#this turned out way longer than i intended it to

[ruewritesoccasionally]

Friction & Flames | Terry Richmond

pairing: terry richmond x black!reader

warnings: smut (18+), workplace rivalry, power dynamics, forced proximity, angst, rough sex, oral (f receiving), light hair pulling, explicit language, possessiveness, a lot of dialogue, a little slow burn and Terry being an absolute menace (but we love him).

summary: a classic enemies-to-lovers showdown: sharp words, sharper tension, and a deadline that forces them into close quarters. When tempers flare and restraint snaps, her and Terry finally settle their differences - in their own way...

word count: 6.4K

a/n: this came out much longer than intended 😭 this is a reupload, just reworked - the original didn't do as well as i would've liked but also it wasn't my best work. i'm much happier with it now though and i hope you guys are too 🫶🏾

The alarm buzzed, shrill and relentless. She groaned, blindly slapping at the snooze button before peeling herself out of bed. Coffee brewed while she moved through her morning routine—shower, dress, make-up—each step as precise and efficient as the last. The world felt easier when it followed structure, when things happened as they should.

Which was exactly why he drove her insane.

Terry Richmond had no regard for order, for rules, for method. He operated on instinct, on charm, on raw talent that somehow, infuriatingly, got him just as far as the meticulous planning she slaved over. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. But it was the reality she faced every single day as his co-lead project manager.

By the time she arrived at the office, it was still quiet—just the way she liked it. These early mornings were her sanctuary, the only time of day when she could get ahead without distraction. But of course, peace never lasted long.

The telltale hum of easy conversation carried through the space, growing louder as he made his usual rounds. Schmoozing. Charming. Doing absolutely nothing useful. She didn’t even have to look up to know Terry had entered the room.

“Morning, everyone,” his voice rang out, smooth as silk.

Her fingers paused over the keyboard. Not yet. Not today. She kept her gaze locked on her screen, willing him away with sheer willpower.

No such luck.

“Well, well, Princess” he drawled, stopping beside her desk. “I see someone made it in without getting lost. Impressive.”

Her jaw tightened as she slowly swiveled in her chair, eyes locking onto his. That smirk. That self-satisfied, arrogant, infuriating smirk.

“For the last time, Terrance,” she said, enunciating his full name like a curse, “it’s not Sweetheart, it’s not Babygirl, and it’s definitely not Princess. Now turn around and—”

“Terrance,” he interrupted with a hand over his chest, feigning a wound to his heart. “Damn. And here I was, thinking we were past the formalities.”

Her glare could’ve set the whole office ablaze, but he only grinned wider, like he enjoyed the fire.

He always did.

The smug grin Terry shot her before he strolled to his desk was enough to make her want to hurl her coffee at him. Bastard. He knew exactly how to get under her skin, and he did it with a deliberate ease that made her blood boil. She inhaled deeply, gripping her pen tighter than necessary, willing herself to stay calm. The workday had barely begun, and he was already pressing every button she had.

It had been like this for years. Their competition wasn’t just petty office bickering—it was a game of survival. A slow-burning, high-stakes war waged between two people too damn good at what they did to ever back down.

The promotions? She’d landed hers first. The biggest client of last quarter? He’d swooped in and stolen it from right under her nose. Every time she thought she had the upper hand, Terry Richmond would find a way to level the playing field—or tilt it entirely in his favour.

And he loved it.

She could see it in the way he watched her now, that knowing glint in his stormy grey eyes as if he was waiting for her to snap.

Not today.

Before she could drown him out with work, Linda’s heels clicked against the floor, her presence snapping the room into silence. Linda was direct, no-nonsense, and not easily impressed—so when she stopped by their desks instead of addressing the entire team, something was up.

“This next campaign is the biggest account we’ve landed all year,” she started, flipping through the folder in her hands. “Which means I need our best people on it.”

She paused—just for a beat—before letting the inevitable bomb drop.

“I want both of you heading it.”

Her stomach twisted, and she barely managed to suppress a groan. Of course.

Terry leaned back in his chair, the picture of casual amusement. “Our best, huh? You sure you want to put her in the running, boss?”

Her jaw tightened. “I should be asking the same about you.”

Linda exhaled sharply. “Enough. I don’t care how you two feel about it—I care about results. And between the two of you, I expect nothing but success.”

Linda’s expression remained impassive as she looked between them. “I don’t care how you two feel about it. This job is crucial, and it needs to be done. Quickly.” Her voice was sharp, clipped, leaving no room for argument. “In fact, why don’t you use tonight to start planning? Somewhere neutral. Off-site. No distractions.”

The silence that followed was thick, almost suffocating. The mere suggestion of being alone together outside of work sent an undercurrent of something charged through the air.

Terry’s smirk stretched wider, like a cat toying with a trapped bird. “Neutral, huh? Guess that rules out your place, Princess.”

Her jaw clenched at the nickname, her irritation simmering just beneath the surface. “Don’t call me that,” she hissed, voice razor-sharp.

Linda, either blissfully unaware or purposefully ignoring the crackling tension, made a quick note on her clipboard. “That’s settled, then. I expect a full report by tomorrow morning.” She barely spared them a glance before walking away, her heels clicking against the floor in sharp finality.

Terry, ever insufferable, watched her go before turning his gaze back to the woman standing in front of him. His smirk hadn’t faltered once.

“Looks like we’re stuck with each other tonight,” he murmured, voice low, teasing.

She shot him a withering glare, but deep down, she already knew—this was going to be a very, very long night.

The words settled like a weight in the air. She hated that Linda was right. Neither of them would ever willingly bow out of something like this, not when winning meant getting one step ahead of the other.

And Terry knew it too.

He tipped his chin toward her, a slow smirk spreading across his lips. “What do you say, sweetheart? Think you can keep up?”

She refused to look at him, refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, she turned to Linda and gave a curt nod. “Fine. I assume we’re getting full creative control?”

Linda returned the nod. “Within reason.”

“We’ll see about that,” Terry murmured under his breath.

Linda gave them one last pointed glance before walking off, leaving the tension behind her thick enough to choke on.

She should have just let it go. She should have focused on the work, ignored him like he was nothing more than an annoying fly buzzing in her ear.

But then she saw it—his damn smirk widening, like he knew she wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to bite back.

Slowly, she turned her head to him, keeping her expression neutral. “Try not to get in my way, Richmond.”

His gaze flickered with amusement, but he leaned in just slightly, lowering his voice. “I wouldn’t dream of it, babygirl.”

Her fists clenched at her sides as she bit back a retort. She was going to need every ounce of patience to survive this.

The hours ticked by, and as expected, Terry took his sweet time getting back to her about the details of their meeting. She wasn’t surprised. He loved making her wait, forcing her to reach out first. But she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. Not tonight.

She went about her evening, refusing to check her phone, knowing that the moment she did, he’d win. And she’d sooner staple her own hand than let him believe she was sitting around, waiting on him.

When her phone finally buzzed, she ignored it for a few minutes before opening the message with deliberate disinterest.

Terry: Meet me at my place. 10 PM. Try not to get too distracted tonight, Princess.

She exhaled sharply through her nose, her fingers tightening around the phone. She should have known. Of course he’d make this as inconvenient as possible. Not a café, not a bar, not even the office—his place. A blessing in disguise to be honest. There was no way she’d let him pollute the sanctuary of her own home with presence.

He was testing her.

She could decline. Tell him to meet somewhere neutral, somewhere that wouldn’t give him the upper hand. But then he’d smirk that insufferable smirk and say something smug about her being too scared to be alone with him.

And she refused to give him that, too.

So she texted back.

Her: Fine.

The response was short, devoid of anything he could twist into a game. Still, she knew he’d find a way.

Standing in front of his door, irritation coursed through her, tangled with something deeper—something she refused to name. She wasn’t nervous. That would imply he had some kind of power over her, and he didn’t. He didn’t.

The door swung open, and there he was: Terry Richmond, leaning lazily against the frame and she was immediately annoyed. He looked too good. Smug satisfaction lined his face, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing inked skin stretched over muscle.

"My, my, my," he drawled, letting his gaze sweep over her with deliberate slowness. "Don’t you look stunning. Don’t tell me you dressed up for me."

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Terry, you’re on my time now—use it wisely," she snapped, slicing through his charm before it could gain traction.

Terry raised an eyebrow, his smirk faltering for a split second as he clocked her no-nonsense mood. He adjusted quickly, though, stepping aside and gesturing her in with a lazy wave. "Come on in, then. We wouldn’t want to waste your precious time, would we?"

“Didn’t think you’d show.” His voice was lazy, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

She tried pushing past him but he blocked her movements. “I’m here to work, not play into your little games.”

He finally moved, shutting the door behind her, a low chuckle escaping him. “Princess, everything we do is a game.”

She walked past him, jaw tightened, but she ignored him, scanning the apartment instead. It was neat, too neat. The kind of place that suggested he didn’t spend much time here, that it was more of a crash pad than a home. Still, it smelled like him—clean, woodsy, with a faint trace of cologne—and the familiarity of it made her stomach tighten.

Terry shut the door, watching her. Always watching. "Drink?"

"No."

He hummed, pouring himself a glass of whiskey anyway. "Suit yourself."

She moved to the dining table, pulling out her laptop. "Let’s just get this done."

Terry exhaled dramatically, taking the seat across from her. "So eager. You always this desperate to get away from me?"

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard before she met his gaze, bored. "Depends. You always this desperate to keep me around?"

His lips curled. "Oh, always, sweetheart."

She hated the way her pulse betrayed her. The way his voice dripped with a promise she refused to decipher.

As the night stretched on, she noticed his focus drifting—not from the project, but from her. His gaze lingered too long, tracing the line of her throat when she sipped her drink, flicking to her mouth when she spoke, dropping to her bare legs beneath the table.

She knew the exact moment he stopped caring about work.

“Tired?” she asked, feigning innocence.

Terry leaned back in his chair, stretching leisurely. “Bored.”

“Because you’re losing?”

His smirk deepened. “You think this is a competition?”

She mirrored his expression. “Isn’t it?”

The words hung heavy between them, thick with something unspoken. Something neither of them wanted to name.

Shaking it off, she focused on the task at hand. They settled into work, heads bent over the project, their focus sharp. For a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to believe this might actually be productive.

But Terry was Terry, and peace was never part of his repertoire.

It wasn’t that he didn’t know what they were supposed to be doing—he did. But slipping in his usual jabs was second nature, like breathing. Whether it was the clash of egos, his compulsive need to compete with her, or sheer stupidity, he couldn’t seem to help himself.

To her credit, she let it slide. For now. His behaviour, by his standards, was almost tolerable, and she kept her focus on the task at hand. So much so that she barely noticed the way his eyes lingered on her.

Terry wasn’t focused on the proposal anymore. His gaze drifted, taking in every detail: the shimmer of gloss on her lips as she spoke, the way her movements carried an effortless grace even in her irritation. He wasn’t oblivious to the effect she had on him.

She walked into every room with a quiet confidence that drew him in, her voice carrying an authority that demanded attention. And it drove him mad that she seemed entirely unaffected by him. Her refusal to acknowledge his flirtations turned into a game he couldn’t resist playing. He loved riling her up, watching her react. Every glare, every clapback—it all meant she cared, and that’s what he wanted.

