics of how I use it:

Miro

Miro is a flowchart website mainly used for corporate jobs, however, it can be a great plotting tool for that reason

Miro has a lot of great starter templates if you are looking for a more structured freeform experience. It also comes with a blank page as well.

Unfortunately, I'd argue that it's a bit of a hard tool for beginners to use without a template, I've learned copy-paste is my best friend with Miro the hard way.

It's much better than most platforms at making timelines though.

It has a limit of three boards which is a bit disappointing but overall, I think it's worth the try.

5/10 Miro is very middle of the road for me due to the limited ability to customize things and the free limit. Here are some pics:

[I wrote that part weeks ago, I am now fully using Miro and believe it's the best for making timelines and charts, I just wish it let me make more boards 8/10]

Hiveword

This might be someone's jam, I can't really say it's mine though.

First off, the unpaid version is really just a few boxes saying "Write a summary here." which makes it just not worth it in my opinion

There really isn't any way to customise things which is my favorite part of most of these softwares

I've barely used this, so maybe there's something I'm missing but

1/10, Just use Google Docs at this point, here's a couple pics

World Anvil

People like this software, it's mainly used for tabletop, which is just a different way of writing adventure, and I've seen it recommended by authors.

Unfortunately, I'm going to disagree with a lot of people and say it's hard to use and isn't even really good at plotting.

I may be biased on this one as every time I've tried to use it in the past I've struggled. However, it seems like another just write it in a document and create a folder.

I'd say it's closer to an organizing tool, but even then just use something else.

3/10, I have nothing to say about it but maybe you'll enjoy it, all here are two photos

Campfire

This is the one I think I've heard the most about, but have never actually tried.

right off the bat, I'm going to say this is 100% worth it, you'll see at the end with the photos but this is like if Miro and World Anvil had an organization baby.

It's extremely easy to understand, and it makes timelines, it's more for writing your whole book but idk about that yet.

7/10, its themes are really pretty but it limits how much you can do to 20 I believe. Here are the photos

That's all for now, honestly, I think you should use Miro if you are looking to plot things out, and Milanote if you want to collect and organize your thoughts for writing, as that's what I do. Obviously what I like won't be for everyone, but hopefully, this helped you see some options

[khywren]

it's time for some more astarion analysis~

making this a separate post in case people wanted to reblog just the gifs on their own and don't care about the extra fluff. i'm certain this scene has been analyzed to the hells and back by this point, but when i was making this set something really stuck out to me and i wanted to throw my two cents in anyway.

this is the tail end of the mirror scene from act 1, where you catch astarion looking in the mirror and lamenting about not being able to see his reflection or knowing what he looks like anymore. and while that alone is sad enough, it gets SO MUCH WORSE.

if you express genuine interest in his predicament (i.e. asking him if he misses his reflection and what color his eyes were before he was turned), you get to see the mask slip. it's one of the first times in the game that he's not hiding behind his quick wit and silver tongue.

if you tell him you'll be his mirror, you can see the change in his demeanor immediately. his face softens, the cadence of his voice changes; you can literally hear the vulnerability in every word he says. huge props to neil and the rest of larian for making the distinction between these dialogue options, of course. it's the little details that really make moments like these shine.

but there was something else i noticed in the footage i recorded as well that i hadn't picked up on any of my other playthroughs. i've spent a lot of time staring at this man's face, especially while capturing idle animations for gifs and wallpapers, and most of the time it's what you'd expect, with minimal face movement, expressions changing, etc. most companions i record seem to behave the same way, with similar expressions/blinking/eye movement.

but just look at astarion's face here. this feels deliberately unique. he is SO anxious, so worried how you'll perceive him. the rapid blinking, the nervous darting of his eyes… it genuinely breaks my heart.

(tumblr will only let me upload one video per post, but just look at any other idle footage of him and you'll see the difference)

and the second you tell him what he thinks he wants to hear? that he's very attractive? he slips right back into his suave, flirtatious persona, and even praises you for complimenting his looks. even if you eventually ask him if all he wants is shallow praise, he still deflects and isn't completely honest with you.

note that if you choose to take the less compassionate route and simply tell them that he has a "very good face," he will still prompt you to tell him what you see when you look at him, and the delivery of the line is subtly but noticeably different and more guarded. similarly, if you poke a little too much fun at him by calling him old and draw too much attention to his mole, he gets very flustered and ends the conversation immediately. understandable, since he's relied on his appearance for so long, and hearing (even jokingly) that even that might not be something he can use anymore must be at least a little terrifying for him.

