#wattpad book title be like

[peskyfirefly]

[fructidors]

nothing is more terrifying than looking up memoirs of a french historical figure and seeing a wattpad link come up...

[wonder-falcon]

the male drews are so tiktok thirst trap icky stop this madness….

not the girls tho y’all stay safe out there ✊🥰

[skill7spark04]

BRO THIS READS LIKE MAGNUS CHASE COMEDY. "yeah, so my life sucks, I hate everything, then I died. and that's when things started getting freaky." (a summary of Magnus Chase by me)

I SIMPLY MUST HAVE THE SOURCED TITLE! FOR MY GROWING COLLECTION! edit: may have jumped the gun, may be too tired to be internet or situationally literate, BUT STILL I MUST HAVE THIS PIECE OF BUTCHERED CANCER MEDIA FOR MY COLLECTION.

Look at the blurb of this book my friend sent me I'm losing my mind

[creamecafe]

Love you the same and to the moon and back | Hyun Ju

Summary: After Hyun Ju came out as woman, it seemed like hope was lost as she lost everything. The military, her family and her friends. When dating you, she’s afraid she’ll lose you too. Or will she?

Pairing: Hyun Ju x GF!Reader

Warnings: angst, fear of coming out, fluff

Word Count:

Author's Note: This was requested by countrybarbiegalss from my book titled “Squid Game Imagines” on Wattpad. If you’d like, please check it out I’d really appreciate it. Don’t forget to vote, comment on what you think and share!

Feedback is always appreciated!

Want a request for a Squid Game character like this one? Check out my latest post, read my request guidelines and send a request!

Read on Wattpad & AO3 here

Hyun Ju could have not expected her life to take a turn like this. Discovering she’s transgender was a question she was able to solve. But the problem was what it came with after.

Shortly not long after she came out, she was kicked out of the military, struggled to find a job for at least almost two months. A lot of her family members cut her off and she lost friends she knew for years.

It seemed like everything was lost, until she met you. You were in the light in her eyes she needed. She met you while she was running late for work and you were jogging and accidentally bumped into her.

She remembers it all well the moment she met you, what she and you were wearing. You were so beautiful and hope was found again.

Hyun Ju hoped to see you again when she came to work and she did. Days turned into weeks and eventually a month. She really wanted to ask you out but was terrified of the relationship not lasting long as she was hiding herself, her true identity.

But something told her to ask you out. So the morning that she got ready for work, she told herself, she’s going to ask you out when yiu see her. As usual, she saw yiu again. She put a hand up as if she was going to raise a hand but it was to capture your attention.

You stopped running, took out your phone to pause your music and took out a earbud from one of your ears.

“Hey, how are you?” Hyun Ju asked

“Good and you?” You replied breathing heavily from the running.

“I just wanted to ask you something.”

“Yes, what it is”

Hyun Ju took a pause and took a deep breath

“We’re always seeing each other when I’m going to work and you’re running. I just think you’re really pretty and I wanted to know if you would like to maybe get a coffee together or go out sometime?”

After what Hyun Ju said to you, you had to think of what she was saying to you. You also found him (because at the time you didn’t know that she identified as a she even in that moment)

Hyun Ju took your silence as a possible rejection. It wasn’t until you replied

“Sure, I would love to” You nodded

“Really?” Making sure of what Hyun Ju was hearing right now.

“Yeah why not?”

Hyun Ju couldn’t believe it. Was her life finally turning around for the better? Was this a sign?

“What time and day works for you?” You asked

“I get out at work around 6:30. 6, if my boss is merciful.”

“Alright then, I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

“Sounds great”

Hyun Ju nodded and smiled to herself. This was really happening. She asked out a girl.

“See you around then” You said about to go back to your daily running

“See you” Hyun Ju exclaimed as she was going to head to her work. She realized one thing. She didn’t know your name and you didn’t know hers

“Wait!” She turned around to face you hoping you didn’t run off already. Luckily, you just about to put your second earbud in when she called out. You turned around.

“I didn’t get your name.”

“It’s Y/N.” You smiled and Hyun Ju didn’t forget that

“Hyun Ju” She said

“That’s a pretty name. I hope you don’t leave me hanging tomorrow Hyun Ju.”

“I won’t.” She shook her head and laughed.

You chuckled too as you ran off, looked back and waved to him her. She waved back to you as she looked at the time and realized she’s running late. “Crap!” She ran off to her work.

A few hours passed and she was done with her job. She took the subway home and was tired. Your smile wouldn’t leave her mind. When she got back to her apartment, she prepared something to eat, watched TV and went to sleep. A few more hours and she’ll be going out with you, she thought to herself.

The next morning and she was more than ready to get out of bed to see your face again. Everything she was doing in her daily routine was fast paced as she was so excited. She always double checking herself, to see if her hair was fine in every reflection she could see. While she was fixing her hair while walking looking in a shop glass, she bumped into someone. She looked at who she bumped into, it was you again. Time felt like it stopped. She was going to apologize but you did first.

“We, well I gotta stop bumping into you. I gotta be more careful when running.” Yiu chuckled putting a hand to your mouth

“It’s alright,” Hyun Ju nodded smiling.

“Tonight’s still on?” You asked playfully

“What? Oh yes, it is.”

“Great!”

“Here,” Hyun Ju took a notebook and pen out of her bag and wrote down her number to give to you. “You can text or call me if anything comes up”

You took the paper and looked at what she wrote.

"Ok will do. I'll let you get back to you going to work."

"And I'll let you get back to running."

Both of you nodded and parted ways. A few hours have passed and Hyun Ju finished her shift. She rushed home to get ready for her first date with you.

It was going to be at a small restaurant, nothing fancy. When she saw you at and what you wore, it felt like her heart was going to fall out her chest.

The date has gone well and you started seeing each other after work more often. Both of you not long after started dating each other.

This was the happiest Hyun Ju been in a long time. Being with someone, finding peace and security. But while dating you, still being happy, there was something eating at her.

Her wanting to come out to you, telling you she's transgender. Over the course, you have been dating her, you notice his her hair would get longer and would paint her nails.

You seen other guys done the same as it was a trend mostly among Gen Z, so you thought nothing of it.

Every opportunity Hyun Ju had to tell you, she would shut it down quickly as she was afraid of losing you. She hated lying to you. It wasn't right, but she was afraid of your reaction of her telling you.

She believed that you would cry and yell at her, never wanting to see her face again. Tonight after work was the night she was going to tell you.

When she came home to your shared apartment, you came running to you excited to see you, her boyfriend girlfriend again.

"Hey babe, how are you doing? How was work" You said smiling

"Good thank you. Work was good. How are you?"

"I'm good thanks, just reading a book. I made dinner for both of us. I waited for you to eat togther."

Your kindness. That was the thing Hyun Ju was going to miss when she tells you the truth tonight.

"I need to tell you something, Y/N."

"Yes, what is it?" You asked without looking up from your book.

"I don't know how to say this. And when I do, you might not wanna be with me anymore."

You put your book down at what she meant by this.

"What do you mean?

"I have discovered something about myself. And I'm trans. Transgender."

"Are you being serious right now?"

"Yes I am. I won't be known as your boyfriend anymore. I probably won't even be yours anymore after I have said this."

Putting your book down, you got up and went up to him her.

"Hyun Ju-"

"Listen," Hyun Ju's voice starts breaking up as she looks down. "If you want to break up with me, that's fine. But this is who I am."

"I loved you as the man you weren't meant to be. And who doesn't say I won't love you as the woman you're going to be?"

"You're still going to be with me? People will look at us and I don't wanna damage your reputation."

"So what? Screw those who are going to judge, that's not make me change my mind or make me love you any less."

Hyun Ju tried to hold it in but she was crying. You held her close and sat down on the couch. Her sobs broke your heart. You probably didn't realize how hard this must have been on her, keeping this a secret from you.

"Do you want to go to the bed and just lay down?" You asked softly

"Yes, yes" She took her hands from her face and nodded.

You helped Hyun Ju up and went to your shared room. The room was dark as you turned on a lightly dimmed lamp.

You sat down on the bed first and waited for Hyun Ju to come. She hesitated a bit, but eventually sat down next to you. She wrapped her arms around you. Both of you went further into the bed as you both laid down.

Her broad arms were firm but soft on you as she laid her head on your chest. Trying to match her breathing to your heartbeat. You still felt her tears fall on your tank top and some on your arm.

"It's ok, it's ok. I got you" You whispered kissing her forehead.

Hyun Ju was shaking under you. This wasn't the reaction she wasn't expecting. She was sure you were going to break up with her. This all had to be a dream, like too good to be true.

But she felt safe here. Like her past and everything else didn't exist. It didn't matter.

"I don't deserve you" Hyun Ju said so faintly as shell break.

"Don't say that. Whoever made you feel like you weren't deserving of love just because of the way you identify, don't deserve you. Not the other way around."

After what you said, Hyun Ju just wanted to continue laying and not say another word. You kept kissing. Her forehead, her neck, slow and soft with your lips.

"I love you Hyun Ju. I'll always love you the same and to the moon and back."

Hyun Ju now knows it was indeed a sign you were the one for her. She gets up a bit to face and kiss you on the lips sweetly and gently.

A tear dropped down and you tasted her salty drops. You pulled back and just smiled.

"I love you too Y/N."

"We can take a nap and eat dinner later. Or we don't have to, tomorrow's the weekend. We can stay in, lay like this all you want."

Throughout the night, you guys talked nonsense until you both fell asleep holding each other. This was all Hyun Ju wanted and needed.

Safe and sound in your arms. She was ready to become a new person. But in your eyes, she was the still same.

She was still yours, and you were hers.

Taglist:

@itsnznn, @soultyun, @hobinistaworld, @happyfrog7681, @Tiuhiatus, @star2008, @magicalconnoisseurcoffee, @fyraevya, @ninahorikoshifr, @ouwioworuuu, @cloudysxkura, @iidontwannadiealone, @idontreallyexistyet, @gigglingkickingmyfeet, @hollxe1, @uuhhtt, @bludzk1llzyuzu, @maymustdie, @bahoglobot, @bread-crum206, @lovesickxmina, @galactict3a, @livelaughlovekuni, @petrrraaa, @sackgirl666, @grimminiecricket

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[itz-mfkn-de]

\\ALWAYS YOU//. M.R

warnings— OOC MATTHEO, Im a sucker for toxic boys but I made him extra sweet in his one idk why, uhhh not many tbh, cussing, kissing, smoking, that’s all I think.

summary— Mattheo was your best friend, always had been, but was the title of ‘friend’ enough?

-my first work for Mattheo! I will eventually get a master list going once I get more comfertable posting on here. This is a repost of one of my works on wattpad, just with some tweaks bc that work was olldddd-

You sat against mattheos 𝐛𝐞𝐝, 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 out of his dorm window.

"You know, some times, I'm worried for you. You just stare at things, it's weird." He snickered  as he took a drag from his cigarette.

You looked at him and scoffed, "Sometimes I'm worried about your lungs, you're bound to get some type of problem with all that's smoking you do." You half-joked, glancing at him.

He rolled his eyes, tilting his head up and blew the smoke out of his mouth.

"Seriously Mattheo, that stuff is absolute horse-shit for your body." You stated, accompanying your words with a sharp glare.

"I don't do it that often, just when I'm stressed." He muttered, taking his feet off of his desk and turning his body to face you.

"What happened to the whole 'I don't give a fuck about anything or anybody but myself' thing?" You said, mocking him to the best of your abilities.

"First of all I don't fucking sound like that," he laughed and squinted at you "second, just stressed about life, nothing in particular." 

You softly chuckled at his reaction. His eyes broke from yours, looking at some papers on his desk. Your eyes, however, never left his frame. You could stare at him for eternity, everything about his face seemed so perfect, almost as if it were meant to be admired.

You soon realized your staring and quickly averted your gaze towards the window again.

"You gonna go to the Yule ball this year?" You broke the silence, you knew Mattheo hated those things, he hated having to be around a shit ton of people and act like he enjoyed their company.

"Probably not." His demeanor changed, his tone became short, almost snappy.