He leaned back in his chair, letting her take the lead on the project, though his mind had long since wandered. His eyes lingered on the way she crossed her legs, the slight arch of her back as she leaned forward to emphasise her point. He imagined how it would feel to have her closer, to—

And then he couldn’t resist.

“So," he drawled, his voice low, carrying that signature teasing edge, "how many other guys would kill to be in my position right now?"

That was it.

Something inside her snapped. Her face flushed, anger blazing in her eyes as she shot to her feet. Fists clenched at her sides, she fixed him with a glare that could melt steel.

"You arrogant, son of a—"

But she didn’t get the chance to finish.

Terry was already grinning, wider than ever, his expression one of pure satisfaction. He basked in the chaos he’d created, every ounce of her fury a testament to his power to get under her skin.

He leaned back, utterly unbothered, his smirk taking on a wicked gleam. He’d pushed her to this point, and he loved it. Relished it. This was his game, and he was playing it to perfection.

The tension in the room shifted—thick, potent, and almost suffocating. He moved toward her with a predatory grace, every step deliberate, his presence commanding. Placing his hands firmly on the armrests of her chair, he caged her in, leaving no room for escape.

Trapped and surrounded by his heat, her senses were overwhelmed. But even as he asserted his dominance, one thought lingered in his mind: she would taste him later.

Leaning down, he lowered his voice to a murmur that sent shivers racing down her spine.

"You see how easy it is for me to get under your skin?" His breath ghosted against her neck, his lips barely brushing her ear in a tantalising tease.

"But between you and me," he continued, his tone thick with sinful intent, "I’d rather you be under me."

The hitch in her breath was almost imperceptible, but Terry caught it. Of course, he caught it. That was the thing about him—he noticed everything. The way her pulse flickered at her throat. The way her fingers clenched, then relaxed, then clenched again, like she was trying to fight off whatever was brewing inside her.

And the way she didn’t move away.

His smirk deepened, his hands still bracketing her chair, keeping her right where he wanted her.

“I can see you're thinking about it,” he murmured, his voice dipping into something richer, smoother, meant to sink under her skin. “We both know how this ends. Why fight it?”

She scoffed, though it came out weaker than she wanted. “You’re delusional.”

His lips twitched. There she was. “And yet,” he murmured, tilting his head, “you’re still standing here. Close enough to feel me.”

She swallowed hard.

Terry chuckled. Low, slow, like he had all the time in the world. He let one hand trail up the armrest of her chair, fingers grazing hers. Barely a touch. Just enough to make her breath hitch again.

Then, he leaned in. Closer.

She could smell the whiskey on his breath, the warmth of it mixing with something darker, something entirely him.

And she hated—hated—how badly she wanted more.

“You know what I think?” he murmured. “I think you like this. The arguing. The tension. The push and pull. I think it gets you off—”

She moved before she could second-guess herself. A sharp, frustrated sound left her throat as she grabbed him by the collar and yanked him down, her lips crashing against his.

Terry groaned, deep and guttural, as if he’d been waiting for this, aching for this. His hands found her waist, gripping tight, and then suddenly she wasn’t in the chair anymore—she was against it, her back pressed into the table as he stepped between her legs, pressing into her, all hard heat and impossible arrogance.

Her fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt, holding him there, not that he had any plans to go anywhere. His mouth was urgent against hers—hot, demanding, a perfect mirror to the fire that had been simmering between them for months.

She bit down on his lower lip, just hard enough to make him grunt.

Good, she thought, satisfaction curling in her stomach. If she was going down in flames, he was burning with her.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes dark, wild, consuming.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for that,” he murmured, his thumb dragging over her bottom lip.

She licked the tip of it, just to watch his jaw tighten.

“I think I have some idea,” she teased, voice breathless, electric.

Terry’s eyes darkened, amusement flickering into something sharper. Hungrier.

“Alright, Princess,” he murmured, voice dropping to something low, something dangerous. “You wanna play?”

The air shifted.

The power balance tilted.

And neither of them were backing down.

Terry let out a slow, dangerous chuckle. Then he kissed her again—deeper, harder, bruising in its intensity.

His hands gripped her waist with practiced ease, lifting her effortlessly to her feet as he closed the remaining distance between them. Their bodies collided, his heat searing against hers. His lips crashed into hers with an intensity that was anything but gentle—a clash of teeth and tongues, raw and unrestrained. She tasted like temptation, and for a fleeting moment, the rest of the world ceased to exist.

She met him with equal fervour, her fingers threading into his hair and tugging him closer, pulling a low growl from his throat. He took it as permission to push further, his lips leaving hers to trail down her jawline. His teeth grazed her skin, nipping lightly before soothing the spot with his tongue.

As they pulled apart, his smirk spread, slow and calculated, dripping with satisfaction. His eyes gleamed with the knowledge of what he’d just unleashed. The storm between them was no longer just a simmering rivalry—it was a blaze, out of control, and neither one of them knew how to stop it.

“You think you’ve got this figured out, don’t you?” His voice was rougher now, all edge and low heat. There was an unspoken challenge in the air. He was no longer just teasing—this was war, and the rules had changed.

Her heart raced, her pulse thundering in her ears, but she refused to let him see the effect he was having. Instead, she shot him a pointed look. “I’ve got more than you think.”

He chuckled, the sound dark and mocking. “Always so sure of yourself, aren’t you?” He pushed off the desk, the sudden movement bringing them closer, his towering presence stealing her breath away. His eyes never left hers, hungry, predatory.

They were circling each other now, neither willing to show weakness, both battling for dominance. The air around them felt too thick, too heavy, but neither of them could make the first move. The competition had always been fierce, but this? This was something different. Something primal.

Her gaze flickered to the clock on the wall, as if time could be her ally. “I’m just here to finish the job,” she said, trying to sound detached, but the words caught in her throat, betraying her. They both knew it was more than that.

Terry’s gaze softened, just for a moment. Then he was back to his usual cocky self, pressing closer. “It’s funny,” he murmured, voice quieter now, like he was letting her in on a secret. “You act like I’m the one distracting you.” His fingers brushed the edge of her desk, and the simple movement was enough to send a shiver down her spine.

Her clenched her fists at her sides. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

She was playing right into his hands. Lowering himself further, his lips brushed along the line of her jaw, his breath hot and unrelenting as he whispered, "Nuh-uh. That’s not how this works, sweetheart. You’re in my house now." His voice dropped even lower, the words landing with weight. "And you play by my rules."

Fully closing the space now, his breath warm against her skin. “You always know how to keep things interesting, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, his breath warm against her flushed skin.

It was a challenge. A dare. And it hit harder than any insult or word they’d thrown at each other before.

His proximity was intoxicating. She could feel his heat radiating off him, like a physical presence pressing against her own, testing her resolve. For a moment, she considered backing away, but something about the way he looked at her—so assured, so relentless—made it impossible to move.

His fingers grazed her wrist, just barely, the touch lingering enough to make her skin burn. She could feel her breath quicken, the air around them thick with unspoken words. The space between them was dangerously small now, and neither one of them was backing down.

"You're not going to let this go, are you?" she asked, voice a little more breathless than she'd intended.

Terry’s smile turned devilish, the playful glint in his eyes sharpening. “What would be the fun in that?” he said, then stepped back, breaking the spell with a sudden, disarming ease. He ran a hand through his hair, cocky as ever. “Let’s see who cracks first, then.”

Her pulse quickened at the challenge, the tension between them building with every word. Neither of them was prepared to lose. Not this time. And as the clock ticked on, the battle between them grew more intense, the stakes impossibly high.

His hands moved with purpose, one slipping to the small of her back while the other pressed against her hip, guiding her until her back met the solid surface of the nearest wall. The coolness against her skin was a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from him, pressing into her with an intensity that made her breath hitch. Every nerve in her body was alive, her senses alight with the overwhelming presence of him.

She wanted to snap back, to hurl something biting, to put him in his place with that razor-sharp tongue of hers—but nothing came. Her thoughts were too hazy, clouded by the way he towered over her, by the way his body felt against hers. His presence was magnetic, undeniable, and it was pulling her under like a riptide she had no hope of escaping.

Then his hand brushed against her arm—a barely-there touch, yet it sent a bolt of electricity straight to her core. A sharp breath left her lips. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. She hated him, truly, deeply. But she wanted him just as fiercely. And no matter how much she tried to deny it, to shove it down where it couldn't be touched, it clawed its way back to the surface.

Terry took another step closer, deliberate, unhurried, his confidence infuriatingly steady. His fingers trailed lower, sliding to the small of her back again, and this time, he pulled her in. Every inch of her was flush against him now, the heat between them scorching, the last remnants of distance obliterated.

“What’s it gonna be, sweetheart?” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of her ear, his voice dripping with challenge. “You gonna keep pretending? Or are you ready to stop fighting this?”

The words settled heavy between them, the weight of them undeniable. The world outside blurred, irrelevant. All she could hear was the deafening pound of her own heartbeat, the ragged pull of her breath.

And then, like a dam breaking, every pent-up emotion, every unresolved moment between them came crashing down.

Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt before she could stop herself, a sharp tug pulling him into her space. She wasn’t following his lead anymore—this wasn’t about his challenge, his rules. She was setting the pace now. She was in control.

His smirk deepened, as if he’d been waiting for this exact moment. But she didn’t give him the satisfaction of gloating. She surged forward, her lips crashing into his with a force that stole the breath from both of them.

Terry groaned against her mouth, the sound raw, almost desperate. Then his hands were on her again, moving with an urgency that sent a fresh wave of heat through her. He caught her wrists in one swift motion, lifting her arms above her head, pinning them effortlessly against the wall. His body followed suit, pressing her there, letting her feel the weight of him, the full brunt of his control.

For just a second, he held her like that—let her feel the shift, let her know exactly who had the upper hand now.

Then his lips crashed into hers again, rough, unrelenting.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was everything they had never said, everything they had pushed down, everything that had burned between them from the very first moment they met.

The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in, trapping them in the storm they had created. Her pulse pounded against her ribs as his hands slid down, gripping her waist and pulling her tighter against him. His touch was firm, possessive, but there was something else beneath it—a quiet, maddening restraint, like even now, he was holding back.

She arched against him, breathless, defiant.

“Do you feel that?” he murmured, his lips a hair’s breadth from hers, his voice dark, taunting. “I’ve been waiting for this moment.”

Her breath shuddered as she stared up at him, her mind a blur of want and frustration, her body betraying her with the way it leaned into his.

And the worst part?

She had been waiting for it too.

The arrogance in his tone should have pissed her off. She should have shoved him away, thrown a cutting remark to put him back in his place. But instead, his words sent a shiver down her spine, pooling heat low in her belly. Her heart pounded—loud, insistent—as if trying to warn her, but she knew he could hear it, feel it, just like she could feel the heat radiating off him, pressing into her.

She hated that he had this effect on her. Hated how effortlessly he stripped away her defences, unravelled her completely with nothing but a look, a touch, a single taunting word.

In a blink, she found herself against the wall, the hard surface biting into her back, his body caging hers in. She should have fought it, should have snapped something defiant—but she didn’t. The space between them dissolved, his lips hovering just inches from hers, his breath warm against her skin.

“Do you want me to stop?” His voice was thick, roughened with something unreadable. It almost sounded like concern. But she knew better. This wasn’t concern. This was a test. A challenge. A game of control, of willpower, of just how far he could push her before she shattered.