so naturally, you might think that by being truthful with him would perhaps net you a better result -- after all, you're telling him what he asked for, what you really see, that you see him as more than just someone to lust after -- but it doesn't. he actually seems a little upset if you choose those dialogue options. in that moment, he wants to know that you find him attractive, because he thinks that's all he's good for. because if you find him attractive, there's a chance that he could seduce you and use you for protection against cazador. i do think he also genuinely wants to know that there's so much more to him than just a pretty face, since that's a big theme of his entire story/romance arc, but that's not at the top of his priority list this early in the game. he's relying purely on instinct. he knows how to respond to people telling him he's attractive. accepting genuine compliments about the person beneath the mask? that's probably not something he's had much (if any) experience with in close to two centuries. he didn't have the luxury of being able to let anyone see who he really was.

all that to say that this interaction is really heartbreaking. he wants to be seen, wants to be understood and possibly loved, but at the same time he still thinks he needs to put on a front to ensure he can keep himself safe. watching him slowly start to unlearn those habits during the course of the game has been one of my favorite things about bg3 and a huge part of what's really endeared astarion to me as a character.

[ktownshizzle]

Love & Lullabies | Part 4.5

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x female Reader

✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: What begins as a simple favor for your best friend Namjoon soon pulls you into the rhythms of Yoongi’s life—afternoons spent caring for his son, late nights filled with candid conversations, and a connection neither of you thought you needed. You’re just fresh out of a long-term relationship with an ex who didn’t want a family with you, so did you really just stumble into a life you’ve always dreamed of? (Thank god Namjoon isn’t the only one who’s clumsy.)

✎ ˎˊ˗ Alternatively: It’s 2025 and BTS is prepping for their comeback. All members seem to have gained muscle weight from their time at camp. But Min Yoongi has gained a different kind of weight—an 8-pound baby and a fuck-load of responsibility. (Thank god you’re there to help him.)

✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, Angst, Smut, idol!au, Acquaintances to Lovers, Reader is Namjoon’s bestie

✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: Yoongi is a DILF (!!!) That’s it.

✎ ˎˊ˗ Chapter warnings: porn with some plot kinda, this yoongi is very horny and is a very methodical masturbator (?) in the way he set the mood for himself (could be canon, amirite), let’s fix that boner you left him with, and let’s soothe your weary minds from that Dispatch article, POV switch after the article headline, idk if you know that one video of yoongi in d-day during the piano break in life goes on he does this thing with his tongue… it’s written in here somewhere

✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 1.5k

✎ ˎˊ˗ Posting date: December 15, 2024

✎ ˎˊ˗ A/N: Surprise! I kid you not, this was written within a span of like 8 hours? So if it sucks, that’s probably why, lol. Lucky for y’all I am too impatient to wait for notes milestones before I upload the next part, so here you go. 🎁 Also, @glossdebut, you know what you did. Enjoy, my lovelies~ 💕

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four |  Masterlist

“Fuck me…” Yoongi sighs, leaning further back into the computer chair. He runs both hands through his hair as the preliminary pinpricks of pleasure makes his cock spring to life under his sweatpants.

His phone is now propped on his half-empty coffee mug, of which the screen—maxed out in its brightness settings—is projecting the photo you sent through its 2x dynamic galaxy amoled display—of which his dick would personally like to thank his Samsung sponsors.

He is so horny he might just die if he doesn’t get off in the next five minutes. 

It’s your fault. Of course, it is.

God you’re so fucking sexy, do you even know that? Do you even realize what you do to him? He is literally about to masturbate in his multi-million won worth studio to the pitiful pixels you have afforded him with.

He stands up, curses you under his breath as he pulls his pants down to pool around his ankles. He drops to his chair, about to slip a clammy hand inside his boxers when he decides to adjust the view juuuust a little, zooming the photo closer…closer…  and that’s it.

Just the view he needs. (Sue him for having astigmatism.)

He grabs the aircon remote and adjusts the temp to a balmy 24 ‘cause it’d be hella annoying if he can’t get hard because his studio is an igloo.

Some velvety track with soft percussions filter out from his speakers.

A pump of lube from his hidden drawer, wet wipes at the ready for the inevitable clean up, and he’s off to the fuckin’ races. 

His fist wraps the base of his cock, coating his entire shaft with the gel. It's cold, but it immediately warms up to his body temperature as his palm slides up and down his semi. 

Greedy eyes rake your body on his phone screen. Your tits. They’re a vision. He can see just the ghost of your nipples, peaking in the slightest way against your silky top and suddenly his mouth is dry. What would they look like if they’re not hiding from him? For sure they’re puffy. Pretty jet-puffed marshmallows that he’s gonna be putting in his mouth and sucking until you’re falling apart and creaming with just that. He smirks. Yeah, he could do that.