"Oh, I'm probably just gonna go with Becca." You mumbled, knowing that if no guy was to ask you, Becca had your back.

"Hm." He nearly laughed at your remark.

"What? What's so funny?" You asked, looking back at him, his back still facing you.

"Just surprised you aren't going with a random slytherin guy or something." He answered, but the way he had said it has a strange undertone that you weren't sure how to feel about.

"Well I mean I don't know, I haven't been asked yet." You stated truthfully.

"Ah, I see." He murmured, soon after taking another drag of his cigarette.

You felt tension building in the room, suffocating tension. You weighed your options out, but you decided it would be better to give Mattheo some space, for what you were unsure of.

"Well, Becca and Emma told me they wanted to go dress shopping earlier so I think I'm gonna head over there so we can solidify our plans." You announced while picking up your books and putting them in your bag. 

"Bye Mattheo." You said while walking out of his dorm, expecting a response.

You shut the door when you got nothing, you mind raced with the possibilities on what could've caused mattheos strange behavior.

Maybe he'd just had an off day? No that couldnt have been it, he was fine moments before his attitude took a turn. 

Perhaps he was just having mood swings, you wouldn't be surprised with all the trash he puts in his body.

You stuck with that story and walked back to your dorm, which was on the other side of the slytherin tower. 

You reached it, setting your things down, then quickly turned around and nearly raced to your friends dorm.

The second you reached it, You waisted no time to jump on her bed, causing her to jump. 

"Yes, of course you can come into my room unannounced and lay on my bed." Becca said sarcastically. She had been digging through her closet in an attempt to find a dress. 

"Sorry, I just need to vent." You said while propping yourself up on your elbows.

"Go ahead." She sighed and laid her body weight 

"Okay so, there's this guy. He's like my best friend, but.."

She raised her eyes brows, signaling you to continue.

"But I want us to be more, or atleast I see him as more than a friend. I just feel like no matter how hard I try I can't get him to open up, he just.. won't."  You groaned.

"And everytime I get this sliver of hope that I've made progress, he just completely shuts down, leaving me in the dark confused and a little bit heartbroken!" You borderline screamed, your face shoved into her mattress.

"Okay, uh, let's calm down. If he's not showing any signs of being interested maybe you should just, move on- well attempt to at least." Becca stated ,rubbing your back.

You shut your eyes, truly taking in your friends words.  “hey Yknow what will make you feel better?” She nearly jumped with excitement. “Going to look for a dress in town.”

You knew she only had good intentions but the words kept echoing through your head. The thought of keeping Mattheo as a friend hurt, but it seemed to be all you could do at this point without ruining your friendship.

Maybe she was right.

Maybe you needed to accept Mattheo 

was just a friend.

-

All you could think about was the Yule ball. Over the next few weeks the days flew by, the anticipation growing larger with each one passing.

Of course you had been asked by some sweet guy from the Ravenclaw house, and, taking Becca's advice, you said yes.

There was nothing wrong with him, he just..he wasn't him.

You had decided to get ready alone, slipping into a beautiful green dress you and Becca had picked out. You finished your hair and makeup, looking into your vanity mirror.

You felt beautiful.

You smiled softly at how well you had dolled yourself up.

Glancing up at the clock, you rushed out of your dorm room, realizing it was the time you and your date had agreed to meet at the entrance by. 

You walked gracefully through the halls, a large smile adorning your face. Your heels tapped softly against the ground. You neared the entrance, your breath becoming shallow from the nerves. 

Then you saw Becca, she was wearing a beautiful Maroon dress. She looked absolutely breath taking.

"Hey!— oh my gosh." Becca looked at you, her jaw dropping. 

"You look stunning! Like some type of goddess...." She said barely above a whisper.

"Becca! Stop, you can't be talking, I forgot how to breathe the moment I saw you." You hugged her.

You were about to continue praising her and her beauty, but before you could comment you heard someone call your name.

"Y/n..wow.." he said, just loud enough for you to hear.

You turned around to see your date, who was wearing a very clean red and black suit. 

"Oh my gosh hi! Sorry for being a tad late, I lost track of time while getting ready!" You made your way next to your date, not before Becca gave you a sly smile and a push, leaving to go with her specimen she had chose for the night 

"It's okay.., you look amazing." He had said, taking your arm into his. He began to lead you into the ballroom.

"Thank you, I must say, you cleaned up nice." You smiled sweetly at him.

You and him entered the large room full of people, everything was elegant and royal, not a single speck of dust on anything.

You looked around the large room as your date led you down the stairs, you couldn't lie, you felt like a princess. The beautiful architecture of the room, complimented by your stunning dress, felt like something straight out of a fairy tale.

Once you had made it to the bottom of the staircase, you excused yourself away from your date in an attempt to go find Becca again. 

You stumbled past groups of people, many of them were couples having a romantic moment. 

You tried your best not to run into anybody, you dodged dancing bodies and nearly jogged across the dance floor.

You almost missed him.

You almost walked right by him.

You almost could've saved yourself the heartbreak.

But no you saw it—him with some random Hufflepuff girl. 

The way he whispered in her ear, the way she giggled a little too sweetly, everything. 

It all made you wanna cry—or throw up, which one that would be you weren't quite sure about yet. 

"Y/n?" Theodore came beside you and patted your back.

"Theo-Theodore, I thought Mattheo wasn't coming to the dance?" You struggled to get your words out as your eyes darted between the scene before you and Theodore. 

"Oh—uh yeah, he wasn't gonna originally, but some girl asked him and I guess he took a liking to her because usually he just brushes everyone off." Theo answered.

"Oh, I see, I just came to say hello. I'll be on my way now." Before Theodore could argue with your strange behavior you turned your back and walked as quickly as you could back to were your date was. 

You abandoned the idea of going to find Becca, you couldn't accidentally run into Mattheo and his.. friend again.

Instead you decided that distracting yourself with your date would be the best thing for your heart at the moment.

"Hey, sorry , I just saw a friend and got distracted." You said, out of breath.

"Oh. Don't even sweat it, I'm just glad you didn't run away and not come back." He joked, dragging you towards the dance floor. You couldn't help but laugh at his bubbly personality. It was a nice change of speed.

"I hope you like to dance." His hands fell onto your hips, yours made their way to his shoulders.

"I actually hate it." You smiled at him. 

"How unfortunate." Your smile grew when he matched your energy. You nearly forgot what you had seen a couple moments ago.

But alas, you didn't.

You could feel your chest tightening up, the tears bordering you waterline. Just thinking about him touching that girl in any way made you want to breakdown.

"Ex.—excuse me." You tried to excuse yourself as politely as you could. 

You didn't want your date too see you like this, vulnerable, heartbroken.

You urgently walked towards any door in your line of sight. When you finally found one, you ran through it. 

You just couldn't escape him, no matter how hard you tried. He was at every single corner you turned.

You nearly groaned when you saw him propped up over the balcony, smoking of course. 

He hasn't seemed to notice you, still looking out at the stars. 

You couldn't do it anymore, you couldn't spend one more fucking second acting like you weren't in love with him. 

The sad part was you'd rather be his friend than him hate you and be nothing at all. As long as he thought about you, you'd be okay. 

That's what you had been telling yourself, but you couldn't hold onto that lie anymore. 

"Mattheo." You croaked out behind him.

His head shot to the side, looking you dead in the eyes. 

"Angel… what're you doing out here."  He looked back out to the stars, unable to make eye contact. 

"I can't do it anymore."  You said shakily.

He turned his full body around this time, his eyes a dark brown. He blew the smoke out of his mouth, the wind pushing it in the opposite direction.

"I can't keep pretending I don't feel this way.., do you know how hard it was to watch you talk to that girl?" You nearly cried out.

"All the girls you fuck with and then bring them to shit like this, I cant keep lying to myself —wishing that it was me instead of her."

You were on the brink of gasping for air, your head pounded. You couldn't believe you had suppressed these emotions for so long. Every single time you went to Mattheo's dorm, you could barely restrain yourself from kissing him. 

Before you could continue on with your speech 

Mattheo had forced you against the wall. 

His lips met yours in a harsh collision. In an almost immediate reaction, your body responded to his actions, kissing him back with just as much need and hurry.

"You don't get to fucking do that."  He pulled back from your lips, still making sure to keep his face mere inches from yours.

"Every single day, I'd sit there and watch you talk to this new guy, I couldn't do shit about it— I wouldn't let myself do shit about it."

“I knew you deserved so much better than some lousy asshole like me, angel.” His hand held a firm grip on your hips, his other still had its place on the stone wall. 

"It took everything in me not to punch that fucker in the face when I saw him look at you, but I knew you wouldn't want that." You melted beneath his gaze.

His kisses trailed down your jawline.

"During second year, when I went to the dance, I saw you there with Draco, I nearly killed him right after. I couldn't bear to see you with anyone other than myself.. so I wouldn't go, I knew I wouldn't be able to handle it so I never went to another ball again." He gently caressed your cheek with his thumb.

"Until this year." He mumbled softly in between the kisses he was leaving on your neck.

He brought his face back up to yours, his eyes stormy and clouded with something darker than just simple need.

"What'd he say to you? What did he call you?" Mattheo asked with a dark shimmer in his eyes, one you were hoping was just from the moon.

You swallowed harshly, you hadn't realized how dry your mouth truly was. 

"He just said I looked nice—" 

"Nice? You look fucking ravishing. I've never met a girl as beautiful as you, never once in my life seen a girl who could compare anywhere near you...That's why I call you angel you know...,because even if an angel walked by, my eyes would still be glued on you."

His gentle voice tickled your ears, and your cheeks warmed up beneath him.

"You are my angel."

He kissed you again, only this time it was more gentle. His lips held no rush, they were soft and comforting. 

You were the one to pull back this time, smiling sweetly up at him. He pulled you from against the wall, leaving the two of you in the center of the balcony, under the sparkling stars.

"I can't believe we've been friends all these years, and neither of us made a move."

He spun you around under the moon light, the beautiful sky knocking the breath out of you.

"Hey matty..?”You whispered once he had began to hold you in his arms gently.

"Yes angel?" He matched your tone, the sweet nickname you gave him made his chest tighten up.

"I love you." You closed your eyes, shutting them slowly.

"I love you... I always thought I'd never be the type to say that so freely, guess I just needed to meet the right person." He swayed the two of you lightly, finding a rhythm in the midnight winds. 

"Of course it's you... 

It's always been you."

[losers-clvb]

woman of letters // dean winchester

pairing: dean winchester x man of letters!female!reader

summary: sam and dean discover the bunker of the men of letters. expecting it to be empty, they get quite the shock when they meet you.

content: swearing, canon level violence, reader is very inexperienced in combat, mutual pining between dean and reader, reader is slightly injured by dean, mentions of family death, idiots in love trope

word count: 3.8k

note: read on wattpad here. this is my first series with dean! i'm not sure how many parts, but i wanted to share this with the world. there will be smut in later parts. if you look up "dark academia outfit" on pinterest and scroll, that is how i envisioned the reader dressing.

masterlist series masterlist next part

----

Sam and Dean entered the bunker wearily. They didn’t know what they were walking into. There could be a demon, or worse, waiting for them to arrive. They had their guns drawn as they moved down the stairs into a large room. Stone walls were made more comfortable by the warm lighting in the space. Sam eyed a doorway that seemed to lead to a library of sorts. Dean readjusted his grip on his gun and traveled deeper into the bunker. Sam opted to explore the library first instead of following his brother.

The walls were filled with books varying in color and size. His eyes raked across the titles and keywords jumped out at him: vampire, werewolf, witch. He felt like a kid in a candy store. He continued to survey the room. There were velvet upholstered chairs in the corners of the room. A couple tables were placed in the center of the room. There wasn’t anything strange about them initially. Sam then noticed the open book and steaming mug of coffee. Someone was here. Sam tightened his hold on his gun and whirled around.

Standing behind him was a girl. You. You wore dress pants and a white button-up shirt. The gun you held in your shaking hand glinted in the light. This either meant it was brand new or it had never been used. By the way you awkwardly held the weapon with two hands, Sam was willing to bet it was the second option. The expression on your face was stony but behind that Sam could see the fear coursing through you. You were scared. Frightened like a baby deer that got separated from his mother. But you couldn’t tell this intruder that.