Her lips parted, but hesitation caught in her throat. Because if she said no, she couldn’t take it back.

Terry’s fingers skimmed the side of her thigh, his touch maddeningly light, a whisper of contact that made her body jolt in anticipation. The bastard was waiting. Letting the silence stretch. Letting her squirm under the weight of her own restraint.

Her nails curled into his chest, tension coiling tight in her stomach, and she knew she was at the edge—dangling over it.

Then, barely audible, she whispered, “No.”

His smirk was slow, dangerous. “That’s my girl.”

Then his mouth crashed into hers.

There was nothing soft about it. No careful prelude, no tentative exploration—just pure, unchecked hunger. He kissed her like he wanted to brand her, own her, stake his claim right there against that cold, unforgiving wall. And she met him just as fiercely, dragging him in by the collar, teeth clashing, tongues tangling in a battle of dominance neither was willing to concede.

His hands moved with intent, sliding beneath her shirt, fingertips grazing the sensitive skin of her ribs before finding the swell of her breasts. He cupped them through the thin lace, his thumbs circling over her nipples with infuriating precision. A sharp gasp left her lips, her body betraying her, arching into his touch instead of away.

Terry hummed against her mouth, amusement flickering through the kiss. “So sensitive,” he murmured, dragging her shirt higher, exposing her inch by inch like he had all the time in the world. “You needed this, didn’t you?”

She wanted to deny it, wanted to bite out something sharp to wipe that smirk off his face, but then his teeth grazed her jaw, his lips dragging down her throat, and any words she might have had died in a sharp inhale.

His hands were ruthless now, dragging her skirt up, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of her knickers. The moment he found her, slick and wanting, a curse left his lips.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his breath hot against her skin. “Look at you.”

Her thighs tensed, heat surging through her, but before she could process the words, before she could react, he was gone.

The sudden loss of his touch made her shudder, her breath catching—but then he dropped to his knees.

Her stomach clenched.

Strong hands gripped her thighs, pried them apart, lifting one over his shoulder with unrelenting ease. He didn’t speak, didn’t offer any more smug remarks. He just stared up at her, dark eyes gleaming with wicked intent, and then—

His mouth was on her.

A choked gasp tore from her lips, her head knocking back against the wall. His tongue was relentless, dragging over her with obscene precision, tasting her like he’d been starving for it. Her fingers twisted into his hair, her grip tight enough to hurt, but he only groaned, the vibrations sending another wave of heat crashing through her.

She refused to give in so easily. She refused to let him win.

But then he sucked—slow and devastatingly deep—and her entire body jerked, a whimper slipping free before she could stop it.

Terry chuckled against her, the sound smug, knowing. His grip on her thigh tightened, a silent warning, and then his fingers joined the fray—two slipping inside her, filling her with an unrelenting precision that had her shuddering against the wall.

Her resolve shattered.

“Terry—”

He grinned, curling his fingers just right, hitting that spot that had her thighs shaking. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmured against her, voice thick with satisfaction. “Let me hear you.”

She had no choice. He tore the sounds from her, made her body betray her again and again, driving her higher, dragging her over the edge with devastating ease. And when it finally hit, when pleasure crashed through her like a violent storm, her body seized, her breath strangled, her fingers yanking at his hair as she cried out his name.

Terry didn’t stop. He worked her through every wave, every tremor, didn’t let go until she was fully spent, trembling, utterly undone.

Then, finally, he pulled back, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” he murmured, his voice smug, satisfied. Then he rose, towering over her once again, his gaze locking onto hers as he wiped the last traces of her from his lips.

And God help her, she wanted more.

Neither of them had the patience—or the inclination—to take this upstairs. The moment stretched, charged, heavy with the weight of everything unspoken. Every second they waited only made it worse.

Terry’s hands were already on her, firm and insistent, guiding her towards the couch like he couldn’t bear even an inch of distance between them.

“Right here,” he growled, voice low and commanding. “I’m done waiting.”

She didn’t protest. Couldn’t. Her breath hitched as he turned her around, rough hands gripping her hips with purpose, bending her over the plush cushions. The anticipation was maddening, her skin buzzing under the ghost of his touch as his fingers trailed down her back, slow, deliberate—like he was savouring the moment, relishing her submission.

“Stay just like that,” he murmured, his voice dark silk, but his hands were anything but gentle. The rush of air against her thighs sent a shudder through her as he pushed her skirt up, his fingers dragging over the lace of her underwear before slipping them down in one smooth motion.

A sharp inhale cut through the silence. He wasn’t even touching her, but she felt it—his gaze, the weight of it scorching her skin.

“Fuck,” he muttered, almost to himself. “You’re perfect.”

Her nails curled into the fabric beneath her, fighting for something to ground her, but then Terry was pressing against her, all heat and hunger, the hard evidence of his arousal making her breath falter.

“Say it.” His voice was thick, strained, heavy with restraint he was barely holding onto. “Tell me you want this.”

She clenched her jaw, heart pounding. He wouldn’t move until she said it. Wouldn’t give her what she was aching for.

Her resolve cracked, her need eclipsing her pride. “I want this,” she whispered, her voice barely more than breath. Then, stronger—daring. “I want you.”

That was all it took.

His grip tightened—one hand pressing into the small of her back, the other bracing her hip—before he thrust into her in one fluid movement.

A broken gasp tore from her lips, her body arching as he filled her completely, stretching her, owning her. There was no hesitation, no restraint. He took her with raw, unrelenting force, his movements deep and demanding, fuelled by the same tension that had kept them at odds for so long.

His fingers dug into her skin, holding her still, keeping her exactly where he wanted her. “So fucking good,” he groaned, voice wrecked, like he was barely holding himself together. “Better than I ever let myself imagine.”

She barely registered the words. Her mind was slipping, drowning in the rhythm of him, the way he moved, the way he took. Every deep stroke unravelled her, pulling her further under, until all she could do was surrender to it—to him.

Terry leaned in, his chest flush against her back, his breath hot against her ear as his hand slid into her braids, tugging just enough to tilt her head back. “Don’t hold back, baby.” His voice was a rough whisper, wicked and coaxing. “I want to hear you.”

And she did.

Her moans spilled into the room, raw and unrestrained, each sound sending a fresh surge of heat through him. He rewarded her for it, driving into her with punishing precision, wringing every reaction from her until she was teetering on the edge, trembling, gasping—

Then she shattered.

A sharp cry broke from her lips as pleasure tore through her, leaving her breathless, undone. She felt him falter, his pace growing erratic, his grip tightening—then, with a deep, guttural groan, he followed her over the edge, his release spilling into her as he collapsed against her, spent.

Silence settled over them, save for their ragged breaths.

Terry’s hands, once rough and claiming, softened on her hips, tracing slow, lazy circles against her skin. He eased out of her, lingering for just a moment longer before stepping back, watching as she pulled herself together.

Then, with all the composure she could muster, YN wiped her mouth and turned to face him, lips curling into something wicked. “Well,” she said, smoothing her skirt down, “I suppose we can’t call it a productive meeting until we actually finish that proposal, huh?”

Terry chuckled, raking a hand through his messy hair, looking every bit as wrecked as she felt. “Oh, don’t worry,” he drawled, flashing that signature, lazy grin. “We’ll get it done. I work best under pressure… just like tonight.”

She arched a brow, crossing her arms. “Funny,” she shot back, “you didn’t seem too worried about the deadline when you were too busy getting under my skin.”

His grin widened, smug, infuriatingly charming. “Well, now that I’ve got you warmed up, I’m sure the rest of the work will be a breeze.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smirk tugging at her lips betrayed her. “Let’s just make sure we finish before Linda decides to make one of her famous surprise appearances.”

Terry laughed, shaking his head as he reached for his laptop. “Agreed. But next time—neutral ground, alright?”

“Next time?” she echoed, tilting her head. “You’re really pushing your luck, Terry.”

He leaned back, flashing her a wink. “Don’t worry, babygirl, I’m not done with you yet.”

And as they turned their attention back to the proposal, the tension between them still hummed in the air, thick and unresolved. They both knew this wasn’t over.

Not even close.

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comments and reblogs are appreciated as well as feedback, i hope you liked it 🫶🏾🫶🏾🫶🏾

[myjjongie]

✶ THE TASTE OF MINT ── l. heeseung

IN WHICH: you have a big collection of lip balms, but never expected heeseung to make a mission out of it. the mission in question? finding which lip balm he likes the most on you.

PAIRING: bf!heeseung x gf!fem reader GENRE/WARNINGS: lower case intended !!, established relationship, kissing, they make out lowkey, fluff, skinship WORD COUNT: 1.3k ₊⊹♡ EVIE'S NOTE: we are gonna ignore the fact that two of my recent oneshots are both kissing related. they are MAJOR coincidences LMAO. also where are all my mint lip balm enjoyers at ????

heeseung always thought it was absurd that you had an abundant amount of lip balms stashed away in your bathroom drawer. not to mention heeseung found the growing collection to be pointless.

the idea of collecting something that you only needed one of didn’t make sense to him. he always thought that but never said anything since truthfully he found the growing collection adorable. despite his opinion on it, he enjoyed your smile more than he disliked your minor hobby.

that small dislike faded when he kissed your lips one day. what heeseung found astonished him. there was the unexpected burst of flavor from your lips. he remembered the taste of the flavor being pineapple. almost as if he was drinking a pina colada. since that day heeseung made a secret mission out of every kiss he took. hoping one specific kiss would lead him to his favorite lip balm on you.

unbeknownst to heeseung, today would be that day.

per usual you were getting ready for an outing with heeseung. you stood in front of the bathroom sink finishing off your hair. all that was left was applying lip balm. you opened the infamous drawer, as heeseung would call it at times. rummaging around you frowned at some of the ones you picked out. you picked out vanilla, it was a classic flavor but you weren’t in the mood for it. rummaging around again you found a cotton candy flavor, then honey, then a strange assortment of fruit flavors. with a sigh you ran your fingers through your hair. frustration soon building at the overwhelming options.

“are you ready yet babe?” your head turned at heeseung’s voice. an even deeper sigh left your lips at your boyfriend waiting patiently for you in the other room.

“yeah almost give me 5 more minutes!” you shouted out to him.

“this is ridiculous… all these lip balms yet i can’t pick out a single one i want to wear…” you cursed out under your breath at the new time crunch.

soon you went back to digging in the drawer. hoping to find one you’d actually wear. once hitting the bottom you did a little more moving around and grabbed a random lip balm not even bothering to look. hopefully the random pick would surprise you enough to wear it. pulling your hand out from the stash of tubes you open your hand to read the label. it was a mint flavored lip balm.

before your collection grew out of control, mint was always your go to. the feeling of the soothing chill on your lips felt good everytime you applied it. that memory alone made you excited to put it on.

“no way i forgot about this.” your voice was mixed with a bit of surprise and shock. you couldn’t believe you forgot about your original favorite flavor.

without anything else to think about, you applied the lip balm. there it was, that nice chill feeling that danced along your lips. finally feeling satisfied with your choice you closed the lip balm. settling the tube down on the counter, you got ready to walk away from the mirror. turning around you were startled by a figure. a scream escaped your lips as you realized the figure was heeseung. his silent approach startled you more than you anticipated.