He tugs at his cock faster, licking his bottom lip as he imagines the texture of your pebbled nipples against his tongue. He shivers, increasing the pace of his ministrations, cock now fully hard.

Back to the photo.

Huh. You knew what you were doing—squeezing your breast with your hand. The way the mound of flesh is about to spill over, and your areola is just kissing the edge of the fabric is actually killing him. It’s diabolical. Pure torture.

Had you been here, he’s scooping out that breast, the one you’re holding out to him, so it’s hanging generously from your top, wobbling as he bounces you on his fat dick. 

He feels his eyes crossing, caught in the spell of the hypnotic movements playing out in his mind. He moves his hand faster, cock throbbing and aching for release.

But he’s not there yet.

Closing his eyes, Yoongi lets himself sink back into the memory, rewinding the moments from just hours ago. The sensation of your weight against him is the first thing he recalls—the way your ass fits so perfectly in his lap, warm and soft, like you were made to be there. The way your body had melted into his touch, so pliant, so eager, grinding slightly like you were inviting him to ruin you, and he was more than willing to oblige.

Your lips—he can still taste them if he focuses hard enough—sweet, intoxicating, like the lingering memory of his favorite whisky. And your neck, the way it arched so perfectly for him, leaving him no choice but to press his mouth against it, the faint hint of your skin still ghosting on his lips even now.

If he concentrates, he can almost smell you again, that sweet, delicate perfume that drove him insane. It’s like you’ve imprinted yourself on him. Or maybe it’s the faint traces of your scent that linger on his hoodie, the one you pressed yourself into while straddling him and he could feel the perfect ass against his crotch. 

The thought is enough to send his pulse ticking faster, his head leaning back against the chair as a low, frustrated groan escapes him. He needs you. Fervently. Urgently. Needs you like he has never needed another person ever. 

Jaw slack, tongue dangling from the corner of his mouth, he imagines licking your nipples from side to side and his mouth stretches into a smile. He can almost hear you moan oh yoongi and wow what an ego boost to have you unraveling for him when in reality it’s he who is actually unraveling in his own damn hands. His cock is getting heavier, balls tighter at his impending demise. He tugs and tugs, collecting some of the lube that gathered on the base and pushing it back towards his angry tip, concentrating his movements there.

You’re not in the room but you might as well be with the way your name keeps tumbling from his lips. He is whining like a little bitch in heat, but he doesn’t give a shit. He hasn’t had a satisfying jerk-off like this in a while. He can’t even remember sex being this good. Nothing remotely like the way this fog of lust has him ascending to another plane of existence right now, because you’re so fucking sexy and so good to him and he likes you so damn much and suddenly he’s coming, warm spurts of cum oozes from his throbbing cock decorating his fingers like the rings he used to wear to the knuckle, and fuck he’s still going, there’s so much and god dammit his boxers are soaked but it feels phenomenal.

Chest heaving as if he ran a marathon, he stares at his ceiling, waiting for his heart rate to slow down.

Not long after, he laughs at his stupidity, pulling a wipe from the packet and proceeds to clean up. He sobers up from his horny thoughts, but not by a whole lot. Not when the photo that started it all is still bright and beautiful from his phone. Shit. He cannot wait to fuck you for real. 

Little did he know, something was gonna fuck him up come morning.

AllKpop Scoop:

Confirmed: SUGA of BTS Dating Actress Lee Sung Kyung

Eagle-eyed fans are convinced the duo has been hiding their relationship in plain sight, pointing to their undeniable chemistry during a past Suchwita episode, where sparks were reportedly flying between the two.

The story was everywhere. News sites, entertainment shows, gossip columns, social media—each one milking it for all it was worth. 

Darling of the press, K-drama royalty, multi-awarded thespian Lee Sung Kyung, had resurfaced from her mysterious hiatus, and of course, the headlines couldn’t resist pairing her name with “infamous idol Min Yoongi.” You roll your eyes so far back your head they almost didn’t come back.

The South Korean media was having an absolute field day.

And as much as it hurt to see it, your first instinct wasn’t to dwell on the sting of the rumors. It was to scan every word, every post, every thread, checking if Haneul had been dragged into the mess.

Thankfully, he hadn’t been. You’d be devastated if your little sarang had been implicated in any of these stories. You don’t know the first thing about how to protect the poor baby from these trolls, but you will be damned if you don’t try.