“Whoa.” Sam tried to put you at ease but refused to lower his own gun. You swallowed and shifted on your feet. You continued your silence while reading his body language. Weapons you hated, but psychology was where you thrived. You needed to determine what this man was here for. Lost in your mind, you failed to notice the way Sam’s eyes drifted over your shoulder where Dean was creeping up behind you.

Faster than you could fight off, the man behind you kicked the back of your knees. You were on the ground on your hands and knees, your gun sliding away from you. You scrambled for it and whimpered when it was swept up into Dean’s hand. Sam’s gun was still trained on you. Dean scoffed after looking over your weapon.

“Safety’s still on, sweetheart.” Dean shot at you while restraining your wrists behind your back with handcuffs. You were really panicking now. This was not how it was supposed to go. You were supposed to keep this place safe and in a few short minutes you were rendered useless to that cause by a couple of strangers.

Dean pulled out a canister of something. Poison, you assumed. They were here to kill you. He forced your mouth open and poured the substance into your mouth. Instantly, you spat it out of your mouth. Not poison, salt. You looked at the man with an incredulous expression. What the hell was he doing to you? You watched the two men exchange a look before Sam handed Dean a flask with a cross on it. A thought crossed your mind, something from your readings. Holy water, you thought. You coughed out the liquid when it was splashed into your face. Regaining your breath, you glared at the men.

 “I’m not a demon.” You spoke, shocking the men in front of you. They flexed their jaws in anger, moving closer to you. Your eyes widened.

“Then what the hell are you?” Dean asked. You were hesitant to answer. These men had broken into your home, tied you up, and were demanding information when you didn’t even know their names. You weren’t about to tell them what you really were, though if they found a way into the bunker they already had an idea.

“Human.” You spat, hoping they would settle for that answer. Of course they didn’t. Dean searched for any clues about who, or what, you were. The holy water had trickled down on your chest, turning your shirt see through. He could see a dark mark peeking through the fabric. He grabbed at the collar of your shirt and yanked it down to reveal it. A logo.

“Take me to dinner first, pretty boy.” You sneered out and yanked your body away. Sarcasm was one of your favorite defenses. Your shirt slipped from his fingers and he looked at Sam again.

“Man of Letters.” Sam spoke out, talking to Dean but you still heard it. You rolled your eyes. It was a sexist name created by a bunch of men far before your time.

“Woman of Letters.” You corrected, causing Dean to snort out a sarcastic laugh. He crouched down so he was face to face with you.

“Alright, Rosie the Riveter, why don’t you tell me how exactly you got here.” Dean offered, raising his eyebrows. You raised your own eyebrows back.

“I could ask you the same.” Your breath fanned Dean’s face. He ground his teeth in irritation and stood. With his eyes finally off of you, you let your mask of strength fall. Your breath quickened while you tried to think of a way out. Unfortunately, you were more book smart than street smart and your research had never gone into detail on how to fight off two asshole men once they had taken you prisoner. They were standing off to the corner and you could just barely catch what they were saying.

“-- can’t just leave her tied up, Dean.” The taller man spoke to who you now knew to be Dean. You narrowed your eyes at the name. Why did it sound so familiar?

“Well, we can’t let her go, Sammy!” Dean’s voice was insistent. Dean and Sammy. Sammy and Dean. You’d heard those names before.

“Winchester.” You breathed out. It caught their attention, throwing them off guard.

“What?” Sam asked, blinking at you. You looked up at him.

“Sam and Dean Winchester. Hunters.” You were talking mostly to yourself now, but what you were saying was putting the boys into a state of unease.

“How do you know that?” Dean stomped towards you, gun aimed at your forehead. You knew he wouldn’t shoot you. Despite your own opinions on hunters in general, you now realized how they were able to find the bunker. Henry Winchester. You were unsure of the details, but you were certain that their grandfather had somehow led them here. When Dean cocked the gun, you blurted out your next words.

“Your grandfather was a Man of Letters. I read about him in the texts.” You turned your head and squeezed your eyes shut. You flinched when you felt the gun move from your direction. The relief was short lived when you heard a knife unsheath. Maybe he was going to kill you.

“Please.” The pleading statement escaped your lips against your will as a final attempt to save your life. You may not have gone out much but you weren’t ready to die. Imagine how you felt when the ropes tangled around your wrists loosened. You immediately grasped at one of them, examining where the skin was rubbed raw.

“Now answer.” Sam’s voice was demanding. “How do you know about us?”

You pulled yourself to your feet. Your hair was mussed, clothing wet and wrinkled, and salt granules still clung to your chin. You walked to your workstation where your now cold coffee sat. The day of studying you had planned was now ruined.

“You guys are everywhere. News, social media, letters to loved ones.” You listed the sources you had learned about the Winchester brothers while returning the books to their rightful places. You heard two pairs of footsteps walking in your direction.

“Letters?” Dean was confused. Did you mean your own loved ones, or other people’s?

“Yeah. Some of the people you helped, and some families that you kind of didn’t,” you held a finger gun up to your head to help your words take meaning, “wrote of you to their aunts, uncles, grandparents. The letters were intercepted and copies were made for the archives here.” You gestured around you, though no information on the boys were in the room you were currently in. Sam tilted his head curiously.

“You stole mail?” The tall man asked, worried for any of his own letters. You turned to him defensively.

“I have allies in the postal offices, I gave the letters back.” You grabbed the handle of your mug, frowning when you felt the cold ceramic on your skin. You walked to the kitchen, Sam and Dean following behind you like lost puppies.

“Again, how did you become a Man--,” Dean winced at the look you shot him, “Woman of Letters?” You turned around to face the two men. They stared down at you, Dean looking skeptical and Sam curious to learn.

“My grandfather.” You blinked at them when their expressions didn’t change. “What?”

“The Men of Letters all died in the 1950’s.” Dean grumbled out. You rolled your eyes. He really needed to gain an imagination.

“Not him. He was here. Once my parents died,” -- this piqued Dean’s interest -- “I joined him and he inducted me into the society.” You decided you needed to clean up from the earlier interrogation. You pushed between Sam and Dean. Again, the men followed. The hall was decorated about the same as the library, sconces on the wall lighting the way to the living quarters. You twisted the knob on one of the doors to reveal a room that looked far more lived in than the rest of the bunker.

“Your parents are dead?” Dean asked as you fluttered about your room. You pulled a sweater off a hanger in the wardrobe. You looked to him while unbuttoning your shirt.

“Plane crash.” You knew he was asking how they died. It wasn’t from some enemy of the society or a supernatural force. It was a simple mistake made by a newly licensed pilot. You had your time to grieve over them, so voicing their deaths wasn’t difficult anymore. Dean’s eyes didn’t leave your body when you removed your soiled top. You replaced the garment with the sweater.

You interested him. You were too smart for your own good but somehow not stuck up like the other Men of Letters he had encountered. You also seemed to be the last member living, unknown to the rest of the world. Instead of continuing his questioning, he opted to wash the dirt and grime from his body.

“You got a shower around here somewhere?”

----

Night had fallen upon the world outside, but the bunker was unrestrained by the daylight. You were lounging in the library with a book in your lap. This book was for your own entertainment, consisting of silly plot lines and romance. You had shown Sam and Dean to the empty rooms, allowing them to take their pick. It had been hours since then and it was the last interaction you had with them. You were now wearing a matching silk pajama set and fuzzy socks, your slippers laying abandoned on the floor.

“How long have you been alone?” It was Sam, though you imagined Dean wasn’t far behind him. You closed your book before answering.

“Thirteen years.” You weren’t used to this much human interaction. Usually by this time you had your favorite songs playing through the bunker while you cooked your dinner.

“And your grandfather?”

“Cancer.”

“Oh.”

You smiled at Sam. You had heard stories of him and his brother. They varied in intensity, but the overall consensus was that they brought nothing but bad news with them. Sam had started the apocalypse, an event that had locked down the bunker until you had managed to get it to open back up. Dean had gone to Hell and back, literally. You wouldn’t admit it, but you had learned this from the horribly written Supernatural books.

All of these stories and yet, with Sam in front of you with his big brown eyes, you couldn’t help but think that the world was wrong for thinking these boys were anything but good. You knew what they had lost, who they had lost and how. Yes, you had experienced grief before, but you had lost your family to human tragedies. You hadn’t gotten close with anyone else after your grandfather, though you knew you needed to find members to take over your responsibilities once you died. You just weren’t good with people, not in the long term.

“He was old. It was inevitable.” You dismissed the pity on his face. Sam shrugged and joined you on the couch where you were stretched out. You moved your socked feet to make room for him to sit.

“You don’t leave the bunker?” Sam asked you, still confused as to how they had never heard of you. You shook your head.

“I leave for food and information, then I return. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“No friends?” You rolled your eyes at the question, though it did strike you as odd that you never had the urge to grow a connection with someone else.

“I don’t need friends, I have the texts.” You used as defense. Sam frowned at your words. Sure, he didn’t have the best track record with keeping relationships, but he had Bobby, Dean, and occasionally Castiel. You had no one.

“If you say so.” With Sam’s answer, a silence fell over the room. Despite the fact that you had just met the man, it was a comfortable silence. You had lived so long being alone with your only connection to the outside world being the television you had installed in your room. You knew pop culture references but had no one to tell them to. You were witty and sarcastic, but no one knew. You had come to peace with it long ago, but now you were thinking you shouldn’t have.

The sound of a door opening down the hall caught your attention. It was Dean, leaving his room to join you and Sam. He entered with a grin. He had decided, very uncharacteristically, to give you some trust. He wasn’t going to let you drive his car or put his life in your hands, but he would be kind to you. In a way, you reminded him of Charlie, in a non lesbian-little-sister kind of way. You gestured to the empty chair that stood near the couch and Dean accepted.

“Sorry for the whole salt and holy water thing.” Dean apologized after sitting. You crinkled your nose and brushed a thumb over your wrists. They were still red from earlier but brought no pain, only annoyance.

“You should be sorry for the bruise on the back of my thigh.” You reminded him of the blow he had landed on your legs. Dean winced at the memory. Not the best way to introduce himself, but he was on high alert at the time. You nodded at his response and looked to the the intricate rug that garnished the floor.

“Who taught you how to shoot?” Dean inquired. He remembered your weak stance and the fact that you still had the safety on the gun. You flushed at the fact that he had found something you lacked skill in. You could write wonderfully, recall every detail from a lecture or text, even pick your words eloquently. When it came to weapons and physical combat, you were no better than a child. Actually, a child could probably aim better than you.

“YouTube.” You mumbled to Dean. He laughed at the answer, which caused you to want to defend yourself.

“I’m not exactly used to being attacked down here. No one knows I exist.” You perked your head up with a new realization. “Though I suppose with the two of you here, I may be more susceptible to unsavory visitors.” You looked between the brothers. Now they were the ones wanting to defend themselves.

“We… you… monsters…” Dean sputtered out, but eventually came to the conclusion that you were correct. Evil beings would most likely come after them down here. You felt Dean’s next words, the ones that were going to tell you they were going to leave and you would never see them again. Something in you jumped to keep him from speaking.

“You can stay, of course, but you’ll need to teach me some techniques.” You offered the lifeline and Dean took it. He had never had a home growing up, not really. It was smelly motel to even smellier motel with stifling car rides with his dad in between. Now he had a place to return to, a room, a kitchen, a warm shower. It helped a pretty girl like you came with the space. He felt a draw to you unlike any before. No one, not even Lisa, had made him feel like this. He wanted to protect you, but he also wanted you to comfort him. He wanted your body and your mind, all of it, and he had only known you a few hours.

“It’s a deal.” Dean answered with Sam chiming in with a similar sentiment. You had a feeling these boys were here to stay.

----

“Hit me harder.” Dean growled out for the fourth time. It was late morning and the beginning of your training wasn’t going well. It had started out rough, with you only owning the business casual dress wear that made you look like a character straight out of a dark academia movie. After you were dressed in a pair of Dean’s sweatpants you could pull tight with the drawstring and a tank top, Dean had complained when Sam insisted on doing stretches before any sparring. Then came the actual punches.