“heeseung you scared me!”

“sorry. i just came over to check on you. you took longer than 5 minutes sweetie.” heeseung’s voice sounded worried as he focused on your startled form.

placing your hand on your chest you eased yourself from the sudden scare.

“it’s okay hee. im ready though so we can leave now.” you let off a smile to your boyfriend to help ease him. you could see a growing worried look stitched into his brows.

before stepping outside of the bathroom heeseung stopped you. his hand gently grazing your cheek. instinctively melting into his touch you couldn’t help but look up at him. your eyes studied his face, the worried look now dissipated. you realized as well his gaze wasn’t meeting yours. it was fixed a bit lower. you already had an idea of where his eyes were staring so longingly, it was at your lips.

as much as heeseung tried hiding it. you figured out what he was doing. noticing every time you applied lip balm he was magically there ready to give you a kiss. it didn’t take long to piece heeseung’s actions together. all those short kisses was him trying to find a lip balm he enjoyed on you. you never disclosed the new found information to heeseung. since watching him make a mission out of it was too cute. you then remembered it had been a while since you wore a mint flavor. so this one could interest him or maybe it wouldn’t at all.

heeseung couldn’t help taking his thumb to gently rub it across your bottom lip. he smirked slightly at the all familiar feeling of the slight waxy consistency, which now stuck to his thumb.

“you know your lips look extra nice right now. out of all the brands you use i don’t think i’ve seen you use this one yet?” heeseung was still focused on your lips barely paying attention to you answer him.

“oh i found a lip balm i haven’t used in a while. what do you think?”

“it looks really good.” heeseung responded absentmindedly leaning down to give you a quick kiss. his thumb now resting beneath your chin gently tilting your face up.

right away heeseung felt that cooling sensation that coated your lips the moment you put the lip balm on. he found enjoyment in the feeling, the way the flavor left off a refreshing taste to his lips. after a few seconds he parted away from the kiss. his thumb still tucked beneath your chin. you noticed the way he stood there. you asked yourself if he was wondering what the flavor was. it was a hard one to place since mint was a random flavor on its own.

“mint.” heeseung murmured underneath his breath. then once again his lips were met with yours. his lips grazed against yours gently but more earnestly. this time the kiss felt more heated, more intimate as if he wanted to take you whole.

a soft whimper escaped from you as heeseung’s teeth grazed your bottom lip. the feeling sent shivers down your spine. the sudden urgency from him caught you off guard. your hands placed onto his chest softly tapping at him to break away wanting to catch your breath. unfortunately to your dismay heeseung’s hand now snaked to the back of your neck keeping you steady. the new hold helped him kiss you deeper and more desperately. despite the itching feeling to catch your breath. you couldn't help but melt into the kiss. his lips moving about with need making your knees weaken. the soft sounds of your kissing echoed within the bathroom. your fingers felt like they were on fire from how tight you held onto his shoulders for support.

the kiss to heeseung was the same as any other kiss you both had. he didn’t understand why he felt so needy for your lips this time around. maybe it was the chilling effect of the mint that made the taste of your lips feel intoxicating to him. heeseung wasn’t able to put a finger on it, but he knew he wasn’t gonna stop anytime soon.

after what felt like forever, heeseung finally pulled back from your lips. though his hand still lingered on your neck, the smirk on his face deepened as he took in your dazed expression. looking into the reflection behind you, he couldn’t help but notice how your flushed face was mirroring his own.

heeseung smirked softly, his hand finding its way back to your chin. “yeah mint is definitely my favorite.”

without further hesitation he leaned in for another kiss.

perm taglist ( open! send a ask to be added ) . . . @ikeulove @leehsngs @nickiminajleftasscheek

©myjjongie 2025

[zeroseuniverse]

Weep or Reap

Word Count: 702 Summary: "You know, most people go out of their way to avoid me. Not dive headfirst into danger just to catch my attention." She shrugged, her smirk softening into something almost fond. "Most people don’t find you as fascinating as I do." Pairing: Hyunjin X Fem Reader

Navigation

The storm raged outside, the wind howling like a banshee as rain pelted the cracked windowpane. She sat on the edge of a rusted rooftop, her legs dangling over the side, swinging carelessly into the void below. She tilted her head back, letting the icy droplets splash against her face, her heartbeat steady despite the sheer drop beneath her feet.

"You ever get tired of almost dying?"

The voice cut through the chaos of the storm like a blade, smooth and sardonic. She didn’t even flinch. She turned her head to the side, a small smirk tugging at her lips. There he was—Hyunjin, the Grim Reaper, leaning against the doorway with his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his black trench coat.

"Nope," she replied easily, brushing wet hair from her face. "Death is a noncommittal bastard, and it's the only way to get him to talk to me."

Hyunjin raised a single dark eyebrow, his sharp features illuminated by the dim, flickering light of a nearby streetlamp. "You know, most people go out of their way to avoid me. Not dive headfirst into danger just to catch my attention."

She shrugged, her smirk softening into something almost fond. "Most people don’t find you as fascinating as I do."

He sighed, stepping out onto the rooftop and letting the rain soak into his dark hair. He looked otherworldly under the stormy sky, like he belonged to the tempest itself—an eternal shadow amid the chaos. "You’re reckless, you know that? Throwing yourself into near-death situations like it’s a sport. One of these days, I might not be able to bend the rules to keep you alive."

Her gaze lingered on him, a mix of defiance and something softer. "Maybe that’s the point," she said quietly.

Hyunjin froze, his usual smirk replaced by a flicker of something she couldn’t quite name. Was it anger? Fear? Sadness?

"You don’t mean that," he said, his voice lower now, his casual air replaced with something heavier.

"Don’t I?" she shot back, her tone sharper than she intended. She looked away, staring down at the slick pavement far below. "You show up every time I almost die, Hyunjin. And for a few minutes, I get to feel like I matter to someone, even if it’s just Death himself."

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the relentless pounding of the rain.

"You matter," he said finally, his voice soft but firm. "You matter more than you know, Y/N. And not just to me."

She turned to look at him, her heart skipping a beat at the intensity in his dark eyes. He stepped closer, his presence radiating warmth despite the cold storm around them.

"You think I keep saving you just because you amuse me?" Hyunjin asked, his lips quirking into a bitter smile. "I save you because I can’t imagine a world without you in it. You’ve made this existence—this eternal, unchanging existence—feel like something more."

Her breath hitched, the weight of his words sinking into her chest. "Hyunjin..."

He closed the distance between them, crouching down so they were eye to eye. He reached out, brushing a strand of wet hair from her face. "Stop trying to die just to see me. Because one day, I won’t have a choice. One day, I’ll have to take you with me, and I’m not ready for that. Not yet."

For the first time, she saw the vulnerability in him—the cracks in his otherwise unshakable demeanor. And for the first time, she realized just how much her recklessness had hurt him.

"I’ll stop," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I’ll stop throwing myself into danger. But only if you promise to keep showing up anyway."

Hyunjin chuckled, the sound soft and filled with relief. "Deal," he said, his fingers lingering against her cheek for just a moment longer before he pulled away.

As they sat there on the rooftop, the storm slowly began to ease, the rain softening into a gentle drizzle. And for the first time in a long time, She felt like she didn’t need to flirt with death just to feel alive.

Because Death himself was right there, and he wasn’t going anywhere.

[cozmowrites]

Rody's Little Sister

The bustling energy of Tokyo hit the moment the airport doors slid open. Rody Soul adjusted the straps of his bag, scanning the crowd as his younger sister, you, trailed behind, tugging along a small suitcase. You are a pro hero back in your country, who barely got time off. So when Rody said he was going to visit Japan, you immediately took time off.

"Hard to believe we're actually here.." you murmured, looking up at the neon-lit skyline through the glass panels.

"Yeah, well, Midoriya's been nagging me to visit for ages." Rody said, a grin tugging at his lips. "Figured I'd bring you along since you wouldn't stop pestering me about 'those hero friends of mine.'"

"I wasn't pestering." You shot back, though the heat creeping up your neck betrayed you.

Rody rolled his eyes. "Sure. Just try not to stare too hard when we meet Bakugou."

Your heart skipped a beat at the name. Bakugou Katsuki, or Dynamight, as he was known, had left a lasting impression on you during your brief interaction a few years ago. His personality and relentless determination had been hard to forget. Not that you'd admit it to your brother. Plus, you were fighting a hard battle and he had swooped in the save the day.

"Don't flatter yourself. I'm here for the cultural experience," you said, trying to sound nonchalant.

Rody only laughed, leading the way out to the pickup area where Midoriya was waiting, waving enthusiastically.

+++

Midoriya Izuku was every bit as friendly and energetic as Rody had described. His green curls bobbed as he pulled Rody into a tight hug.

"Rody! You made it!" Midoriya beamed before turning to you. "And you must be his sister. It's so great to finally meet you!"

You returned his warm smile, feeling instantly at ease. "Likewise. Thanks for inviting us."

A loud scoff drew your attention to the figure leaning against a nearby car. Bakugou was there, arms crossed and scowling like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"Damn nerd, you didn't tell me we were hosting an entire family reunion," Bakugou grumbled.

"Kacchan!" Midoriya scolded, but you couldn't help but smile at his bluntness.

"Nice to see you too, Dynamight," Rody teased, earning a glare from the blond.

Your gaze lingered on Bakugou longer than you intended. He looked the same—spiky hair, intense red eyes, and that ever-present air of confidence—but there was something softer about him now, something almost... approachable. He was older, not the same teenager that saved you when you were needing it.

"Still as charming as ever, I see," you said, surprising even yourself.

Bakugou's eyes flicked to you, his brows furrowing slightly. "Who the hell—" He paused, recognition dawning. "Wait, you're that tagalong from before, aren't you?"

You bristled at the term. "It's nice to be remembered so fondly."

"Whatever," Bakugou muttered, but there was a faint flush on his cheeks as he looked away.

Rody snickered, clearly enjoying the exchange. "Oh, don't mind him. That's just his way of saying he missed us."

Bakugou's head snapped toward him, eyes ablaze. "Missed you? Don't flatter yourself, bird-brain! I only came because this damn nerd insisted." He jabbed a thumb at Midoriya, who rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

"Come on, Kacchan. Be nice. We're all friends here," Midoriya said with a nervous laugh before turning back to you. "Anyway, we've got everything planned! You're staying at my agency's dorms, and we'll give you a proper tour of the city tomorrow."

"Sounds perfect," Rody replied, clapping Midoriya on the shoulder. "Thanks for going out of your way for us."

"It's no trouble!" Midoriya's grin was earnest. "I've been looking forward to this."

As the two of them fell into easy conversation, you couldn't help but sneak another glance at Bakugou. He was leaning against the car again, arms crossed, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd as though he were on patrol. There was a certain gravity to him, a quiet intensity that pulled you in despite his rough demeanor.

"Something on my face, or are you just gawking for fun?" Bakugou's voice snapped you out of your thoughts.

You blinked, caught off guard. "I wasn't gawking," you retorted, feeling heat rise to your cheeks.

He raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Could've fooled me."

Before you could come up with a witty reply, Rody called out, "Hey, you two! Quit bickering and help us with the luggage."

"Bickering? I wasn't bickering," you said indignantly, grabbing your suitcase. Bakugou just rolled his eyes and stomped over, muttering something under his breath as he hefted Rody's bag into the car's trunk.