The photo that sparked the frenzy was everywhere—a shot of Sung Kyung leaving Yoongi’s Hannam apartment. That was it. No Yoongi, no Haneul, not even a hint of context. Never mind that the building housed countless tenants or that there was zero proof they were together. It was enough to send the internet spiraling into speculation.

You were scrolling through the comments under one of the reposts, your stomach churning at the sheer creativity of the assumptions being thrown around, when your screen suddenly switched to an incoming call.

Yoongi.

You didn’t hesitate, swiping to pick up almost immediately.

“Sarang,” he starts, his voice soft and familiar, like he already knows he needs to tread lightly. Bro’s really starting with the buttering up.

“Where’s Han?” Was your first question.

“My parents drove him up to Daegu this morning. It’s better if he’s there for now.”

You let out a heavy sigh, rubbing your temple as you sit back. “Just answer one question, Yoongi: is it true or not?”

“It’s a big fuckin’ lie,” he says without missing a beat, his voice steady and firm. “None of it is true.”

“So it’s all bullshit?”

“YES.” he replies emphatically.

The tension in your shoulders eases slightly, and you exhale, nodding to yourself. This is fine for now. “Okay.”

“Okay?” There’s a note of uncertainty in his voice, like he wasn’t expecting you to let it go so easily.

“Yes. Just get your ass here by 7 and not a minute later.” You say, firm.

A pause. Then, with the faintest hint of a chuckle, he replies, “Yes, ma’am.”

A/N: So???? I don't know what that first part was. It just took a life of its own. Anyway, as per ush, please let me know what you thought about the chapter. Feedback is always appreciated. Thank you so much for reading this, you lovely, beautiful human xo

See you in the next half! :)

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[lovscb97]

— nerd!chan drabble #1

part 1 / part 2 / headcannons

synopsis: the aftermath of what happens between you and nerd!chan following the events that take place in part 2

tags: nerd!chan x cheerleader!fem!reader, established relationship, lots of fluff, lots of kissing, nerd!chan being a cutie, oral sex (f. recieving), unprotected sex (plz do not), basic lovemaking, aftercare, etc

wc: 1.70k

add. notes: idk why i wrote this n how tf it got so long. those pictures (i cannot upload them rn idfk why. if they r uploaded by the time u r reading this then good for us if not then i'll kms) seriously did a number on me i think tho bcs holy fucking shit man he looks so good. like i adore this man to death n beyond GRRR!!! anyways enjoy :3

. . .

saw chan's latest post and now i can't stop thinking about how the pictures are extremely nerd!chan universe's bangchan coded.. specifically, they're the type of photos chan would post the day you guys finally get together, on the first day he gets to call himself your boyfriend at last.

he's long dropped you off at home and is still reeling from the excitement of everything that's happened after the game, not to mention that he was so giddy to the point he ended up texting all his friends about everything that happened, making sure to repeat how he finally, finally!!! got the girl of his dreams at last. his joy is to the extent that when he gets home, he can't stop thinking about you, thinking about how you sounded and felt, thinking about the way you'd straddled his lap in his beat up car, thinking about how you'd kissed him breathless, just thinking about you.

when he's in the safety of his room behind locked doors, he positively melts against the wall, crumbling to his feet with a lovestruck grin on his face as he repeats everything that went down an hour prior and quite literally changed the trajectory of his entire life if he's being honest. when his phone pings with a message, he's immediately shooting to swipe for his texts, giggling at the sweet messages you've sent him to remind him once more that you love him and can't wait to see him tomorrow. he'd reply back with a goofy smile and kick his feet, of course, before impulsively making the executive decision to once again, stalk your instagram.

when he pulls up your account, his heart clenches against his chest, because there you are, plastered all over the feed with your beautiful features that he's fallen for over the last few months. the way your hair cascades over your shoulders, how your face is lit up and beaming in every post he looks through, your uniform or even casual clothes clinging to your body perfectly in specific uploads— everything about the way you are makes him feel dizzy in the head. he genuinely can't fathom the fact that you're all his starting today and onwards.

the next day when he sees you, he thinks he might ascend onto a different dimension. he's all dazed and in awe when he approaches you, softening at the way your eyes brighten after falling on his figure, watching with honey dripping as you parade up to and crash into him with your arms wrapping around his waist on instinct, no less in public. when he hugs you back, he can smell the familiar scent of your perfume and shampoo mixed together, burying his face in an effort to cling onto you like he's often dreamed of. though he's a bit pouty when you eventually pull away, he thinks you you make up for it by leaning up to press a gentle kiss to his cheek and grabbing his hand to drag him away for a late lunch date.