You were weak, you knew that. You hadn’t taken a gym class since you were nine and only God knows the last time you even glanced at weights. You figured you could land a hit, but Dean hadn’t even flinched when you hit the block of padding he held in front of him. He pushed you to hit harder, but the repeated failures frustrated you. When you got frustrated, Dean felt the tension, which affected his mood. Now you were both angry in a space meant for fighting. Sam stood off to the side. He was getting the sense he would have to jump in soon to stop an argument from occurring.

“Shut up.” You muttered through gritted teeth and hit at the padding again. You looked to Dean for approval. He shook his head again.

“Harder.”

The word had been your final straw. You had woken up with the full intention to work at this until you succeeded. Though a small part of you had expected you would be instantly good at it. You didn’t like not being good at things, that was why you leaned toward more academic studies. You threw your hands down to your side and glared at Dean.

“I’m done.” You stomped out of the room. Dean shoved the padding into Sam’s chest and stalked after you. He wasn’t going to let you give up that easily.

“What if demons come?” Dean shouted out as he followed you to the kitchen. He was trying to give you real life scenarios, but you were having none of it.

“Let them kill me.” You didn’t mean it, you were just being stubborn. You drank water from the glass you had filled, chest heaving from exhaustion and rage. Dean watched you with eyes on fire. It seemed you two were going to butt heads more than expected.

“Then what happens, huh? There’s no one to take your place here if you’re dead!” Dean argued back. He knew it would strike at you. The Men of Letters were big on legacies and you had no heirs to stake claim on the bunker. You gritted your teeth together. You weren’t thinking anymore, you were just trying to get out of the uncomfortable situation.

“I would offer the place to you but your half-wit brain wouldn’t be able to keep up!” You shouted in his face and stormed away again. This time Dean didn’t follow you. He instead stretched his neck and glared at the wall. He wasn’t hurt by the words themselves, more at the reason why you had said them. He knew his strengths and they didn’t include reading books all day. You had aimed to hurt him, a fact that had him cursing ever wanting to trust you at all. There was a reason he was slow to let people in and you had just confirmed that instinct. Sam lumbered into the kitchen and watched as Dean ran a hand over his face.

“What was that?” Sam asked, arms outstretched in disbelief. Dean did a little shake of his head.

“She’s impossible.” He gestured with his hand to the way you had left. Sam sighed.

“She’s been alone for over a decade.” Sam reminded him. Dean shook his head again. He didn’t want to be rational right now. He knew why he was so angry. Every punch you didn’t land sent the image of your frightened doe eyes from yesterday flashing across his vision. You had been helpless to the invasion and he never wanted you to feel like that again. He just wasn’t ready to admit that right now.

“Doesn’t matter.” Dean crossed his arms. Sam scoffed at the reaction and rolled his eyes. You two were giving him a serious headache.

“Go apologize.” Sam offered. He knew this wouldn’t come without a fight. Just as he expected, Dean’s nostrils flared in refusal.

“No way.”

“Dean.”

“Sam.”

“Dean.”

“Listen, I’m not going to tell that bratty, selfish woman that I’m sorry for trying to help her not get ganked by something!” Dean lashed out on Sam. What he had failed to notice before his outcry was you, now dressed in your usual attire, strolling past the doorway to the kitchen. His words made you set your jaw in anger. You cleared your throat to get his attention. The moment Dean’s eyes fell on you his anger softened.

“If that’s how you really feel then maybe we should put an end to the training.” You bit out before continuing on your way to the garage. You needed to meet with your informant from city hall and the refrigerators were growing bare. You heard Dean calling your name, regret dripping in his tone, but you ignored him. If he wanted to talk nasty about you then he didn’t deserve your time.

[adnrewminyard]

my personal favourites are always aus because i'm a softie that likes seeing andreil find eachother in every universe so my top two recs are aus if that's something u like reading

quicksand by likearecord is a fantastic and really entertaining read, i reread it regularly and still giggle every time - there's a lot less trauma in this fic which makes it really good if you're in the mood for something lighthearted - kevin is andrew's roommate and neil is kevin's mysterious and peculiar little brother - i can't really elaborate further without spoiling it but it is worth the read

i've just finished finders keepers by moonix which i also rate really highly - the monsters take part in virtual team scavenger hunts for bonding time and kevin recruits a mysterious nathaniel into the team when nicky leaves for germany - I Wonder If He And Andrew Will Get Along,,,

to be honest as soon as i see anything was written by likearecord or moonix i know it's going to be good, and they both have a large amount of completed fics between them that are sure to take u a while to get through

y’all should send me favorite (completed) aftg fics i need fic recs

[hoseoksluna]

THE BALL OF LIGHT, i. | myg, jjk

pairing: friend!jeongguk x fem!oc (ft. brother!yoongi)

genre: fluff

word count: 2.9k

summary: life of other people never mirrored yours and jeon jeongguk will never be yours, either.

pin: ball of light / taglist: join / discord: join / masterlist: run

cp: ao3 / wp

warnings: smoking, suggestive but not described thoughts of nudity, pessimism, orphancy / the members in this series are fictional.

note: everybody, welcome the new series. it is a multiple member-centered fanfic, so the names you see in the title don't necessarily mean the pairing is endgame or anything like that. who the main love interest is will be a surprise that the fic will slowly reveal. trust the process with the first chapter. it's short on purpose and i will reveal the information and quicken the plot along the way. let me know what you think. reblogs and esp comments are mandatory unfortunately in the hoseoksluna house:/ ...... sfjsldfjsldfj ENJOY. i love u guys! should i crosspost it on wattpad? (im scared of wattpad)

… Or was his destiny from the start To be just one moment  Near your heart? 

(Ivan Turgenev)

— an epigraph from the book White Nights by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Your brother Yoongi was always the pair of hands that would tug your legs down whenever you would fly in your books for too long. He did it out of tender care and fatherly kindness, calling your name in order for you to come join him in the kitchen for a meal. To be some semblance of a family after the tragedy had sunk its teeth into your bloodline. And what you had never imagined was that one day, you’d have to leave him behind to step inside a dream of this very reality. 

Throughout the trajectory of your girlhood, you had lived inside the worlds of your books. Classical literature that carried more depth, more leniency, despite its hardships that the characters went through, than this world. The idea of love clung to you like a second skin, one you wouldn’t really receive from the two important roles in your life because you weren’t made out of love, but would find within flowery and difficult words of another time. Digging deep and understanding made you fall in love with it, seek it in school, in the streets and inside your own home, only to look and walk past those people still empty-handed. 

In spite of it all, your palms were, somehow, still heavy. As if they carried something invisible for worldly eyes. 

You would see it come to life whenever you would close yourself up in your room, with your folded legs, your short hair wild and with a book on your lap. Dostoyevsky taught you that love could be found upon a fateful coincidence and it marred you in a beautiful way that was pitifully disastrous. It forced your eyes to look for it everywhere, even through the reappearing pain of disappointment, and it especially forced you to look for it at home. 

The hope remained even after both of your parents went to the other side of this love, beyond this world. They passed away due to an unfair illness. And because they went at the same time, you often found yourself thinking if they loved each other in the realm of eternity, when they very seldom loved each other in this temporary realm. 

Your firm, ingrained dreaminess helped you cope with the sudden silence, the aftermath of your state of orphancy. You no longer had to reread a sentence in your book a thousand times, the once screeching voices beyond the door of your bedroom shunned out, dead, but still pulsing. The walls carried the ghosts of those parental fights and Yoongi… he, in his secret sensitivity to the paranormal, braided for you a bracelet of black thread. To keep you safe from those spirits, to help you heal. 

He didn’t have one of his own, and that fact faultlessly described the new role he clothed himself in within this abrupt change. He would stare at the walls with a cold gaze, threatening them with power if they ever made a sound. He sat more at the kitchen table now than he did at his music station in his room, spine hunched over a myriad of bills that would make him pull on his hair until a bald spot formed. On the left side of his head, just above his ear, where his amygdala bloomed with black flowers. 

You would come home from school, glide your eyes over his bare wrist pressed to his cheek,  and touch the tense muscles over his protruded shoulder blades. You saw, vividly, the way his new role tore him apart and you wanted to help him. Physically and emotionally. But Yoongi rejected your help, rejected the emotions you were so willing to smooth out and caress with the lines of your palm that knew love from the way you caressed the pages of your books. He would get up from the table, tell you to shower, and he would walk to the kitchen to prepare you a meal, a meatless one because meat was expensive. He would wash his hands in the sink, let the cold water hide the strands of hair he plucked out of stress. 

He would pretend that everything was fine when in reality, nothing was fine. 

Your parents didn’t leave you a dime, but they let you keep the house you and Yoongi grew up in. Left an unpaid mortgage in your hands instead of happy memories, instead of love. 

But Yoongi, he showed you love. He would show it to you by the way he would boil the water for you in the beginning of yours and his orphancy because he had no money to pay for the water bill and because all the money he had saved in his boyhood was used for funeral expenses. He would show it to you by the way your plate would have meat and his wouldn’t. And he showed it to you by the way he wouldn’t allow you to find a job and financially help him, but instead told you to focus on your degree. To focus on your dream. No matter how many times you pestered him that you could find a part-time job. 

No, your dreams require your full attention, he had said once, that Yoongi-coded frown shadowing his features. Go study. 

And so you bowed your head and silently left, retreating into your room while contemplating in your heart that Yoongi never knew what your dreams looked like. And neither did you. Not until they showed up right in front of you. 

It is a time perfumed by the upcoming winter, the November time of the present. Frost has been kissing each corner of glass one would stumble across in the city of Seoul, decorating it with its affection using its snowflakes. It’s what you’re looking at, perched with your shivering form on the bus stop with the only friend you ever had in your lifetime. 

Or a so-called friend. You don’t think you would use the term friendship with a guy like Jeongguk. 

He represented the unattainable aspect in the books you’ve read. The goal that hasn’t yet been reached. The agonized yearning that hangs by a thread around the character’s life. He embodied the aspect of pain itself—because if life had been a little kinder to you, he would be yours. 

Life, however, isn’t kind. 

Life is realistic.

You met the boy at a wrong time in his life. Passing by him on the stairway of your high school, you caught him in a tense, yet volatile situation of an emotional kind. Spring, still reminiscent of winter, had wrapped itself around your nineteen years of age, and you, dreaming a strange dream that you couldn’t wake up from, ran late for your class. You hadn’t spoken to him prior this fateful day, though you knew of his existence. He was just a background character that you didn’t pay any attention to until he blazed up with life and the sparks of sensitivity on that empty staircase. And you couldn’t take the other way; you couldn’t turn around and miss the class. You had to walk by him and his girlfriend at the time while they were in the middle of an argument that shook through the echo of the space. 

You walked by them, but the encounter changed your life. It changed your life because Jeongguk’s cheeks were tearstained, glistening in the uncanny white of the staircase. His eyes were fixed on yours, his eyelashes wet and long—prettily, so terribly prettily. You quietly apologized, running up the stairs as rapidly as you could, and his eyes did not leave yours until you were out of his view. And then you heard the shuffling of feet and where there was an absolute turmoil, silence replaced it. 

Jeongguk found you that very day. 

Alarm was eclipsed over those puffy eyes, his eyelashes no longer wet, but still long, so terribly pretty. You were on your way out, exiting the building, when he grabbed a hold of your backpack, stopping you from disappearing. And when you gazed back with absolute horror, your short bob swishing around you, Jeongguk smiled a soft half-smile, which thinned out that negative emotion—as if he did it on purpose, not wanting to scare you. 

What’s your name? he started with a question, his shoulders slouched and drooping, an evident tiredness misting him in a drowsy aura. His voice was strained, bubbling in his throat as if he either screamed his vocal cords raw or didn’t speak for a while, choosing silence. Both options turned your heart upside down, painfully. You felt a greater pity for him than you ever have for someone in your lifetime—and that was the beginning of all your firsts with him. 