Once everything was loaded, the group piled into the vehicle, Midoriya taking the driver's seat while Rody rode shotgun. That left you and Bakugou in the backseat, an arrangement that you found both thrilling and nerve-wracking.

The ride was relatively quiet at first, save for Midoriya enthusiastically pointing out landmarks and Rody's occasional quips. You kept your focus on the window, determined not to let Bakugou's presence distract you.

But then his voice cut through the chatter. "So, you're just tagging along for the trip, or you got a reason to be here?"

You turned to find him watching you, his expression unreadable. "Does it matter?" you asked, meeting his gaze.

"Yeah, it does," he said bluntly. "Don't waste my time if you're just here to play tourist."

Your brow furrowed. "I'm here because Rody wanted company. Not that it's any of your business."

"Tch." He looked away, but not before you caught the faintest hint of a smirk. "Figures. Guess we'll see if you can keep up."

+++

The tension between you and Bakugou lingered in the air like static, making the cramped space of the car feel even smaller. You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, trying to figure out if he was deliberately trying to get under your skin or if this was just his natural state of being.

Rody, oblivious to the undercurrent, turned around in his seat to face you. "Hey, you should've seen this guy in action last time, back at the Humarise mess. You'd think he was made of explosives with the way he was blowing everything up." You were passed out before he got there from the injuries, but Rody told you he saved you.

Midoriya chuckled nervously. "That's... kind of his thing, Rody."

Bakugou let out a sharp scoff. "Yeah, and who do you think kept your sorry ass alive, bird-brain? Pretty sure I saved your hide more than once."

"Saved our hides," Rody corrected, throwing a teasing glance your way. "Though I'm sure my sister wouldn't have minded getting rescued by such a gallant hero."

Your jaw dropped. "Rody!"

Midoriya let out a small, startled laugh, while Bakugou stiffened beside you, his ears noticeably pink. "Shut up before I blow your face off," he snapped, glaring daggers at Rody.

"Relax, Dynamight. Just pointing out the obvious," Rody said with a smirk, clearly enjoying himself.

You crossed your arms, your face hot as you avoided looking at anyone. "I think you're confusing me with someone else. I don't need rescuing, thank you very much." You were still in denial about it.

Bakugou's gaze shifted to you, his lips twitching as if he wanted to say something but thought better of it. Instead, he settled for his usual gruffness. "Good. Stay outta trouble, then."

The conversation shifted after that, Rody and Midoriya delving into plans for tomorrow's sightseeing. You found yourself relaxing slightly, though you couldn't stop stealing glances at Bakugou. His sharp profile was lit by the glow of the city lights, and for a moment, you wondered if there was more to him than his brash exterior.

As the car pulled into the agency's dorms, you couldn't help but feel a mix of anticipation and apprehension. This trip was already proving to be more complicated than you'd expected.

The car rolled to a stop in front of the dormitory building, the soft hum of the engine fading into the stillness of the night. Midoriya hopped out first, gesturing enthusiastically toward the brightly lit entrance.

"This is it! We've got some guest rooms set up for you two," he said, grabbing one of the bags from the trunk. "I think you'll find it pretty comfortable."

"Looks nice," Rody said, stretching as he stepped out. "Way better than the cramped inns we're used to."

You followed, the cool night air brushing against your skin as you craned your neck to take in the tall building. It wasn't flashy, but there was a warmth to it, a sense of community you could feel even from the outside.

Bakugou grabbed the last of the luggage without a word, his movements brisk and efficient. He brushed past you, his usual scowl set firmly in place.

"Guess chivalry really is dead," you muttered under your breath.

He stopped mid-step, turning his head just enough to glance at you over his shoulder. "If you want special treatment, try askin' for it instead of whining."

Your jaw clenched, and you opened your mouth to retort, but Rody cut in, clearly amused. "Play nice, you two. We've got a long week ahead."

Bakugou muttered something under his breath and stomped toward the entrance, leaving you fuming as Rody gave you a knowing grin. You were beginning to wonder how you'd survive this trip without losing your temper—or your heart.

[nevieeland]

title: *fxxker ( prologue )

pairing: underground rappers!m.yoongi & j.hoseok x shy!reader

synopsis: yoongi doesn't like hoseok's girlfriend. he doesn't like when she swings by the studio when the boys get carried away, bringing food and water and bright smiles. he doesn't like the way she gets shy whenever he tries to talk to her, and he hates the way his eyes linger on her for longer than they should. most of all, he despises the fact she's dating hoseok and not him, so close but so far out of reach. sometimes hoseok makes a show of having you, slinging an arm over you shoulder, whispering sweet nothings into your ear, kissing you like he owns you, all because he knows it gets under yoongi's skin.

fucking fucker.

rating: mature (18+) ; MDNI. not proofread.

last updated: 29.01.25

word count: 589.

yoongi doesn't like you.

well, it's not that he doesn't like you. it's that he likes you too much. way, way too much. more than he should, considering the fact that you're his best friend's girlfriend. but it's not like he can help it; you don't make not liking you any easier.

he remembers the first time he saw you, the first time you'd ever dropped by the studio.

hoseok was in the bathroom, and the other boys were all huddled by yoongi's monitor, playing back the most recent track they'd been working on. the latter was taking a small break, stood by the door and scrolling on his phone when he heard three small knocks on the door.

they were quiet, barely there, and for a moment he'd thought maybe he'd imagined them. but, just wanting to be sure, he'd opened the door anyway.

since then, he wishes he hadn't.

never in yoongi's life had he ever seen someone like you. seeing you standing there, doe eyes wide and surprised and arms full of food, yoongi was sure he had fallen in love.

"hi," you'd said, voice small. "is hoseok here? he said you'd been working late and i wanted to drop off some food for all of you."

yoongi's heart shattered. he'd heard his friend mention a girlfriend every now and then, flaking on group plans to spend time with her instead, or gushing about how loving and thoughtful she was.

how loving and thoughtful you were.

"baby!" and suddenly your shy expression had dropped, replaced instead with a smile so big it looked almost like it hurt.

hoseok’s laugh echoed through the narrow hallway as he brushed past the other male, his hand finding your waist like it was second nature. yoongi stood frozen, forced to watch as hoseok pulled you close and planted a kiss on your lips, quick but confident, like it was his right.

you giggled softly, the sound light and airy. a sound yoongi could find himself growing obsessed with. "i missed you," you murmured, the words warm enough to melt concrete.

"i missed you too," hoseok grinned, his voice bright, smug even.

yoongi’s eyes stayed glued to the floor, willing himself to look anywhere else, but it was impossible not to notice the way hoseok glowed around you, his posture loose and proud. the guy practically radiated happiness, basking in every second of your attention.

and he couldn't blame him at all.

"put the food over there," hoseok said, nodding toward an empty desk piled with wires and lyric sheets. "i'll introduce you to the guys in a sec."

you smiled, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear before slipping past the tangled mess of equipment. hoseok tracked your movement for a beat, his gaze softening before he turned back to his friend.

yoongi was still staring, though his expression had shifted into something muddled between disbelief and frustration. his lips parted slightly, like he was trying to form words but couldn’t quite piece them together.

"that's... your girlfriend?" yoongi finally asked, voice rougher than intended.

hoseok's grin widened, sharp and self-assured. he tilted his head, savoring the flicker of irritation that danced across yoongi’s face.

"yeah," he said, pride thick in his tone. "she's pretty great, right?"

yoongi's jaw clenched, his face twisting into something bitter before he quickly masked it with indifference. but hoseok had already seen it—the raw, unspoken frustration that made triumph curl in his chest.

yeah, hoseok thought. he knew exactly what he was doing.

[infiniteeight8]

What about a continuation of this one, but it's fluffy?

https://www.tumblr.com/infiniteeight8/771899648348766208/okay-two-feels-like-a-reasonable-number-of?source=share

Part 1. Part 2.

This being a “reconciliation after major marital problems” mini-series, I have to jump a ways forward in time to get to fluffy. Also, it’s more happy than fluffy, I think? But fluffy doesn’t really fit the mood of this series, so happy will have to do.

So… ~handwave~ insert lots of talking and figuring shit out and also Dormammu, that probably sucked extra hard because of timing ~handwave~. 

One year later…

-

Tony is sitting on the steps at Kamar-Taj, half watching one of the instruments he’s set up to attempt to analyze magic—again—while Stephen leads a class of novices. It’s a nice day, bright and sunny, and the class seems to be doing well; Stephen will be in a good mood later. Tony smiles at the thought, before looking up when there’s motion beside him.

Wong lowers himself onto the step next to Tony. He’s quiet, watching Stephen, but Tony waits. He and Wong are friendly enough, but they’re not really friends. If he’s here, it’s for a reason. “When you came to Kamar-Taj, looking for Stephen,” he says eventually, “we intended to shut you out. To mask the doorway so that we could not be found at all, at least until you gave up.”

Tony frowns. “Why?”

“Your presence was potentially disruptive to the students,” Wong explains. “To Stephen, in particular. And we did not want the attention that follows you. Nor did we want to risk you mixing magic with your technology and potentially opening doorways that had long been sealed.”

“But you ended up inviting me to stay as a guest, instead.”

Wong nods. “Stephen staked his place in the order on your good behavior. If you had stepped out of line, even once, he would have been ejected. Permanently.”

Tony swallows hard. “He never told me that.”

“He wouldn’t.” Wong turns and looks Tony in the eye. “He loves you very much, Stark. He always has. I hope you no longer doubt that.”

Tony turns back to Stephen. After a moment Stephen meets Tony’s gaze, his expression warming from formality to transparent tenderness. It’s the only emotion he ever shows so clearly, and it’s only for Tony.

“I don’t doubt it at all,” Tony says, smiling back.

[kirasworldofwords]

Webbonso + 55. Mutual Pining (+ Oblivious)

The Webbonso crowd has found me- Ngl though, although I'm not the biggest fan of Mark for obvious reasons (I'm more of a Seb person, lmao, and yk what happened with them), I do love myself some Webbonso. 🫶🏻

Prompt 55: Mutual Pining (+ Oblivious)

How many more times did Fernando want to watch as they created a disaster situation for PR through just... existing together, knowing what the fans screamed was a deep and personal wish on his part?

How many more times was Mark willing to let it all happen without going absolutely batshit crazy at the prospect of being seen as someone more than a friend to Fernando?

How many more times would they be able to stay silent? Unknowing if the other reciprocated their feelings or not?

Fernando had tried a few times - or, well, at least attempted to try. Whenever it got too serious, however, he backed out, afraid of Mark's reaction. And the Australian would just brush it off as Fernando being Fernando - he liked to bullshit around here or there, both on and off track. That was just his personality.

But he, too, had tried spilling his feelings to Fernando at least a few times already, too. Yet every time he even so much as thought of actually doing it, bile rose in his throat and he had to physically turn away, so as to not throw up on whatever was ahead of him at the time.

In short, Mark's pride literally made him sick whenever he tried to be vulnerable with the Spaniard.

Many nights, Fernando would stay up until the early morning hours, staring at the ceiling, journaling. He had found out not too much prior to him realizing he had a thing for Mark that journaling really helped him with his emotions.