the hours pass with you and him spending as much time as you can together to make up for however much you'd lost avoiding each other and sneaking around in private previously. chan does his best to pay attention to what you're rambling on too, something about your professor marking you down for a test when you'd answered correctly, but he truly can't seem to focus with the way he's so down bad for you. everything you do, everything you say, everything you are in general makes him want to swoop in and kiss you silly.

so, he does.

it catches you off guard when he leans over the table you're both sat at and connects your lips together, but you're no stranger to his affection (okay, maybe you are a little), so of course, you kiss him back, giggling against his mouth with him. he thinks your laughter might be his favourite sound in the world.

as the sky turns to orange with the sun dipping down, chan allows you to tug him around campus, going with you to the library to pick up a book you needed for your class and accompanying you to the university cafe where he insists on paying for your drink. you both eventually end up back in your dorm, with you letting it slip mid-conversation that karina would be at her parent's house today. the seemingly little tidbit makes him freeze in his place, but he brushes off the lewd thoughts entering his mind in favour of continuing the impromptu and innocent study session you decide to hold in the middle of your side of the room. he tries, he really does, to concentrate on the material he should ideally be preparing for his next exam, but you look so cute focused on the text you're busy highlighting that he can't resist reaching over to graze his thumb over your palm softly. you look up at the sensation of his touch, cheeks tinting pink at the way your boyfriend is staring back at you.

and so, it doesn't take very long for the two of you to get back into locking lips once more, chan hovering over your sprawled out body as his mouth ghosts the skin of your jaw, neck, collarbone, shoulder, everywhere. you swear he's gotten more bold ever since you started dating, but one glance at the burning red of his ears is enough to make you chuckle. when he asks you what's so funny, you simply shake your head, wrapping your arms around his neck to yank him in for another kiss that leaves both of you practically levitating.

chan makes quick work to have you cumming on his face after that, languid swipes of his tongue flicking against your clit and swirling at your entrance as you let out the cutest whimpers he's possibly ever heard. when his wet muscles wraps around your sensitive nub and sucks, you see stars, clenching around nothing with your juices gushing down his chin as you spray everywhere. when your boyfriend rises to meet your gaze, glasses fogged up and stained with your release, looking like he'd descended from heaven itself, you can't stop the meek "need you inside, please" that leaves you from escaping. it makes his eyes widen, but he's stripping off his clothes in record time at your plea, causing you to laugh quietly in the darkness of the room, save for whatever light is streaming through the curtains.

when chan finally does enter you, despite having done so multiple times, you gasp. you still get butterflies from the feeling of his cock stretching you out, and he still can't shake off how his stomach swirls in delight at the way your warm walls basically suck him in. he moves slowly but surely, deep thrusts hitting every right spot that has you keening and shaking under his hold. his words are barely above whispers, filled with nothing but loving remarks and reminders of how much he adores you and can't believe you're his. he babbles about how lucky he is to be yours, and how he's never going to let you go, to which you breathlessly huff out something about how you'd never want to go anywhere anyways. that sentence coupled with the way your doe eyes blink up at him is enough to send him hurdling to his climax, triggering your own. you both lay there in the comfort of each other's arms for a while after that, snuggling into one another's skin and exchanging short kisses.

it's only after a few moments pass that chan gets up to clean you off, tugging his clothes back on along with the glasses he'd tossed on your bedside table before wiping you down with a wet cloth. the way you look at him as he tends to your needs makes him flush bright under your gaze, which only has you tittering and sitting up to kiss him once more.

by the time everything's done and he has to go home, chan lights up with an idea, lacing your fingers in his and rushing you outside the doors of the student accomodation. he flashes you a grin that makes you weak in the knees, ruffling his hair to slide his hat on before passing you his phone and posing for the camera. you're confused what this has to do with anything, but you click the pictures for him anyways, heart fluttering at the way he beams at the lens, or rather at the fact that you're the one behind it. when you're done, he thanks you with a smooch to your forehead, shrugging off his jacket to wrap it around your frame despite it being one too many sizes big for you. he buttons you up to the end, throwing his head back at the way you look so tiny compared to the clothing you've got on, which only makes you roll your eyes regardless of the smile that creeps up on your face at his joy.

it's only when you've said your goodbye's and shared a last few kisses of the day that you find yourself back in bed, wrapped up under chan's clothes and inhaling the scent of his cologne that brings back memories of today. when you open your phone, you're hit with his notification in an instant, eyebrows furrowing in confusion when you read him asking you to check his instagram but doing so anyways. you think your heart stops when you see what he's referring to.

chan had tagged you in the photos you'd taken a few minutes prior to seeing him off, but not just that, he'd captioned it too—

@.gnabnahc: thank you for being mine, pretty girl.

hot infatuation floods your system at the words he'd used, and for some reason, it dawns on you now of all times that chan is yours. he's yours. all yours. you can't stop the smile that graces your features at that realisation, replying back to him with something cheesy. safe to say, you drift to sleep that night with thoughts filled of your precious boyfriend.

in conclusion, chan may be smitten, but you're just as bad as him, it seems.