When you said your name, Jeongguk averted his gaze and nodded his head. You expected him to ask you which year you were born, but he kept his eyes low as he uttered the words, which made your pity for him grow into a bare tree  with just one twig, a seemingly singular wing, within you. 

I don’t know how much you heard, but Ka-eun didn’t do anything wrong. It was a misunderstanding and I would appreciate it if you kept it to yourself. 

You had heard a female screaming, seething voice, but due to your sleepy state, you hadn’t made out what those words actually were. But remembering the tears dripping off of his lashes, you realized how hurtful those words thrown at his must had been. And while you thought about this all, Jeongguk took your hand, pried open your fingers and fished out of his pocket a small banana milk. 

Ka-eun, the it-girl of the high school. Jeongguk protected her reputation, in spite of the fact that she didn’t deserve it at all. 

That was the kind of person Jeongguk was. 

It wasn’t the only encounter you had with him. He would smile at you and greet you while passing you in the halls. Would put banana milks sometimes on your desk early in the morning. Would sit beside you at lunch when he wasn’t on speaking terms with her. And he would confide in you while knowing nothing about you. 

That’s the reason why you can’t call your intertwinement with Jeongguk a friendship. Certainly not, after the person he became when uni life spread its roots in yours and his and he chose the one opposite of yours. 

The faculty of medicine stood facing your faculty of philosophy and literature, and Jeongguk, wearing his green scrubs and his oversized hoodie, would meet you during lunch breaks, insisting that you spend it together because he didn’t know anyone else and he was too anxious to meet new people because of what Ka-eun put him through. 

But Jeongguk didn’t eat. Not so much like he used to. 

The trauma and the difficulty of his field forced him to turn to cigarettes. And him blowing out the smoke the other way so you don’t inhale it while eating your lunch made another twig, another wing begin to grow on your tree within your chest for him. 

You didn’t love him, but he was kind to you and he meant something to you. You never loved a man, besides Yoongi and Dostoyevsky. And Jungkook puffing out the smoke like that, he reflected Yoongi and his brotherly love for you in a way that made you dream. Dream about a romantic love that everyone else seems to have so easily, except for you. About that romantic love you read about in your favorite Dostoyevsky book White Nights. 

But perhaps the affinity you had for Jeongguk was some kind of love that the books haven’t written about, at least later on. A kind of non-romantic love that you, yourself, came up with. A love that meant nothing in this world, but everything to you. A love that blazed up like the tip of Jeongguk’s cigarette that he lit up for you at the beginning of autumn of this year, letting you try it out just because he felt like it. 

Another first that has become a habit. 

You didn’t have money of your own to spend it on packs of cigarettes, but Jeongguk did. And he’s never been the kind of person who was stingy. He would give himself if he could, and it completes him—the act of giving and the other person’s response of receiving. 

His eyes burst with light at this very moment, a few months later, just like they did the first time when he lit up a cigarette for you. Though this time, you don’t need his help. You feel their heat, in the middle of this frosty bus stop, as he watches you place the cigarette he pulled up from his pack for you, his own hanging from his lips, unlit. He always waits for you to light up your own first like the gentleman he is, but something about his gaze is different. You sense their intensity, their foreign, foreign intensity that you don’t think is meant for you. And when you take that first puff, you expect it to leave you—like you’ve learned that it always does—but for some reason it doesn’t. 

There’s depth to the eye contact once you reciprocate it. Murkiness descends upon the pair of you, the sun parting ways with the day in a much quicker way that you still haven’t gotten used to. And along with it, a light layer of snow begins to fall. 

Something is meaningful about it—like it should be written down. Jeongguk’s eyes of lingering seriousness, pensive. The snowflakes that settle upon his ebony hair. How silky they must be to the touch. Always so poofy and voluminous. 

Your hands itch to write and Jeongguk doesn’t ask for his pink lighter back. He merely keeps staring, and you start to think that maybe something is weighing his heart heavily. Something personal that he will soon pour out. Like he always does. 

You’re the listener, never the talker, but something inside you urges you, strangely, to make the first move. Get him talking, get him smoking, so he can go home, go to bed and awake with a fresh consciousness, ready to be filled with anatomy, sicknesses and all the other stuff he needs to cram. 

The hand that longs to write lifts, and it feels natural. It feels natural to flick your thumb on the lighter and call fire to life. It feels natural when Jeongguk purses his lips, lifting the cigarette in the process, and holds it up for you while his hands remain warm in the pockets of his oversized black jacket. It feels natural to watch him suck in, the cheeks that carry too many memories of his tears hollowing out. 

And for a second that is too brief, you let your soul imagine what it would be like… to have Jeongguk as your boyfriend. 

To have the full, ceaseless measure of his love. The one that is meant for the better people, but not for you. 

To have his hands touch your skin in a way that would convey what he feels for you— 

“Have you told your brother yet?” 

Too, too brief, that second. Internally, you take your imagination and sew it shut with a pink thread. Pastel pink, like his lighter. 

The question aches as if you pricked your heart with the needle. You haven’t told Yoongi that you smoke one cigarette a day with a boy after school. You haven’t even told your journal. All in fear that the only life you ever managed to experience out of the realm of your books would simply disperse, never to be found again. 

In fear that Yoongi would be mad and you’d add another layer of stress on top of his already high pile. In fear that he would yell at you like your father did over meaningless things. 

“No,” you respond, softly, dropping your gaze to the ashy tip of your cigarette, flicking it off. The prickling sensation deepens as the iciness of the weather grows. You shiver, sighing. The tree in you does as well. “I’ll never tell him. Never—”

“Never in a million years,” he finishes for you, and your mouth parts in the overwhelming realization that you were wrong. 

Jeongguk does know something about you. He remembers that this is a sentence that repeats in your vocabulary multiple times a day. And there’s such intimacy to it, him knowing this, him finishing the sentence for you, him being educated in the matter that bears your name. 

Or perhaps not. Perhaps you’re too starved of any male attention, love and touch. 

Your imagination in you fights against the seam. 

“What happens if he sees you?” Jeongguk asks, and you pause before replying. Take a puff of your cigarette, watch as a miniscule star of mischief begins to live within the macadamia chocolate of his eyes—as if the principle of him secretly corrupting you utterly enthralls him. You picture that’s what he smells like underneath all those clothes of his, your imagination poking a finger through the seam. And you let it—you let it grasp you because it’s stronger than you. 

Macadamia, musk, cedarwood. 

The kind of lustful smell that is dark to the sight, but innocent in its core. 

Behind him, the blue murkiness fully evens out, no hint of the sun’s coloring painting its corners with positivity. Pessimism abides, and you feel it burying itself into your literature-woven bones. 

You’ve been waiting twenty minutes for the bus, Jeongguk even longer for his. The roads are long and empty, darkening the longer you stand here. The snow forms a firm layer on the ground, and you already anticipate Yoongi’s anger-infused worry, crawling all over you. 

You turn to look at Jeongguk, your blood flow at full halt. 

“War happens, Jeongguk,” you say, swallowing thickly. “If Yoongi and I see each other outside of the walls of our house.”

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @jjk7k , @tkslovechild , @euphoricmyth , @cinmmongirl , @ririkookiemonster , @perfectiondazesworld , @https-mei , @bangtansonyeondanue , @jungkoock , @cinmmongirl , @hoseokkie-caeks , @kam9404 , @fr0ggieth1nk , @parkinglot-nights

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[seraphicloves]

𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆

⊱✿⊰ summary: your bestfriend asks you to teach him how to please a woman

⊱✿⊰ warnings: fingering, kissing, touching boobies, fem reader, SMUT WRITTEN BY A MINOR (dont report jst block pls), part one out two maybe, title from a wattpad book I read ifykyk

⊱✿⊰ notes: uhm so im slightly afraid to write smut abt a character ik my sister likes especially since she is in tumblr and knows my account. but like this idea is too good to pass up im sorry gang. Sissy if you see this dont judge ☠️ in fact dont mention it to me unless you liked it

im sorry for sinning 😔

"you want me to...what?" you asked, staring incredulously at the boy in front of you. his hair was a flaming pink, hiding his face in his hoodie. but you really had to hear him again, make sure you knew exactly what he was asking you to do.

"i want you to t-teach me," he stuttered, peeking a glance at you, "how to touch a g-girl."

so you hadn't misheard him originally, he really wanted you to show him the ropes on...sex? you could feel your heart speed up, imagining having his hands on you.

fuck, if you didn't already have a crush on idia this might just take you over the edge. it was to no surprise he was a virgin, he was a major recluse. but the fact he wanted to learn how to have sex, how to take care of the woman? that was more exciting than the actual thought of fucking him. (that was a lie but nobody needs to know that.)

he must've taken your silence negatively because he immediately groaned and said, "just forget it. it was a bad idea to even ask, i'm sorry."

before you could even think about it, you said quickly, "no,no don't be sorry. i'll do it; i'll teach you."

now it was his turn to give you a shocked look, surprised you had agreed. maybe it's weird for two friends to have sex, but you weren't sure you and idia had ever had a fully normal friendship. and if this is the only way you can have him close, then so be it.

but starting off strong might scare him off from the idea of sex - and romance - for the rest of his life. so you ought to start small, very very small.

you got closer until you could feel the warmth of his skin aganist yours, feeling his breath aganist your cheek. you gently grabbed his face, holding onto him delicately. your hands cupped his cheeks, as though he was your whole world and you were trying to contain it between your two palms.

"we can start with kissing," you whispered, watching the way he trembled when your lips brushed aganist the corner of his mouth. he was nervous, so delightfully scared you couldn't help but feel a flutter of excitement in the bottom of your tummy.

he swallowed and nodded, eyes wide and unsure. but that was alright, as long as you were the confident one for him. you brought his face closer to yours until you were kissing.

it was...awkward at first. he smashed his lips aganist yours, accidentally crashing his teeth into you. but then he tried again- softer this time. he savored your taste, letting you tilt his head this way and that to maximize the delicate sensations.

once he got more used to your kisses, you got closer. close enough you were quite literally straddling his lap. his bulge poked into your thigh, coaxing the fire in your core you hadn't even realized turned into an inferno.

you kissed him again, more insistent this time. your hands tangled in his hair, tugging on it until he let out a pretty little moan. you took the opportunity to slide your tongue into his waiting mouth, allow your muscle to explore him. to utterly and entirely devour him.

idia whined, pulling away for a moment. he blinked, cheeks flushed and his expression ful of wide eyed wonder. you felt your lips curve into a smile, the slightest flicker of pride when you realized you caused your friend to look like that.

"i want to t-touch you," he huffed, whispering your name like it was a confession of sin. perhaps it was, after all you were now a teacher of seduction. the lecturer of debauchery.

"patience, baby." you said, patting his cheek. he glared at you half heartedly, though it quickly vanished when you rolled your hips ever so teasingly. he groaned, eyebrows knitted together as though he was trying to concentrate on holding himself together.

"i've been patient." idia argued, lifting his hands from his sides to squeezing your hips. it felt nice, the large expanse of his palm pressed aganist the squish of your hips. squeezing it, kneading it...

"alright alright." you laughed, focusing on idia instead of the wetness collecting in your underwear. fuck, how was he getting to you so effortlessly?

now you had to figure out how to possibly get idia to not combust into flames at seeing you naked. (though a small, devious, part of you enjoyed the idea.)

"tell me to stop if it gets to be too much." you said softly, pulling off from his lap. you missed the contact, but it didn't matter much. you would be much closer in a matter of moments.

a strange part of you enjoyed having him stare so intently as you pulled off your clothes, letting each item crumple to the ground. his eyes were so wide, his hair that pretty pink flaming behind him.

you pulled off your underwear until you were left there entirely exposed to your best friend. his eyes were everywhere, scanning every inch of you as if you were a new puzzle for him to solve.

"you're so pretty," he whispered, his voice almost achingly raw. his hands clenched the fabric of his pants, as if he was wishing to reach out and touch you.