Likewise, many times, Mark would stay awake as well, writing poems pleading with the world to finally give him the mental as well as physical strength to overcome his pride and finally say what he knew he needed to say to Fernando - or he'd write love letters to the Aston Martin driver, yet he'd always stuff them away immediately after proof-reading and correcting them, for fear Fernando would make fun of him if he ever found them.

One such letter, however... made its way into the wilderness that was Mark's bedroom one fateful day. The same day Fernando happened to be over for a beer or two.

His mind had been all over the place, uncertain and confused, scared on top of it all, too. Yet it was just as lovesick as it was terrified, the secret love he held for Mark soon overpowering the fear in the very core of his heart, to the point where he'd randomly cry to himself.

If Michael had been there, he'd have told Fernando to man up already and finally tell Mark.

If Sebastian had been there, he'd have told Mark to face his fears and let Fernando know, for his own sanity as well as the Spanish driver's, who must've already noticed by then - and he must've been so worried for his friend, too.

"But he doesn't see me like that" they'd both tell themselves, trying to think in relative terms whenever thoughts of confession so much as briefly came up.

Until Fernando found one of Mark's letters.

Under the guise of needing to use the bathroom, he snuck the piece of paper with him, locking himself in and sitting down on the closed lid of the toilet to read what the former Red Bull pilot had written there.

Only when his eyes finally fully registered a few wet spots on the paper, Fernando realized that he was crying. And his heart was racing, and it ached so much, and everything was unbearable and he felt so stuffed and trapped and-

"Nando? Are you okay in there? Do you need any help?"

Out. Out, out, he had to get out, right now...!

The door to the bathroom clicked and swung open, so suddenly that it almost gave the older Australian whiplash. What did give him whiplash, however, was the sight he received immediately after his brain finally adjusted to the sudden occurrences, eyes going wide in shock.

There, Fernando stood, tears rolling down his cheeks as he held a piece of paper in his left hand, in a way that almost screamed at Mark that Fernando wanted him to see it.

The Aussie's heart dropped, down to his smallest toe.

"Fernando... I... I can explain-"

But the Spanish man was quicker, rushing towards Mark and pressing their lips together in a kiss that took both of them by surprise - so much so, Mark couldn't even respond to it in any way there was, causing him to just stand there, pale-faced and absolutely horrified one minute before blushing like crazy the next. The paper Fernando held was long disregarded, having floated to the ground already, somewhere next to Fernando's feet. The younger man held Mark's face in his hands instead, in a slightly tighter grip than intended of him, as he glared at the Australian through glistening tears.

"Cállate, cabrón."

Before he could attempt to kiss Mark anew, the adrenaline and emotions in his system running as high as they never did before, Mark held him in place, pushing his hands against Fernando's chest to hold him back and looking at him worriedly.

"Nando, you know I don't speak Spanish..."

The wildly emotional look on Fernando's face softened at the sound of Mark's voice, which was barely above a whisper at this point, one last tear of high emotion betraying the Spaniard as it rolled down his cheek.

"I said shut up, asshole. ... And let me kiss you instead."

The tone of which Fernando made use was enough to cause Mark to smile gently, yet his words only deepened it, and he retreated his hands from the Aston Martin pilot's chest to reposition them on his waist instead.

"Gladly."

This time, both went into the kiss with clear intentions and expectations, both of which were met and fulfilled, executed perfectly, one might say. To them, it felt like an eternity and a half - though in reality, it was more like two minutes of them just standing there, in front of the open bathroom of which the light was turned on, still, both of them having forgotten the world around them and simply focusing on each other and themselves as they kissed without a care.

Once they did gently break apart again, however, Mark brought their foreheads together, nosing at Fernando's nose with his own.

"I thought you didn't see me in that way..."

The Spaniard chuckled brokenly, closing his eyes.

"What a coincidence... I thought the same of you."

They fell silent. For about five minutes, all they did was breathe in each other's air, reveling in the other's sheer presence. Soon, Fernando murmured almost inaudibly.

"... So... both of us had feelings for the other all this time..."

Mark didn't do much more than nod at this, maybe he hummed in tow, he couldn't quite tell. There was a noise, yes, but his mind was so far out of it, he couldn't tell who or what it came from. Could've just been a random outside noise for all he cared.

"Does that mean... I get to call you mine...? I've been hoping and praying for so long for a miracle like this to happen someday, and for us to find our ways to each other soon..."

Fernando smiled gratefully at the carefully curated words that left Mark's mouth, pecking his lips again shortly.

"Call me whatever you want... So long as I get to call you mi amor, I'm all fine with it."

The sight of his favorite Spaniard smiling like that was contagious, Mark had to admit - because he found himself smiling just the same way Fernando was.

"You got yourself a deal there, Nando."

[livinginadumpster]

One thing I really like in Dead Boy Detectives is the use of blood/gore/horror. With a TV-MA rating, a show with horror themes is obviously going to have some blood and violence, and there are clear instances if this in DBD, but while it's definitely there, it's almost never gratuitous. That's because scenes like the Devlin murders or Maxine's death aren't really about those deaths, rather, they're about the characters' reactions to them and the way the story is shaped by them.

In the Devlin house, the camera focuses not on the girls being killed but on Edwin, Crystal, and particularly Charles reacting to their murders with horror, shock, and anger. The blood splatters in a meaningful way, rather than simply a horrifying one, over the TV and the popcorn and the younger daughter's stuffed rabbit, tarnishing the innocence of everything it touches. While the tragedy of the murders themselves are important, the main focus is Charles' reaction to them as a result if his own trauma. Showing the minutia of the killings would take away from that, so it simply isn't there.

Even Maxine's death, while definitely played off more for shock value than the Devlin murders, serves a purpose. Episode 5 focuses on the failure of romantic relationships, on betrayals from those you thought you could trust, and the Maxine subplot adds to that. It begs the question, who can you trust in this world? At the end of the episode, the answer we are given is your friends, your found family, because love will kill.

It seems to me that the blood in hell represents the guilt of those it touches - Simon's wounds heal when he forgives himself; Edwin loses the blood covering him after Charles turns up to rescue him (albeit by a horrifying cause); the people in the Lust room are drenched in blood and get it on Edwin when they try to drag him down. It's not just there to demonstrate the horrors of hell, but to brand its inhabitants.

There are lots of other examples. The blood when Niko dies is there obviously because that's what happens when you get stabbed, but also (in my opinion) as a visual callback to her saying that red is the color of courage. The cat king's bloody corpse and Monty's blood-splattered face show Esther's ruthlessness and disregard for anyone in her path. Lilith is covered in blood as a symbolic part of her character design. Everything serves a purpose, narratively or symbolically.

(The only example of gore that served no particular purpose that I can think of was in episode one when the WWI ghost drooled blood all over Charles' face, but it was the pilot episode and that whole scene was meant to be shocking, so it can be forgiven.)

Anyway, I really like the way they use blood in DBD, because it shows such a level of detail and care. I enjoy horror but not gore so much, and to me it's refreshing to see it used so tastefully and executed so well.

[aleburton]

Alex peered down at her glass, now nearly barren, save for the last bit of chocolate syrup clinging to the bottom in thick, lazy ribbons. With one final sip, she let the last drop of her espresso martini slide down her throat before setting the delicate vessel onto the bar with a soft clink. Almost instantly, the bartender materialized, his handsome grin wide as he swept up the glass. He lifted it slightly in her direction, a silent invitation. Another? She hesitated, her fingers flexing subtly against the bar’s cool surface. There was no telling how much longer she’d be required to stay, playing the gracious hostess for guests she barely cared about. Another drink would make it easier to endure. But she needed to stay sharp. Especially around Zach. With a small shake of her head, she declined, murmuring a quiet thank you before turning back to him. As she moved, her sleek, ink-dark hair whipped over her shoulder, the strands catching in the dim glow of the room. Zach was still speaking, his voice smooth, casual. He went on about how their shared history had somehow shaped them, made them better — better partners, better people. Alex scoffed, rolling her eyes, the sound barely more than a breath. Better? The word settled uncomfortably in her chest. She wanted to challenge him, to strip away the polished optimism, to call out the brutal, undeniable truth. They were survivors of each other. Instead, she remained silent. Yeah, she rumbled inside her mind, her thoughts laced with quiet cynicism. I guess pain and life-altering trauma will do that to you. She wouldn’t say it aloud. But she knew it. And so did he.

She had wished, time and time again, that they could just be normal. Work through their issues. Stay together. Love each other the way the universe had intended. Couldn’t they simply cut through all the chaos, all the bullshit, and just be happy? For a while, she had convinced herself they were headed in that direction, that they could rewrite their story into something less volatile. They tried to label it as friendship, tried to force their connection into something more palatable, more acceptable. But deep down, they both knew the truth. Best friends didn’t flirt like they did, didn’t blur the lines until the distinction between want and need became meaningless. Best friends didn’t wake up tangled in the same bed, didn’t steal moments in dark corners, didn’t test boundaries just to see how much they could get away with. Best friends weren’t jealous. They weren’t possessive. Zach liked to pretend he had made peace with her moving on, but she knew better. The thought of her with someone else haunted him, kept him awake in the same way the image of him with another woman made her skin burn. That’s why, whenever she called, he always came running. The last night on tour had been no different. He carried her home, his arms strong and steady. He brought her inside, laid her down in the sanctuary of her suite, and for a little while, he stayed. She had been intoxicated, but not enough to be unaware. Not enough to mask the hunger in her touch, the invitation in her eyes. She knew exactly what she was doing. And for one fleeting moment, so had he. Zach let himself want her. Let himself have her, just enough to taste what they could still be. Then, just as quickly, he tore himself away. And that was how it ended.

He had driven her straight into the arms of her multimillionaire, powerhouse fiancé, just as she had sent him tumbling into the embrace of pop music’s sweetheart. A delicate, saccharine thing wrapped in glitter and charm. They had both chosen their antidotes, their perfect opposites. And yet, as Zach stood before her now, voice thick with implication, Alex felt the weight of something unresolved pressing between them. Her brow arched slightly, a silent challenge, as she lifted her hand without thinking, wiggling her fingers just enough for the brilliant diamond to catch the light. A flashing reminder of where she belonged. “Really?” she murmured, a single word carrying all the skepticism she could muster. Yet she failed to continue. Because wasn’t it over? A new chapter had already begun, wedding bells just months away, the pages turning faster than she could grasp. And yet, his insinuations, once veiled, now sharpened into something undeniable. Then, he spoke her name. It was poetry, like a melody composed just for her. It was effortless, intoxicating, euphoric in the way only he could make it sound. A shiver ghosted down her spine, heat threatening to bloom beneath her skin. She had always known. The songs he played for her had been proof enough. But hearing him confirm it, knowing that every lyric, every note, every unspoken confession belonged to them? It stripped her bare, leaving her raw, vulnerable. Like standing beneath a harsh spotlight with nowhere to hide.