. . .

comments and reblogs are always appreciated! <3

[burningred1989]

THE INTERVIEW

A/N: Y/N and Harry attend an interview where James Corden shows pictures of Harry with Kendall Jenner on a yacht from years ago. While Harry nonchalantly recounts stories about the day, Y/N grows visibly uncomfortable, fidgeting and avoiding eye contact. Neither Harry nor anyone else notices her discomfort during the show.

MASTERLIST

<<<<<

It was a late-night talk show, and Harry and Y/N were invited on James Corden’s program for an interview. The energy in the studio was high as fans cheered and clapped. Harry, looking relaxed and in a great mood, sat next to Y/N as they prepared to chat with James about their upcoming projects. The crowd loved them both—Harry for his laid-back charm and Y/N for her infectious laughter and grace.

James, always known for his cheeky sense of humor, had an idea for a bit to add some levity to the interview. After talking about music, fashion, and random bits of gossip, James pulled up a set of pictures on the screen. He held up one image in particular, one that instantly made Harry freeze for a split second.

The picture showed Harry and Kendall Jenner on a yacht, laughing, with Harry tugging at Kendall’s foot and her hugging him affectionately. The shot was a few years old, taken during a high-profile trip that had made headlines, with paparazzi capturing nearly every moment of their time together. The image was all over tabloids at the time, and the media had made a spectacle of it, turning it into something more than it ever was.

James, with his usual playful grin, teased, "Remember when you shook the world with these, Harry?"

Harry laughed, brushing it off with his usual charm. “Ah, yeah, that was a fun day,” he said casually, leaning back in his seat. “Kendall and I had a great time on that yacht. It was just one of those spontaneous moments, you know?” He went on to tell a story about how the day had gone, laughing about the playful moments with Kendall and the unexpected waves they had encountered.

Y/N, however, wasn’t laughing. She sat still beside him, a faint unease settling in her chest. She tried her best to keep her composure, but her fingers began to fidget with the fabric of her pants. Her knees bounced up and down nervously, and a cold feeling crept over her. She didn’t look directly at Harry as he spoke, keeping her eyes fixed ahead as though she was focusing on something in the distance. Her mind was racing, but she didn’t want to interrupt the flow of the conversation.

Nobody noticed her discomfort—not James, who was absorbed in the conversation, nor Harry, who was still animated and laughing about the day on the yacht.

It wasn’t until later, when they were back in the car on the way to their hotel, that Harry noticed a sudden shift in Y/N’s behavior. She was unusually quiet, staring out of the window with a faraway look in her eyes. Harry tried to spark a conversation, asking her how the interview went, but she only replied with a soft, "I'm just tired, Harry. It's been a long day."

His brow furrowed in concern, but he didn’t push her further, figuring she might just need some space. They arrived at the hotel, and Y/N went straight to the bathroom without saying much. When she returned, she climbed into bed, facing away from him. Harry, still not fully aware of the weight she was carrying from the interview, settled into bed beside her, trying to fall asleep. But his mind wouldn’t rest.

<<<<<

The next morning, Harry woke up early, his usual habit of checking his phone first thing kicking in. He scrolled through TikTok, lazily watching random videos while yawning. Suddenly, he came across a video of the interview from the night before—fans had already begun uploading their reactions. He tapped on the clip, expecting to see the usual praise for Y/N’s stunning outfit and his charming demeanor.

But instead, the comments were focused on something different. They weren’t discussing Harry’s story about the yacht. They were talking about Y/N’s discomfort.

The video showed her visibly fidgeting, her fingers twisting and her knees bouncing as Harry laughed and joked about his time with Kendall. There were multiple comments pointing out how obvious it was that Y/N wasn’t comfortable during that part of the interview.

"Did anyone else notice how Y/N was looking down the entire time they talked about that yacht trip? 😬"

"Her body language is so off—what’s going on, Harry?"

"I can feel the tension through the screen, poor Y/N... 😢"

“Did Harry not notice? She’s clearly uncomfortable…”

Harry’s stomach sank as he read through the comments, feeling a lump form in his throat. His gaze shifted to the next clip, which was a fan reaction video. This one was more analytical, showing a side-by-side of Y/N’s reactions to the yacht pictures and the moments when Harry was openly laughing about the past relationship with Kendall. Y/N’s discomfort was undeniable, and the video highlighted how it shifted from slight nervousness to visible unease.