"alright, idia." you said, clearing your throat from the sappy and decidedly not friendly feelings forming. you crawled back into the bed, patting it so he was sitting in front of you.

despite your initial hesitance, you laid on the bed and opened your legs for him. you let him stare at your pussy, practically drooling. although you were growing antsy for his hands on, and inside, you. so you didn't last very long with only his eyes caressing your skin.

you sat up and grabbed his hand, placing it on your tit. he practically jumped in his skin, letting out a surprised sound. but it could partially be due to the fact your nipple had hardened so quickly under his touch, pebbled and ready for him to play with.

"most girls need quite a bit of foreplay before the whole sex thing," you explained, trying to remember the whole reason you were in this situation was because he wanted to learn how to pleasure a woman. "and boobs are pretty sensitive so its good to play with."

he nodded, still fondling your breasts in his hands. he glanced at you, as though needing one last ounce of permission before he touched you fully. so you gave it to him, nodding and laying down.

a squeal was ripped from your lips when he suctioned his lips to your nipple, pinching your other. how the fuck did he learn that?

idia popped his mouth off your tit and gave you an anxious look, "i'm sorry! i heard that was something people do and i wanted to try but i didn't realize you might not-"

"its okay, idia." you interrupted, not wanting him to stress over something as silly as your noises, "i made that noise because it feels good. if i don't like something i'll tell you, okay?"

he frowned a bit, blushing, but overall nodded. then as if he was on a mission, he went back to licking and sucking on your nipples. he altnerated between them, making sure they recieved equal attention.

"idia," you said, though it ended up sounding a bit more like a whine. your pussy was feeling neglected, the cool air hitting aganist the slick to make you even more sensitive.

you grabbed his hand, trailing it down your stomach and lower until it brushed aganist your wet folds. he let out a shocked gasp, reanimating his hand and collecting some of the slick.

"you're so wet," he murmured, sort of exploring your pussy like it was some sort of invention he wanted to know how was made. you bit your lip to hide your whimper, wishing he could just find your clit and help you already.

"ngh, fuck," you groaned, giving up on letting him explore. you were needy enough that your head was spinning, your bones were melting.

"can you find go a bit higher, find my-" your voice was cut off when he found your clit, his eyes on your face the entire time. they were wide and innocent, examining your reactions like he was going to write a lab report about it.

he rubbed it in rough circular motions, slightly harsh that tinged the edges of your pleasure with pain. but overall he was doing a good job, even more so when you told him to rub your bundle of nerves more gently.

"do you just watch a lot of, ah, porn?" you asked, your hips twitching whenever he pinched that sensitive bud.

he gave you a shy look and shrugged, "i g-guess. i just tried learning about this online but it's not the same."

you nodded, knowing that was true. if you could get real dick online you'd be a lot more relaxed than you usually are. those with lack of orgasms tended to be rather high strung.

"well you're doing a good job, idia." you said, giving him a smile. it was slightly breathless, broken up by the whimperish sounds you were making. idia seemed to like them though, knowing he was causing you to feel that way.

"put your fingers inside, y-yeah, fuck," you sighed, "just like that."

his fingers were longer than they were thick, filling you up in ways you didn't realize those particular appendages could. he kept them there without moving for a moment, unsure, but when you nodded he started pumping them in and out. he started with two fingers, god were you really that wet? how down bad were you for this man?

"mhm, shit." you mewled, bucking your hips up when he curled his fingers inside of you. he wa still rubbing your clit as he did this, remembering what you taught him.

your core tightened, closer and closer to the edge of ecstasy. it was like being on a roller coaster, waiting for the drop. it was going higher, higher, higher still. pausing right at the edge, teetering to make you feel even more blissful when you rushed down.

"fuck, fuck, idia!" you whined all of a sudden, feeling your orgasm slam aganist you. your pussy gushed, creaming around his fingers. your cunt clenched, tightening around his fingers like a vice.

once you came down from your high, you blinked in awareness cutting through the haze of lust. you hadn't even touched idia, was he upset? technically this was about him learning how to touch a girl but it felt embarrassing you came when he didn't.

he pulled his fingers out of you, wiping them with a napkin. so you sat up, ready to ask him if he wanted you to return the favor when your eyes fell on to the very apparent dark spot on the front of his jeans. oh.

he noticed you looking and said loudly, "stop looking! i know it's such a noob move of me but leave me alone! i'm still learning the control to this game."

you laughed in surprise, a bit amused that he was still acting normal. and to be honest you were flattered he came in his pants just at watching you.

"i'm not making fun of you, idia. it happens, okay?" you said, patting his hand slightly. he watched you but nodded, his face still that pretty bright red.

"alright well i got to get dressed before somebody walks in and realized what we were doing." you said grabbing your clothes and hurrying to the bathroom to hide the way your heart fluttered.

you were in big big trouble. now that you've felt his hands on you, how would you ever go back to normal? to just being friends when all you wished was to be his and for him to be yours. maybe you won't get his love, but at least you had his lust for this fleeting moment.

lori © 2024. please don't copy, modify, or do anything weird with my writing! i like reblogs and comments but please be kind as this was my writing.

[mphoenix-7]

Bitter Allies [Soap x Reader]

Chapter 1: The Mission

Book Summary: John "Soap" MacTavish has hated you since the very first day you arrived on base and joined their Task Force. You argue all the time, and one day, it pushes Captain Price to his absolute limit. He sends you both away to an isolated cabin in the woods for a week in hopes you can put aside your differences and bond. Will it work? Or will you two just end up hating each other even more?

This is a slow burn enemies to lovers fan fiction featuring Soap and you, the reader.

Word Count: 5,585

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, Soap is mean, like really mean, smut later to come, rough smut, lots of swearing, violence, descriptive, blood, angst, fluff, slow burn, (more to come as I write)

A/N: Just a reposting of my story on Wattpad to help generate attention for it! Please go give it some love if you’re liking it so far. My user name is Emily7love or just look up the title.

Master List | Next ->

Bitter Allies • Part 1

"Bravo 7-1, this is Bravo 0-7, give me a sit rep on your position, over."

Soap is currently kneeling in some brush, staring at the small military camp in front of him when the radio call comes through. Despite the fact that he'd most likely need to be adjusting the volume up soon on his ear piece, he still turns it down a little for now.

"This is Bravo 7-1, I've been in position. Waiting on 7-4 to move her ass." He all but growls back to Ghost. His hand tenses on his rifle at even saying those numbers. Bravo 7-4.

You were Bravo 7-4. Also known as (y/n) "States" (l/n). The all too grumpy Sergeant by the callsign Bravo 7-1 was John "Soap" MacTavish. Also known as the biggest pain in your ass since you joined up with Captain Price's Task Force about six months ago.

Now anyone who knew Soap would be shocked to hear you say that you thought he was literally the worst and most insufferable human being to ever stain the Earth. To everyone else, Soap was a funny, charismatic, rather easy-going, and quite friendly guy. Everyone loved Soap. He was the golden boy of the Task Force, of the entire base. People were just naturally drawn to him, and his warm personality.

You can't say you blame people for being shocked when they learn just how much you can't stand him. Cause all those things about Soap were true. He was funny, and friendly, and relaxed, and just a great guy to be around. He was all those things when he wasn't around you. The second you stepped into the picture, his amused grin turned into a stiff scowl. His sparkling eyes turned hard. His relaxed posture turned rigid.

Yeah, John "Soap" MacTavish hated you. And you hated him.

Why did he hate you? You weren't entirely sure. It just seemed like it has always been that way since day one.

You transferred into the Task Force at the request of Captain Price himself. Originally, you had been stationed at a military base in the United States, where you were from. Then one day your commanding officer called you into his office and told you that you'd been given a new assignment. You would be working with a British Task Force across the pond for the next year. A group of four SAS men. If things worked out, then you'd be staying there indefinitely.

You'd been thrilled at the news. You didn't join the military only for the benefits and the opportunity to serve, but for the opportunity to travel and to potentially live somewhere else in the world. Getting to be that while also being SAS was the dream. You worked so hard to get to where you were today. Sleepless nights of studying, hard days of working out and trying to improve and hone your skills, and now it was finally happening. You were being sent off to a new base and a new team. And not just any team, an elite task force. You'd finally been selected.

You met the whole team day one of your arrival. The first person you met was Captain John Price. He was a friendly but very stern man. The no nonsense type of guy. He gave you a tour of the base, and showed you to the female barracks. Once you were semi-settled in (all your belongings piled into your room) you went to meet the other members of your new Task Force.

Price introduced you to each teammate. They'd all been in his office by the time you and Price showed up. Two had been seated, and one was standing despite there being enough chairs. That had been Soap.

"Alright you lot, here she is. This is (y/n) (l/n). Straight from across the pond." Price introduced you. "(Y/n), these are boys of the 141. This is Sergeant Kyle Garrick."

"You can also call me Gaz." Kyle fills in, giving you a nod and a handshake. "It's nice to have someone from the States joining us." He was the one responsible for your callsign being States.

"This is your Lieutenant. Simon Riley. He goes strictly by Ghost." Price continues. Ghost doesn't make a move to shake your hand. He just stayed quiet. Didn't even give you a nod of any kind. Quite intimidating coming from a guy wearing a skull over his face. "And lastly, this is-"

"Soap." The man barks out before Price can say anything. You remember hearing Price sigh before finishing his sentence. "Sergeant John MacTavish."

"You can call me Soap though. Nothing else." His voice was harsh, and carried a tone of warning. If you to call him by anything else other than his callsign, there were going to be harsh consequences.

His arms were folded across his chest, and he'd glared at you during the whole introduction. It made you so nervous, the reactions you got from both Soap and Ghost. Price assured you later though that they would come around. They just needed to warm up to you. He'd been 50% correct.

At the time, Ghost had been the most terrifying of three, and the one you worried you wouldn't be able to connect with (boy had you been foolish). At the time though, Soap had at least said something to you. Ghost never said a word or even acknowledged you. And when Ghost did talk to you, it was always in a gruff voice like you were annoying him. But over time, you came to realize that was just who Ghost was. It wasn't anything personal. He was like that with literally everyone. It was rare to catch him laughing or to hear his gruff voice become lighter.

Soap, on the other hand, also spoke to you the way Ghost did, but he only used that tone with you. He was so cheery and light when speaking with the guys. Even with strangers, his voice may have been slightly more gruff, but never as harsh as when he spoke to you.

His personality was vastly different around the others as well. Whereas he could joke, laugh, and relax around them, he was the opposite around you. You thought for a moment that maybe he was sexiest and just didn't like women, though every woman he spoke to around base, he was the kindest and most respectful guy.

Now six months later, not much had changed. Soap still spoke to you in a gruff voice. He still scowled when you entered a room. He still glared at you any time he needed to look at you. He had gotten more "comfortable" around you. But really that just meat he was far more comfortable with insulting you directly. From the way you shoot to the way you eat, he could find anything to gripe about. And eventually, you decided that if he was going to be difficult, then you'd return the favor.

The first time you insulted him back, he looked shocked, then just flat out angry. Your encounters went from quiet insults being thrown back and forth and dirty looks to all out yelling at each other. Never physical fights, but Soap had punched a hole in the wall during one particularly bad argument.

The others couldn't stand you fighting. Gaz would do everything in his power to keep you separated and distracted from each other so you wouldn't start. Ghost tried to never be involved, but he would sometimes break up the fights by using his scary lieutenant voice and sending you both to different parts of the base to cool off. Price... he got the most upset. He was normally so calm under pressure but hearing you and Soap bicker pushed him to the limit. He'd yell at you both until he turned red and then normally punish you by making you do extra cleaning, harder workouts, or something else just as labor intensive.

You lost count of how many times you'd been in his office with Soap, getting reprimanded on your behavior. One of the worst had been when Soap actively tried to get you kicked off the team while you were sitting right there.

"She is a right pain in the arse, Price! I didn't even start it this time!" He claims, doing everything he could not to look at you.

"Oh blow it out your ass, Soap. You were giving me a look."

"Then don't fucking look at me." Soap growls through his teeth.

Price slams his fist onto the table, making you both jump a little and halt your bickering for a moment. "Can you two shut the hell up? It's just constant with you. I have had a headache for five fucking days cause of you idiots. What is it going to take for you two to get along?"

Soap is quick with his answer. "All this could be solved if you just deported her little ass back to the US. Seriously Price, she's caused nothing but trouble since she got here."