He had the audacity to ask about Andrew, as if toying with the glittering token of her impending marriage wasn’t already excruciating enough. His fingers lingered over the band that tethered her to a life without him, as though testing it, its permanence. Alex tilted her head back, laughter spilling from her lips, rich and genuine, sending her dark chocolate tresses cascading over her shoulders, down the curve of her spine. She didn’t bother to hide her amusement.“Before he was ever a big, bad CEO, he was easily a rival to you,” she mused. “When it came to who could sleep around more, let’s just say you both gave each other a run for your money.” She paused, her eyes glinting with something dangerously close to wicked. “You probably have more in common than just me. But at least you both have very exquisite taste. Clearly.” Her gaze drifted lazily over him, the softness of her doe-eyed expression transforming into something more serpentine, that slithered under his skin. “So, what do you think?” she teased, her voice a sultry lilt. “Should I call him over? Let you see for yourself?” The corner of her mouth curled, rising to the occasion, reveling in the way they slipped so effortlessly back into old habits. The taunting, the prodding, the intoxicating push and pull of a game neither of them could seem to quit. She let her eyes drag over him, slow and deliberate, contemplating the idea just long enough to make him sweat. But then she exhaled, feigning disinterest, her lashes lowering as she dismissed the thought with a flick of her wrist. “Maybe another time,” she murmured, tilting her head, feigned sympathy coating her words like silk. “Wouldn’t want to make you too jealous in front of your girlfriend.”

Alex’s eyes held his until they couldn’t, until she relented; turned those uncertain molten pools upon the soldier line of liquor bottles behind the bar, all those dancing colours reflecting on her face. He twisted gracefully, subtly, to face the bar with her, following her lead in an unconscious dance as the bubble around them sucked gradually inward. When he spoke, she seemed to turn in on herself, face growing harder and stiller until it gave way to something worse. It struck him, the glistening threat of tears. He watched as her throat constricted, fighting to keep them at bay. Zach hadn’t anticipated this response – not the sadness. Or perhaps that wasn’t what it was. Just guilt, confusion. Regret. And with no way to expunge those festering feelings, this was how they had materialized. Diamonds in her eyes. It was likely she had never addressed this before with anyone, ever. His hand flexed on the bar, an instinct to reach out to her flaying at his nerve-endings. But he couldn’t. Not here.

Zach’s tongue flattened in his mouth, and he bit down on its edges, flooded with the desire to squash her regret. Absolve her of her guilt, show her how intensely that shit just didn’t matter anymore. Pin her to a wall and kiss her dumb. Kiss her deep and stupid. They had been one thing; huge, domineering, explosive. Rotten and insidious and essential. They weren’t that anymore. Something else was seeding, spreading roots in their fertile ground. It was new and he couldn’t name it yet, but it was exhilarating. He could feel it – couldn’t she, too? As he fell into silence, she folded to his will and met his eyes. The tears were gone. She had always been something of a warrior. Her velvet voice dipped low and quiet, fingers skimming the rim of her glass as he had earlier. Their constant, incidental mirror-image. She asked a question. It was as though she’d already accepted their sordid fate, but couldn’t find it in herself not to be toward it all. His mouth pressed slowly into a line, swallowing rebuttals as he breathed through his nose.

Then she laughed. And in shock, he laughed too. Before he had even found something amongst it all to laugh about. His brain kicked into gear and caught up, and maybe it was funny. Maybe the humor was within their repeated attempts to deny what was proving to be the prophetic truth. In the end, wouldn’t it always come back to this? The two of them? Alex drank, and Zach scraped his glass across the bar back through its own wet footprint. His head was a little foggy, a buzz warming all through him. Her voice attracted his attention, and he raised his eyes. She fixed him with a smirk, one he couldn't immediately return. He sort-of laughed, feeling very caught in a juvenile way. It threw him. He’d been sneaky about drinking until it felt like everyone had grown too drunk to notice, then he’d forgotten to hide it at all. His bottom lip folded inward, sliding between his teeth as he held onto a roguish smile. “Ah, fuck,” Zach muttered gutturally, breathy, as though he hadn’t spoken in hours. “Who put that there?” he joked quietly, feigning bewilderment. She didn’t chastise him, or force him to explain. If she had, he wouldn't have known what to say. Old habits die screaming. She knew that better than anyone.

Instead, she unfolded her slender hand with an innate confidence and a finger-brush that stirred him into standing a little straighter. “Yes, ma’am,” he muttered amusedly, under his breath. A smile toyed on his face as he handed it off happily, quietly delighted with the assuredness in which she commanded him around. He looked at her, then, as though in a new light. Standing like a marble-carved work of art with his glass in her hand, in such a manner as to stake a claim. He felt a wave of determination and ownership and total sacrifice he had never felt for… well, anyone else at all. After a moment, he leaned back against the bar, tension dissipating. “I’d like to argue something,” he posited confidently, the mischief playing in his tone. He paused, letting the sentiment settle, but not long enough for her to interrupt. “I’d like to argue that I think we learned a lot, actually. And I think that’s the point.” His eyes, as they found hers, shone with possibility. He smirked. “I think it’s all brand new and we don’t even fucking know it yet.”

[messiahzzz]

while it’s perfectly fine to have your own headcanons that are non-canon compliant — by all means, go wild. recognizing pieces of yourselves in fictional characters can be a very healing and validating experience. this is nonetheless a casual, well-intentioned reminder that gale, in fact, does not have bpd.

bpd is a pervasive pattern of instability affecting interpersonal relationships, self-image, and mood. the disorder is marked by impulsivity beginning in early adulthood and is present in a variety of contexts. a diagnosis requires at least 5 of the following 9 criteria to be met:

Fear of abandonment

Unstable or changing relationships

Unstable self-image; struggles with identity or sense of self

Impulsive or self-damaging behaviors (e.g., excessive spending, unsafe sex, substance abuse, reckless driving, binge eating).

Suicidal behavior or self-injury

Varied or random mood swings

Constant feelings of worthlessness or sadness

Problems with anger, including frequent loss of temper or physical fights

Stress-related paranoia or loss of contact with reality

source: [x]

i highlighted the criteria that do apply to gale in one way or another in a pretty purple.

i personally believe that it’s rather harmful to equate his relationship with mystra with her being “his fp”. she is a deity, his goddess, and the source of his powers, who is in in full control of the magic he wields.

gale: mystra commands all magic. salvation, if such a thing exists, is hers to bestow or withhold.

gale has been effectively groomed and conditioned to serve and revere her at every turn since early childhood. imo this comparison really undermines a lot of crucial points in gale’s story that deal with his overall trauma and abuse. after all, you wouldn’t call shar sh*dowhe*rt’s fp either.

gale doesn’t revile mystra, nor does he commit benevolent deeds solely motivated by the secret hope that she will somehow notice and take him back. when you meet gale in the game he has already fully come to terms with the fact that he has been abandoned by mystra with no hope of reconciliation whatsoever. he also had some very fitting lines in ea regarding this topic that i'm sad haven't been repurposed in the full release in some way.

gale: [the tadpoles] don't know that some things are impossible. they don't know that... they don't know. player: what is impossible about what you're being shown? gale: forgiveness. gale: it is mystra i see. and yet it cannot be her. there was a time when i would have believed - but no longer. gale: suffice it to say she would not bestow upon me the favors promised in these dreams. that is how i know they are delusions.

he has already reached the stage of acceptance. moreover, gale only starts to realize that mystra might have been in the wrong for requesting his death once the tadpole squad & tav speak some sense into him. and even then he doesn’t ever show that his emotions regarding mystra are anywhere along those lines. he is instead rightfully angered that she only saw value in his death, after he had been worshipping her loyally for years.

gale: i worshipped mystra loyally for years, and in that time she granted me the barest sliver of the power i was ready to wield. gale: even with the fate of the world at stake, she had little more to offer me than the means of blowing myself up at a more convenient time. she's done nothing to help us.

gale: you abandoned me in my hour of greatest need. i had no obligation to help you in yours. gale: because you had no right to ask that of me. you cast me out, remember?

gale doesn’t display rapid changes in mood either. he is a character who is generally very composed and has been known to remain nonchalant even in the face of utter horror. tim downie himself even commented on this once. source: [x]

the only instance i can think of is his sudden switch from resigned-to-death to utter-eye-sparkling-enthusiasm once he spots the crown of karsus. apart from crucial story reasons that i won’t touch upon in this post, i’d also like to add that it’s a rather common phenomenon for people who have just barely survived a suicide attempt to suddenly be filled with zeal and unbridled energy. he doesn't display impulsivity without thorough consideration when it comes to its acquisition either. he considers this a golden opportunity and is positively enthusiastic and elated that this might prove an alternative to him ending up in a cloud of netherese smoke. nonetheless, he knows what he is doing. evident in him actually succeeding in ascending in one of his endings.

gale: this is no passing whim, trust me. if i can obtain that crown, it will affect us all. it is not a decision i'll take lightly. gale: it's our future that i'm thinking of - we can't rely on anyone else to do it for us. gale: for now - we've learned all we can.

neither are his relationships that we do know of (namely elminster, tara, and morena) frequently changing. they are marked by years of mutual respect, care, and consistency. there is nothing unstable about them. while it's important to note that his relationship with tav is still in its honeymoon stages during the main game, there is no inclination of any push-and-pull dynamic between them whatsoever.

gale isn’t preoccupied with keeping up some sort of benevolent act in order to win (back) affection — he genuinely IS a good person and he proves this at every turn. moreover, to have a tressym become your familiar you must be of Good alignment.

(taken from tumblr user galedekarios's post.)

there is never a moment where his ideals or alignment suddenly change. in fact, i’d argue that he and wyll are most consistent in this regard when compared to the rest of the companions. gale makes his moral standpoint very clear from the beginning on and also explicitly states that he believes that in order to survive this entire ordeal it would be selfish of him if he wouldn’t be willing to compromise on his morals. this isn’t a sudden bout of ✨muahahaha wizard hubris✨ that he barely contained to hold in before, this is yet another act of selflessness — it is what he’s willing to do for the group and subsequently, the welfare of faerun.

player: i love unsavoury things. don't feel guilty on my account. gale: that's good to know. although i should say i do what i do out of a sense of utility and pragmatism, not a love of the unsavoury. gale: we're up against the greatest threat faerun has ever faced. i don't mind getting my hands dirty if it gives us a better chance of surviving. gale: whatever advantage i can gain for us. i will. and i refuse to feel guilty for it, no matter how much mystra's chidings might echo in my skull.

this is him, once again trying to be useful in whatever way he can. to give them an advantage, a slither of hope against seemingly impossible odds, so they might make it out of this in one piece. gale wouldn’t approve of those actions under normal circumstances, but their predicament is as far from any definition of “normal” as it can get.

gale is no fool, he realizes this is essentially about survival. he knows that he has no option left other than to tolerate, which is why he can be convinced to not immediately depart tav’s company even if they choose to commit atrocities. this is no character flaw of his or him displaying a previously dormant openness for cruelty, this is about recognizing the necessity.

player: you don't stand a chance alone. you're free to go. i dare you. gale: gods damn you - you're right. few things are more powerful than the will to live.

gale: i thought the orb to be the greatest of my sins, but i see now that there are darker depths to which i might yet sink. you may be content to sink into that abyss, but i assure you - i am not.

gale doesn’t lead a split existence. he has a very strong sense of identity. he knows what he wants, what he doesn’t want and he isn’t shy in expressing his boundaries either. which he has especially shown when it comes to his relationship with tav. i originally had intended to touch upon this in another post entirely but: i firmly believe his entire Gale of Waterdeep™ persona is more of a performance than him struggling to find a sense of identity and trying them on for size. it is an intentional decision to separate gale dekarios from the great wizard of waterdeep, to create distance and make sure his family name remains untarnished in case things should ever go sideways.