His heart twisted, guilt washing over him. He should have noticed. He should have recognized the signs. But he hadn’t. And now it was too late.

<<<<<

Harry put his phone down, pacing the room for a moment as he tried to process everything. He needed to make things right. He knew he’d messed up, but he wasn’t sure how to fix it. All he could think of was the pain he might have caused Y/N, and how he’d been oblivious to her feelings.

When Y/N finally woke up, Harry was already out of bed, sitting at the edge of the room, his hands clasped together. She rubbed her eyes and yawned, trying to shake off the sleepiness. But as soon as she saw Harry, she knew something was wrong.

“Hey…” she said softly, her voice barely a whisper.

Harry looked up at her, his expression full of regret. “Y/N, I—I saw the videos,” he started, his voice thick with emotion. “I saw how uncomfortable you were last night, and I… I feel awful. I should have noticed. I should’ve been there for you.”

Y/N sat up, glancing at him. Her face was still soft, but there was a trace of sadness in her eyes. “It’s not your fault, Harry. I should’ve said something during the interview.”

Harry shook his head, standing up and moving toward her. “No, Y/N. You shouldn’t have had to say anything. I should’ve been more aware. I’m so sorry for making you feel like that.”

Y/N reached out for his hand, squeezing it gently. “It’s okay, Harry. It was just…” She paused, trying to collect her thoughts. “I don’t like seeing you talk about your past, especially not with her. It just… it made me feel like I wasn’t enough.”

Harry’s heart broke as he heard the hurt in her voice. He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing the tears that had started to fall. “You’re more than enough, Y/N. You mean everything to me. I never want you to feel like that again.”

Y/N nodded, her lips trembling slightly. “I know you didn’t mean it, Harry. I just needed some time to process it all.”

Harry leaned in, resting his forehead against hers. “Take all the time you need. I’ll be right here. And I’ll make sure I’m always aware of how you feel. I promise.”

The silence between them felt comforting, a quiet understanding passing between them. Harry held her close, his arms wrapped around her as they sat there, letting the weight of the moment settle. It wasn’t about the yacht, or the pictures, or any of the past—it was about the now, and the love they had for each other.

PART 2

[dinogoofymutated]

Hi can you write something for Logan? I don’t have anything in particular in mind, but I never see this man get any love. Thanks!

NSFW!Wolverine/AFAB! Reader

Hope this is okay! I tried so hard to post it last night but tumblr kept failing on me. It wouldn't even save as a draft! If you see this before I've added the meat to the fic, it's because I'm testing because tumblr is being a dick and I'll edit in the good stuff soon.

Edit: Yay! It worked! I was just uploading too much at once I guess. Had to brake it all down for it to work!

Tw: MNDI!! pnv, fem reader, creampie, size difference, petnames. Praise kink.

If you asked him personally, Logan would say he's extremely unlucky, cursed even. and With everything he's gone through, he might be correct. But still, he is certainly blessed in at least one aspect.

Logan had a really, really nice cock. It wasn't pretty like the perfect ones in porn, but damn, was it nice. It has prominent veins that you couldn't help but spoil every time you your hands (or mouth) on him. He was flushed a deep red color at the stip, and proportional, a good 5 or six comfortable inches.

The only thing is, Logan's cock was thick. impressively, deliciously thick. When the two of you started to take your relationship to the next level, Logan didn't hesitate to warn you. That didn't stop him from Taking care of you though. He'd pump his thick fingers in an out of you, curling and stretching you, finding the most pleasure spots inside of you to get you to cum and cum hard.

But every time the two of you would get close to going further, he'd back out. It wasn't that he was uncomfortable, or that he didn't want to, he just wanted to make sure he didn't hurt you.He'd always end up saying “ ‘next time, sunshine.” Or “Just wanna make sure I take care of you properly.” and although it was sweet, you knew what you could handle, and you were determined to climb this man like a tree.

And if there was anything Logan knew more than anything, it was to never get in the way of a determined woman.

You had spent what felt like hours in Logan's sheets, his fingers curling deep in your cunt, stretching and touching the most sensitive parts of you. He kissed every tender part of you, letting you writhe and moan underneath him. He wanted to make sure that you were ready for him beyond a shadow of a doubt, knowing how stubborn you are when you really want something. This was no different. And after Cumming twice on his fingers, you were sure you could make it work. Logan sighed as you straddled him, grinding his cock against your slick cunt to try and lube him up. He sets his hands on your thighs, comfortingly caressing the plush skin. The two of you gasp when his head brushes against your Clit, an electric shock of pleasure bolting through your bodies. Logan is laid back against the pillows on his bed, looking up at you with a heated gaze.