"I am right here, Soap." You huff out a laugh, not too shocked he'd say something like that though.

"I wish you weren't." He throws back, making Price intervene again.

"Enough! She's not going anywhere, Soap. Whether you like it or not, she brings in a skill set we are missing in this team."

"Like hell she doesn't! We can find someone else." He argues, earning a glare from Price.

"She is staying. I signed a contract that she stays for a year. If we break that, we lose our funding, our reputation, and a whole lot more." Price says, making Soap cross his arms and sit back in his chair.

"So after however many months she has left, we can get rid of her?"

"You'll be lucky if I keep you once your contract expires!" He shouts at Soap, which shuts the Scot up. Sighing, Price continues. "I will reassess at the end of year once States' contract has expired." He says more calmly, which makes your heart sink and Soap smirk.

You were dismissed then, but Price had you stay back. Probably to keep you and Soap from walking with each other, but he also has a few words for you. He reassured you that you were doing great. That you truly did bring a lot to their team and that he was happy to have you there.

"Are you going to send me back at the end of the year?" You'd asked him before you left, looking over your shoulder by the door while he stayed seated at his desk.

"Don't worry about that now, States. But know, I like having you here, and remember, it takes both of to sign the renewal contract."

That gave you hope. Price most likely would want to keep you, but he was also going to leave it up to you to decide whether or not you wanted to stay. At the same time, if things continued the way they were, it wasn't going to be good for team morale. If Price had to pick between you and Soap, you were sure he'd pick Soap. He'd been with the team longer and knew them far better than you did. This was your dream though. Being SAS. It could take years before you got another team. You liked Price, Ghost and Gaz. Could you live with Soap?

That meeting was only three weeks ago. You'd been with the Task Force for almost six months. Halfway through.

Your current mission landed you in Naryn, Kyrgyzsta. You were hunting down a military leader, General Azamat, who was accused of doing an illegal arms deal with Russia. Photos and weeks of gathering intel suggested he was guilty and currently at this military base in Naryn.

This was purely a stealth mission first. You and Soap were tasked with infiltrating the small military base while Ghost provided overwatch. There were three security stations. One on the East, what Soap was in position for, the South, the one you were headed towards now, and the West, where you and Soap would meet to take out the last one.

The East and South stations were backup generators and needed to be taken out first before the main one to the South was. That way you kept the element of surprise and didn't need to worry about the backups going online. After that, your troops would push in and secure the base, capture the military leader, and you could all go home.

Soap had given the update on his position, saying he was where he needed to be, about two minutes ago. Two fucking minutes ago. And he was already griping that you weren't to your position yet. His words rang in your ear through your comm earpiece.

"This is Bravo 7-1, I've been in position. Waiting on 7-4 to move her ass."

"Calm down, I'm almost fucking there. Don't be so impatient." You growl back. "Seriously Ghost, how do you even deal with him?"

"Haad yer wheesht." Soap growls at you, some Scottish slang you don't understand. No doubt he was telling you to shut the fuck up or something along those lines.

"Either speaking fucking English or don't speak, MacTavish." You bark, voice getting a little too loud for a stealth mission. Even if you weren't too close to the camp yet, there could be patrols you needed to be mindful of.

"How about you fucking learn about other's cultures and then we wouldn't have this problem. And don't call me MacTavish."

"I do know about other's cultures! I just don't care to know about the one that you came from." You throw back before Ghost gets involved.

"Shut it. Now. Not another word. Fuck's sake." You could practically see Ghost shaking his head. "States, how long till you're in position?" Ghost asks, directing attention back to the mission.

"Give me two minutes."

"Bloody fucking Jesus." You hear Soap mummer through the comms.

You take a deep breath to try and focus your energy back on your current tasks. Soap was not going to get in your head and mess this up for you. For anyone else, he would have stayed quiet. In fact, it probably wouldn't have even bothered him.

"Hold up, 7-4." You hear Ghost say to you after about 30 seconds of creeping your way to your position. "You've got a small patrol further up from your position. Just over the hill. Two men, I don't see anyone else. When you're in range, get a good shot of one, and I'll dump the other for you."

"On it. Thanks Ghost." You whisper back, readying your rifle and trying to be as silent as you can while you approach the men.

"You telling me it's gonna be even longer now." Soap complains, making you roll your eyes.

"I'm sorry your side didn't have rough terrain or anyone to fight off, Soap." You tell him sarcastically. "Some of us didn't get the easy baby route to take."

"I'll have you know I took down two fucking patrols all by myself while I made my way over here. And I didn't have Ghost's help to do it either."

"Fuck you." You growl at him.

"What did I bloody fucking say?" Ghost growls, his lieutenant voice coming out. You curse yourself as you let it happen again. Just ignore the Scot and focus on what's ahead.

"In position, Ghost. I see them. Clear sight on both, your call."

Ghost does the quick calculations in his head as he prepares his shot, trying to determine which of the two men he had a better chance of taking out. "The one with the flashlight is mine. Dump is mate. In three, two..."

You both took the shot, Ghost pulling his trigger just a millisecond before you to account for the distance. He landed a clean headshot while your first bullet landed more in the shoulder of your guy. You took a quick second shot, which finished the job with another headshot.

"He's down. Clean shots. Though try for the head first next time." Ghost quips. There was no malice in his words. Just Ghost joking around to ease tension. Soap clearly needed to take lessons from Ghost on how to tell a joke without being a total ass about it.

"Noted. Thanks for the advice, 0-7." You banter back, earning a scowl and an eye roll from Soap.

"Less talking, more getting to where you're supposed to be." Soap cuts in, ending the fun you'd been having with Ghost.

"Don't get your skirt in a knot. I'm in position." You huff, pulling out your binoculars and scouting the area. Despite this base housing a military leader, and having two back up generators, they really didn't have much security. No walls, no floodlights. Just a few patrols outside. They weren't expecting trouble.

"It's a bloody kilt. Not a skirt." Soap seethes, his jaw clenched. At this rate, he wasn't going to be able to finish this mission. Everything about you was just pure annoyance to him.

"Yeah whatever you want to tell yourse-"

"Are you two going to be able to finish this mission or am I going to have to pull you both from it?" Ghost barks over the comms, clearly fed up now.

You feel your face flush hot in embarrassment. Ghost has never threatened to remove you from a mission before. You've always been good and reliable. You can't fail and have it on your record that you were pulled from a mission due to not being able to get along with others. That was a death sentence for your career with the SAS.

"No, sir. Sorry, 0-7." You apologize, not hearing anything from Soap's end. He was probably pouting and internally cursing you for getting him in trouble, even though this was all his fault. "Going to head out for the South station. Bravo 7-4 going dark." You turn your radio from the public channel between you three to a private one used only for emergencies. At least now you wouldn't be able to hear Soap for a little bit.

Soap hears your radio beep once, signaling to him you'd disconnected for a moment while you advance towards your target goal. Once you had, he huffs and takes a moment to squeeze his eyes shut and collect himself.

"I can't fucking stand her, Ghost." He complains to his friend. "Why the hell did Price ever think it was a good idea to put us together on a mission?" He looked out into the field, making out the little shadow of you making your way slowly to the base.

"She's part of the team, Soap. Price has his reasons. Just focus on the mission and make it work." Ghost replies, not offering too much help aside from stating the obvious and putting Soap's mind back in the field. "Better get going. Your path is clear right now."

Soap sighs heavily and stretches out his neck a bit by tilting his ears toward each shoulder. One side pops a little, only relieving a little tension. "Alright. Bravo 7-1 going dark." He clicks his radio to the private channel and begins to make his way to the East backup generator's building.

By the time Soap reaches his building, you are already working your way inside the South building thanks to the small head start you got. You stick to the shadows as much as you can, thoughts wandering to Soap from time to time. Wondering if he's cleared his building already or if he ran into trouble. Then again, if it was really bad, he could have contacted you or Ghost and there would have been alarms going off. And as much as you hated him, you had to admit he was really good at this kind of stuff. Sweeping through a place and clearing it out. Quick and clean. Of course he'd never ever hear you utter any praises directed at him.

Your building wasn't too heavily guarded. You assumed most of their men were either asleep in the barracks, standing guard of where the military leader was staying, or off patrolling areas they deemed more important than the backup generators. The main building to the West would have most of their patrols since it was the more important building. That was the reason you and Soap needed to work on clearing it together.

You managed to clear your building fairly quickly with only one close call. One guard had seen you shoot someone else, but you managed to take them out before they could radio for backup, and no one seemed to have heard him yell. Once cleared, you plugged in the flash drive and uploaded the virus it contained to make the generator go offline.

You bring a hand to your radio and speak into it. "This is Bravo 7-4, generator down, South building secure. I repeat, generator down. Heading to the West building to the rendezvous now." You begin to head out the way you came in as Ghost speaks to you over the comms.

"This is Bravo 0-7. Confirm. You're all clear." Ghost responds.

"You got a sit rep on our precious Bravo 7-1?" You ask, forgetting to switch over from the private channel. You duck behind some ammo boxes and sneak along them, not expecting to get an answer from Soap. You expected him to be busy still and not on the public channel that you thought you were on. Before Ghost can answer, 7-1 graces you with a response.

"States, shut your fucking mouth and switch your radio over to public. How the hell did you get selected when you can't even use a damn radio." He snarls, making you pause. Soap's words always kinda stung a bit, but some more than others.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Am I not allowed to have a sit rep on you?" You ask, ignoring your slip up of being in the wrong channel.

"No." He answers flatly, making you sigh and roll your eyes. So much for working as a team. "And switch-"

You switched over while he was mid sentence, not wanting to hear his grating voice anymore. You were getting a little worn down at this point. It wasn't like you enjoyed arguing with Soap as much as you did. It was exhausting. Being out in the field where you were already stressed was making it a lot worse.

"He's almost done." Ghost answers you, keeping you updated since Soap clearly wasn't going to. "Just head to the rendezvous, States."

You grumble softly but do as you are told. You mutter a "copy" into your radio before slowly and carefully making your way to the rendezvous. You hear a soft beep shortly after, signaling Soap had reconnected to the public channel. You try to avoid using your radio after that, even skipping check-ins since it seemed that Soap was going to make any use of your radio an unpleasant experience. Though eventually you do need to give an update that you were at the rendezvous, that way Soap wouldn't shoot you.

You move to the side of a building and crouch down. "Bravo 7-4 approaching rendezvous." You sigh to yourself before adding, "Bravo 7-1, please let me know when you are on your way."

"I'm already here. Look to your bloody right 7-4." You look almost directly to your right, which is met with an annoyed sigh. "Not that far. Back to your.. straight.. just- Fucks sake, by the crates!"

"You're not giving me good directions!" You silently yell back, still looking for him.

"By the crates! The only crates in the area! I'm practically in the open."

You see him then. His stupidly handsome face turned into a scowl and his piercing blue eyes glaring at you. He was not in the open, only his head poking up from the crates. You sent the same look right back to him and make your way over, looking around and making sure the way was clear so you wouldn't compromise your position. He was kind enough to at least raise his gun and cover you as you made your way over. Once behind the crates, back pressed to them, he relaxes his position and ducks behind them with you.

"States, look at me," Soap says, his voice deep and gravely. The only tone he ever seemed to use with you. "I want this done clean and easy. No fuck ups. You're going to follow my lead and stay out of my way. And I don't want to hear a single word from you unless it's mission related. You got that?" He lectures you.

You are so, so tempted to roll your eyes at him. He was talking to you like you were a marine fresh off selection. Not a five year veteran who was selected for an elite special forces team. He didn't even outrank you by that much. Not enough to make a real difference. The only thing he had up on you was experience and maybe two years in age.

You're silent for a long moment, glaring at him until he repeats himself a little.

"Do you understand?" He annunciates each word, and you swallow down the choice of words you had for him. This wasn't the time or place for that. You were in the middle of a mission that could go belly up and turn dangerous. You didn't need to be fighting the sergeant on this.

"You got it." You say tightly, mustering up all the strength you possessed not to say more than that to him.