gale: i agree. and on the plus side, if i get myself into any truly cataclysmic straits during the remainder of our journey, my family name will go untarnished.

there is also a deep-rooted feeling of unworthiness and his firm belief that love and praise are conditional resources that he will only be granted through his talents alone, naturally. presenting himself as gale dekarios, the man, would mean highlighting his shortcomings and very human flaws, while distracting from the aspects of himself that are deemed praiseworthy, the ones that actually matter: his magical prowess.

i personally believe that part of the beauty of gale’s story is him realizing just how “little” it takes for him to be truly content. he gets his happy ending, with someone at his side who truly sees him, understands him and unabashedly commits to him. they worship and adore him in return — and it is well deserved. he isn’t reduced to be constantly and restlessly searching for some unattainable ideal to fill the gaping void within himself. he doesn’t secretly thirst for more power still or believes that in being with tav he is settling for something. instead, he is finally happy to just be. be and be accepted. teaching a class of unruly wizards and coming home to his spouse each day already fulfills him.

gale: that's how i feel with you - content. it's a rather unfamiliar feeling, i must say. not something gale of waterdeep ever craved.

even if he doesn’t pursue a romance with tav, he reaches a realization of “oh, it appears i am not irredeemably flawed and only able to reach true redemption through my own death. what i needed was actually with me all along.” throughout their journey and through his friend's support. i think that’s a very powerful and comforting message. he is very well capable of finding peace within himself.

devnotes: his default state is that he returned to waterdeep and became a professor of illusory magic at his former school, blackstaff academy. general vibe here is that this is a gale who's found peace with himself - he's a great teacher, one his students are mostly in awe of.

to repeat myself: sharing your headcanons is all in good fun, nor should you ever be discouraged from doing so. this is your personal tumblr experience, after all. but i personally think we should be mindful of unintentionally perpetuating negative stereotypes, such as narcissism being a general indicator or being deemed a classic depiction of bpd. i think we can all agree that the continuous longing for acceptance, connection, praise, and approval is something we all have in common deep down, regardless of whatever disorder we may have. [insert victoria justice meme here]

gale may be many things to many people, but he is no entitled narcissist.

[splickedylit]

I know most of my new followers are for Homestuck but I just reread the entirety of Eyeshield 21 and: football manga good. So you'll have to forgive a brief interlude of "Splickedy's favorite minor character (and guests)" haha. Anyway do you think any of the gangsters Agon canonically cuckolded ever mistook Unsui for his twin brother and beat the shit out of him?? Ignore me.

...also tho relatedly I made a post about college Hiruma/Unsui in January and now I'm 26,000 words in, because,,, idk I've lost control of my life? Because "I realized in college that I'm queer and I have a million tons of repressed emotions behind a very cracked dam" is a big mood and maps onto Unsui too easily for me to resist? Because I'm still incredibly amused by the thought of how pissed off Agon would be if his brother started dating Hiruma? All of those things, lmao.

[cringefailvox]

finishing up this chapter either tonight or tomorrow but g-d willing it WILL be out this weekend

[glass-noodle]

I'm curious Connor in you're au looks quite malnutritioned and tired what would Hank do if he became exceptionally sick or weak from kamskis experiments on him

He can tell that something’s off the minute he walks into the enclosure. Connor is lying half on the deck, half in the water, his tail hanging limply off the ledge. He barely lifts his head at the sound of Hank entering, eyes half-lidded and hazy.

Hank rushes forward, dropping his lunch bag on the deck and grabbing Connor by the shoulders. “Jesus — Connor! Hey, you okay?”

Connor looks worse than he ever has; purple shadows under his eyes dark as a bruise, skin sallow over protruding bones, grip weak as he reaches up to place a heavy hand on Hank’s arm. Hank feels anger simmer to life in his gut, the urge to storm straight into Kamski’s office and punch his teeth out for allowing Connor to wallow in this state (and likely causing it) rising like a maelstrom; but he manages to reign himself in for Connor’s sake, guiding him into a more comfortable position on the deck. “Hold on, kid,” he says urgently, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over the merman’s thin, pale frame. He turns to rummage quickly through his bag. “Here, what do you need? Food? Water?”

He holds out his daily catch to Connor. Connor looks blearily at the fish, eyes cloudy, then drops his head back onto the deck, murmuring insensibly.

Hank raises his head back up. “C’mon, kid, you need to eat,” he says, trying to keep his voice low despite his rising panic. He palms the kid’s face gently, noting how it’s burning up as he sits cross-legged by the water’s edge, guiding Connor’s head into his lap.

Connor barely reacts to the change in position. His eyes are closed, and his bony ribs rise and fall quickly, shallow breaths puffing past cracked lips. Hank decides it’s probably best to start with water. He reaches back into his bag to retrieve his bottle, uncapping it and placing it against Connor’s lips. “Come on, come on,” he mutters.

Connor does respond to that, at least, throat bobbing with difficulty as he sips slowly at what’s offered. Hank’s relief is short-lived, however; Connor’s eyes slip shut when Hank pulls the bottle away, and he murmurs a low, wounded sound as he turns his head weakly into Hank’s lap.

Hank hisses a curse between his teeth. He puts a hand on Connor’s burning forehead, pushing his sweat-soaked locks out of the way. He’s just about to consider running to get help — Kamski’s wrath be damned — when the enclosure door opens.

Hank turns quickly, stiffening. One of the scientists, the small blonde one, is standing in the doorway, holding several objects in her hands — one of which looks like a syringe filled with a pale blue fluid. She gives him a strange, lingering look.

“Mr. Anderson.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Hank growls. He doesn’t give a damn that he’s been caught breaking the rules. He eyes the syringe in her hand suspiciously as she walks towards them, clutching Connor tighter. “The hell are you gonna do to him?”

She stops a short distance away from them. “My name is Chloe,” she says, soft and careful. She holds out her hands placatingly, showing Hank everything that she has in her grasp. “I work directly under Dr. Kamski. Connor is sick. I have medicine for him.”

Hank eyes the syringe suspiciously. The girl doesn’t seem all that aggressive, but he doesn’t trust anyone in this place, least of all the fuckers who put Connor in this situation in the first place. “Right. How do I know you’re not just gonna shoot him up with more weird shit?”

Chloe’s hesitates, looking away. “I understand your concern,” she murmurs finally. “But I want you to know that I really don’t mean Connor any harm. I — I don’t like seeing him suffer, either.”

Hank snorts darkly at that. “Then set him free.”

Chloe says nothing; just gives him another long, considering look. On top of feeling pissed, her light-eyed stare is starting to make him feel uncomfortable, like she’s staring into his soul and grasping at his deepest, most guarded thoughts. Weird girl.

Connor stirs in his lap, dark eyes flickering open to peer hazily beyond Hank’s hovering form. He seems to recognize Chloe; he doesn’t shy away as she approaches them, at least. Rather, he shifts, and — to Hank’s surprise — holds out one pale, scarred arm.

Chloe kneels down, keeping her eyes on Hank. “May I?”

Hank would honestly like nothing less, but he’s not stupid. Connor needs more help than he can provide, and for whatever reason he seems to trust her marginally more than the other scientists Hank’s seen him interact with. “Whatever,” he grunts, keeping a tight grip on the merman. If she got the smart notion to try anything, Hank would be there to swing his weight around, anyhow.

Connor watches her as she swabs his skin delicately with alcohol, and Hank watches him in turn. His face pinches when she inserts the needle, but he seems no less uncomfortable than he was before; no trace of the anger or fear that normally twists his expression when the scientists enter his tank. In fact, he seems almost…relieved. His eyes slip closed when Chloe retracts the needle, and he lets out a shaky sigh, curling into Hank’s warmth.

Hank strokes a hand through the kid’s hair, watching Chloe discard the needle into a little yellow container and tape a piece of gauze over the puncture site. “You done now?”

Chloe shakes her head, looking regretful. “I’m afraid we’ll have to move Connor to the sick tank. He’ll need more than a single shot to recover, and he’ll need specific environmental conditions to help him heal properly.”

Hank feels that familiar anger ignite in him again, raising his hackles and knotting dark and tight in his chest. “He wouldn’t be sick if you would just stop doing this to him,” he growls, fixing the girl with a hard, baleful stare. Whatever she’d done to help Connor just now, it didn’t make up for everything she’d helped enable up until this point. It didn’t make up for all the suffering she and her team had put Connor through.

Chloe doesn’t speak for a long moment. “I’ll pass that on to Elijah,” she says eventually, tone soft and unreadable.

[fights4users]

Sending him away

How would Yori react to Tron getting transferred? (For the sake of the fic he wasn’t copied)

Tron regrets it the second the words leave his mouth, but she had to hear it from him. He has made a choice he’s come to regret once realizing it will mean leaving her.

Touchy, angsty but they ultimately have great communication skills.

-Comments encouraged-

[athenasiuscorp]

Some skin woven dream

The drapings of skin upon shadow revenant correlates to my au- which takes place years in the future- after revenant had turned into shadow revenant- with the side effect of corrupting all life with his essence. Eventually, he became overwhelmed with the collective minds at his will- so he ceased it.

All that he had paralyzed for entertainment were now ash- they succumbed to time.

Bored, alone, suicidal, and truly immortal- he seeks out Ash, who had already been observing him within a nearby satellite for the duration of his reign. She had anticipated this, so there was little resistance on her end. He would be a fascinating subject.

Ultimately, Ash sets up her lab beneath the mountain Revenant now takes solace. He could have easily left the planet- but figured that familiar company was more tolerable than an endless squabble with the ashes of fleeting amusement. In return for his participation in the experiment, Ash would send distress signals to lure unsuspecting life to the planet for Revenant to toy with, and in turn, capture as subjects for Ash.

Ash is familiar with Revenant's... "rules" or poetics of killing- he operates on a large symbolic basis to justify most carnage- to enact a narrative of a purpose fulfilled. To keep him from leaving, she knew that appealing to this facet of expression could keep him "attached", and ultimately weave her into his narrative. Years of isolation and death games have made him difficult, almost regressive. She figures that he's already so deluded, that fostering more of it would be easy.

So, synthesizing some DNA that she had swiped from Revenant's source code years prior, she synthesized a blanket of his own skin for him to wear. Initially, he felt patronized- but eventually wove it onto himself. She knew he couldn't resist embracing the irony of such an item. Additionally, she could capitalize on his protectiveness- she knew not even he could resist a need for a familiar abomination in tandem with his grief.

Though there had been some hypotheses during the synthesis of the membrane, a small implication being that the material could make him feel more "himself" due to how the DNA material interacts with and contains his shadow. An ideal outcome would be for him to be feigned into thinking he's mortal, restricting him from the notion of leaving. Until she can synthesize some means of containing the planet without him knowing- this is her best option.

If her research proves successful, she could navigate any planetary terrain with ease, a curiosity endlessly satisfied. A purpose to look forward to past a lust for battle, which had ultimately proved monotonous in time. Perhaps a "redemption" of sorts. She isn't completely resistant to the notion of relaying her findings with humans- they would greatly depend on her, for anything that she requests would be taken as a messianic necessity. The thought that she could eventually hold such an advantage, on top of such vast means of exploration truly excited both halves of the retired simulacrum.