“ ‘you okay there, doll?” He asks, the words rumbling through his chest with a groan. He smirks just barely as you scoff, adjusting yourself on your knees as you line his cock up with your slit.

“I'm- fine, I can do this.” You huff, grinding down against his thick head. Logan sucks in a breath as you do so, teeth latching onto his lip as we watches you desperately try to take him. He's not going in as easy as you thought he would, and it almost makes you feel discouraged. You were so sure you could take him, and you didn't want to quit now. Your eyebrows furrow as you struggle, and at some point his cock slips out and away from your hole. Logan lets out a grunt as you flinch, mortified.

“Ah- Sorry.” You're doing your best to not let it get to you, but there was such a sinking feeling in your chest. Almost as if he can sense it, Logan reaches up, taking your chin in-between his thumb and index finder and tilting your head down to look at him.

“It's okay.” Logan assures you. “Just relax. You'll get it.” His thumb drags across your lip, calloused hand brushing against your tits as he brings it down to your clit. He circles the nub gently first, then with a tad bit more pressure. You hear him chuckle as you eyes flutter closed, moaning at the pleasurable sensation.

“okay.” You sigh, trying to align himself with you once again. You try it a little slower this time, grinding down with just enough pressure. The both of you gasp when the head of his cock notches against your slit, an improvement from before. Then, almost suddenly, it slides in.

“Fuck.” Logan grunts. His cock was hardly halfway inside, but that didn't stop the moans you let out at the pleasure- and slight discomfort- of having him inside you. The stretch was slightly painful, but you can't seem to stop yourself from grinding against him, trying to take him further.

“Logan…” The whine of his name comes out involuntarily, and the strong man inbetween your thighs shushes you sweetly, adjusting himself so he's sitting against the headboard. He brings you closer to him, snaking his hand around the nape of your neck to bring you into a kiss. He hardly gives himself time to breathe in between kisses. Logan bites your lip, licking into your mouth when you gasp at the painful pinch. He groans when you clench around his length. Still not quite adjusted to what you could fit, and his hand grabs hold onto your thighs and squeezes.

“I know, sweetheart.” He says, finally pulling back. “I know. Take your time. I'm not going anywhere.” You bite your lip, leaning your head on his shoulder as you begin to move your hips again. The process is slow, sinking onto him inch by inch as your body adjusts to the girth, but when you finally feel the base of his cock finally sink into you, you've never felt so accomplished.

“Good girl.” Logan grunts into your ear. “ ‘did such a good job.” You yelp a little as his hips jerk, thrusting up into you. You cry out Logan's name, holding onto his shoulders as he starts to slowly pull out of you, gently thrusting back inside as he cups your face, kissing you gently. It feels good. Like he's rubbing against every spot inside of you perfectly. His slow, loving pace felt good, so, so good. But it could only keep the two of you satisfied for so long. The next time Logan pulls out of you, you slam down with a little more force. He lets out a choked moan, before you hear him chuckle. He pulls away from you just slightly, arms wrapped around your waist as he smirks at the needy look on your face. You're impatient however, and grind against him sharply when he stops moving. A flicker of pleasure flashes across his face before he's growling. He pulls you against him, pressed flush against your body as he begins to thrust more aggressively.

“Couldn't be patient, could you?” He growls. Your noises are embarrassingly loud as he picks up speed, fucking into you just like you had spent so much time imagining he would- and he was right too. You couldn't be patient. He moves his hips just slightly, hitting that one spongy spot inside of you that makes you see stars. You can't help but cry out, and without having to even tell him, he's hitting thay spot over and over again without fail. His grunts and groans are starting to get louder, and you can feel the knot in your stomach coming so close to snapping.

“Fuck- Logan!” He groans at the way you say his name, the knot snapping as you reach your peak and cum hard on his cock. He curses, burying his face into your neck as he starts to crumble at the feeling of your warm walls fluttering around him, desperately trying to milk him for what he's worth. He almost lets out a whine as he cums, and the noise surprises you. You can feel him twitch as spurts of his cum warm up your insides. By the time he's done, you're sure he must be leaking out of you. You lay against him, boneless as the two of you pant for air. Logan begins to press gentle kisses against your neck, praising you for how well you did. You sigh, content. Logan lays the two of you down on the bed, holding you close as his cock starts to soften inside of you.

Logan Howlett was definitely blessed.