Soap seemed surprised you agreed so easily, but he eyes you suspiciously for a moment before nodding. "Good." He nods before reaching for his radio. "Bravo 0-7, this is 7-1. Going in. Rest of the troops be ready in five minutes and wait for the signal."

"Copy, 7-1." Ghost confirms. "Be warned, I see multiple troops in the vicinity of the West security building. Some men have different uniforms. They look to be General Azamat's men. He could be in there."

You furrow your brows at that. You were expecting a lot of troops in that area, but the military leader you were after wasn't supposed to be in there. There was a bunker in the middle of the camp that he was supposed to be in. It wasn't going to be a significant change the mission though. It just meant your job had become a lot harder. More men to clear out without raising alarm.

"This is Bravo 7-4, 0-7 what's the best way in?" You ask, refusing to look at Soap. You saw his head turn to look at you from the corner of your eye.

"If you wanna come home looking like Swiss cheese I'd go with the front door. Around the back might be your best shot, but I can't get a clear view from my area." Ghost informs you.

"Can you reposition and-"

"No." Soap immediately cuts you off, making you glance to him. "We don't have time for a reposition. We need to move before they realize their backup generators have been breached."

"You just don't like it cause it was my idea." You accuse, watching as Soap visibly becomes agitated.

"I don't like it cause it's a bloody stupid idea!" Soap says through clenched teeth. He was getting right in your face. You were about to tell him off until Ghost's voice filled your left ear.

"Soap's right. There's no time. Head to the back and make due with that entry point. We'll go loud if we need to."

Soap wore a smug look as Ghost sided with him. You despised it. "See? Told you it was a stupid idea." He reiterates, still way too close for comfort.

Your anger flared, and you shoved him back with a forearm to his chest. He reacted instantly, grabbing your arm and flinging it away as if it had burned him. The movement was so quick, it surprised you a bit, and all you can do is stare at him with wide eyes.

"Touch me again, and you're going to regret ever signing up for the military," he growled, his finger jabbing the air between you before standing up and storming off without attracting too much attention.

You're left stunned for a moment, though you're not sure how you thought he was going to react to you pushing him. Within a matter of seconds, you gather yourself, reminding yourself that you were still in enemy territory and needed to focus. With a reluctant sigh, you followed after him.

You managed to make your way to the back of the West Building with Soap without too many complications. The most you needed to really do was duck behind some parked trucks as a military jeep rolled by. It exited the compound, likely heading out to meet a patrol for a shift change.

You and Soap didn't say a single word to each other the whole way. For a stealth mission, that was preferable. However, you could feel the tension between you and Soap. Disdain was radiating off him, and you didn't want to get too close to him in fear he was going to blow up at any second.

There's a line up of vehicles that serve as your cover for the time being as you sneak along one side of them. Suddenly, you nearly collide with Soap when he abruptly raises his hand, signaling you to stop. There's a group of four men all standing in a small circle, talking and smoking together. They're isolated from other groups but taking out a group of four could be very difficult to do.

Soap takes a few steps back, waving for you to back up as well. "We can't take that group out by ourselves, we're going to have to go around." He tells you in a hushed voice as you attempt to peak around him to get a good view of the targets blocking your path.

"It's only four. We can both take out two." You suggest, but, just like all your other ideas, Soap is fast to shut that one down too.

"Not a chance. You suck at hitting multiple headshots." He accuses.

That makes your blood begin to boil. You were not the God awful shot he made you out to be. In fact, back on your base in the US, you were considered to be one of the better shooters.

"I don't suck at making headshots." You glare, making him huff at you.

"Oh really? You missed the one earlier. Ghost managed to hit it from hundreds of meters away, and you bloody miss from a few feet. Your aim is absolute dog shite, States. I'm not going to have you mess up this entire mission cause you think you're better than you are."

His voice was harsh, as always, and his glare was biting. You felt your eyes burn as tears formed, but you refused to let Soap see you cry. He'd only roll his eyes and call you a baby. Crying would only give him more reasons to think you didn't belong here, that you weren't as good as the rest of them.

There were so many things you wanted to say to him in that moment, but you couldn't. The words got caught in your throat, and you feared that if you opened your mouth, a sob would escape. All you could do was look away and clench your jaw, masking your hurt feelings as anger instead.

Soap seems to take your silence as you submitting. "Come on. We'll go around that way."

He was motioning to a camp-like area that seemed mostly deserted, though there were probably men sleeping in the multiple tents that were set up. Along with the tents, there was some campfires and some small boxes of what looked to be filled with MREs.

As Soap quickly moved to the new area to bypass the group of men, you glanced back at them. You knew you could land those headshots. If Ghost had been with you, you would have taken them down already. You were tired of Soap thinking you were inferior and wanted to prove him wrong so badly. You knew you could land those headshots...

Raising your rifle slowly, you lined up the shot for the first target and mentally mapped out the sequence. One on the right, then left, then back right, and then back left. A simple zig-zag pattern. Easy enough.

Right as you're about to pull the trigger, you hear Soap's voice crackle through the comms. His voice was deep and full of warning and venom. 

"Don't you fucking dare, States."

But you dared. You wanted more than anything to prove him wrong. You slowly exhaled and pulled the trigger.

[duachai]

원죄 ORIGINAL SIN PT 1 - YECHAN | 82MAJOR

When you call my name, it's like a little prayer, I'm down on my knees, I wanna take you there

♱ PAIRING : YOON YECHAN X MALE READER

♱ SYNOPSIS : M/n and his sister Daena reluctantly attend a church event, where they meet the enigmatic Yoon brothers, including the quietly intense Yechan. As subtle tensions build between M/n and Yechan, M/n is left feeling both intrigued and unnerved, unable to shake the sensation of being deliberately drawn in.

♱ CONTENT WARNING : This writing contains explicit sexual content and mature themes.

♱ AUTHOR'S NOTE : This was lightly inspired by this Korean film titled the same

LINKS : Wattpad | Kofi | Part 2

“I promise it’ll be good for us!”

That’s the statement she had been saying for the whole week. But this time, it wasn’t about the cramped, buggy one-floor apartment they’d just moved into. This time it was the church right next to the elementary school she had attended when she was younger here in Ontario.

“Mom,” Daena groaned, a little disoriented as she rubbed the spot of her nose where her septum piercing was. Of course, she had to take all of her scary piercings out, wear a nice sundress, and not the ungodly splash of dark blacks and purples she usually wore. “I really don’t understand. We’ve never been religious. Plus… what about M/n?”

M/n, her twin brother, stood on the church's stoop with his arms crossed. He scratched at his neck, irritated by the itchy fabric of the cashmere sweater he’d been stuffed into. He’d also had to take out his piercing, cover his tattoos, and style his hair so his eyes and ridiculously long eyelashes were visible. Oh, and he was supposed to hide the fact that he was out of the closet here in this place too. Great.

Tapping his scuffed white sneakers against the pavement, M/n sighed, “I’m fine. Can we just go in already? It’s so fucking cold.”

His mom huffed, “Alright, but none of that. Do this for me.” She wagged her finger in his face briefly, then set her back as she walked in her best dress-up wedges up the rest of the stairs. This wasn’t just some nostalgic trip for her. The church was also where most of her new coworkers went. One of the kinder ones had even invited her to join. To her, this was a chance to finally fit in.

The twins shuffled behind her like reluctant ducklings, keeping their heads down as they stepped through the entrance. At the front, a woman was setting out stacks of pamphlets, her expression focused until she spotted their mom.

“Mrs. Yoon!” Their mom exclaimed, the woman looking up from her tidying up the paper books. Her focused face turned into a bright smile.

“Oh Kara, please call me Hyeri, no need to be formal.” She said in a shy whisper as she reached out for a hug. While their mom and Mrs. Yoon embraced, M/n and Daena stood awkwardly a few feet away. Their hands hung in front of them, and after a quick glance at each other, they bowed slightly, just like their mom had drilled into them whenever they met another Korean family.

Haneul smiled brightly, “Nice manners. You must be M/n and Daena. Oh my, you two look so alike,” Haneul looked back at Kara, “Are they twins?”

“Yep, 14 hours of labor these two,” Their mom sucked her teeth dramatically, “Two peas in a pod, just like their father.”

Daena pressed her lips into a fine line at the mention of their father, but the two adults were too busy chatting it up they didn’t even notice the twins following behind looking at each other with annoyance.

As Mrs. Yoon brought the family of three down to her row of pews, she turned to the twins. “You two should head downstairs to the bible study. My two boys are down there as well as some of the other kids!”

“That sounds fun, right?” Kara’s tone was overly bright as she elbowed Daena, her eyes practically begging. Please, for the love of God, just go along with it.

M/n rolled his eyes and sighed, shifting his shoulders back. “Fine. We’ll go, Mom. Whatever.”

Awkwardly, the twins shuffled back toward the entrance, their mom’s hopeful smile burning into their backs like a spotlight. They reached the stairwell and hesitated before heading down. The narrow staircase creaked under their feet, leading to a dim hallway lined with small rooms on either side. At the very end, light spilled out of an open door.

Inside, about ten kids sat around a circular table, colorful Bibles scattered in front of them, all open to the same page. A low hum of chatter filled the room, mixed with the occasional rustle of pages and a quiet laugh.

As they stepped closer, M/n’s throat felt tight, the collar of his sweater pressing uncomfortably against his neck. His fingers fidgeted with the sleeve, tugging it further down his arm as if to double-hide the tattoos already hidden beneath the thick fabric. He stole a glance at Daena, who looked just as out of place, her shoulders hunched slightly as she fiddled with the hem of her sundress.

Neither of them said a word, but the awkward tension between them spoke volumes.

“Oh, are you two here for Bible study too?”

The voice came from a blonde girl who had just turned around, catching sight of the twins. Her cheerful tone was paired with a distinct Canadian accent. “I’m the youth leader. Come on in and grab a seat.”

Before either of them could respond, she gestured enthusiastically for them to follow. She led them to the table, her upbeat energy completely unbothered by their obvious reluctance. “You can sit right here next to the Yoons,” she said, motioning toward two empty chairs.

The twins glanced at the seats and then at the pair of Korean teens already sitting there. The Yoons looked about as lost and overwhelmed as they felt, their postures stiff and their expressions blank.

M/n hesitated for a moment before finally dropping into the chair with a resigned sigh. Daena slid into the seat next to him, muttering a soft “thanks” to the youth leader, though her voice barely registered.

The other kids around the table stole quick glances at the newcomers, their curiosity thinly veiled. On the opposite side, two girls exchanged hushed whispers, giggling softly as they eyed the twins—though their attention lingered a little too long on M/n. One of them nudged the other, her cheeks flushing as she stifled a grin.

As the group began flipping their Bibles to a new passage, one of the Yoon boys silently slid his Bible toward M/n. His movements were subtle, almost hesitant, as if he’d already picked up on how out of place the twins felt.

M/n glanced at the Yoon boy, his eyebrows raising slightly in surprise before giving a small nod of acknowledgment. He took the Bible, his fingers brushing over the worn edges of the pages as he adjusted it in front of him.

At the top of the pages, colorful Post-it notes were stuck haphazardly, filled with scribbles in both English and Korean. Some notes had doodles in the corners, while others listed verses or thoughts in rushed handwriting. Each one was labeled with the name “Yechan” scrawled neatly at the top, standing out among the chaotic writing.

M/n’s eyes lingered on the notes for a moment, his fingers brushing over one of the edges as he tried to make sense of the mix of languages and ideas. He glanced back at the Yoon boy, who gave him a small, shy smile before looking away, fidgeting with the edge of his own Bible.

Daena caught the quiet exchange and nudged M/n’s thigh with hers under the table. When he turned to her, she raised an eyebrow, a subtle smirk tugging at her lips. He rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the slight smile that crept onto his face.

The rest of the session went on like that—small, shared glances, whispered comments between the twins, and the occasional stifled laugh when one of the girls across the table shot M/n another not-so-subtle look.

When the session finally ended, the twins were making their way back through the hallway when the Yoon boys caught up with them.

“Hey, sorry we didn’t talk much earlier,” the older boy said, his voice polite as he dipped into a slight bow. “I’m Keeho, and this is my younger brother, Yechan.”

Yechan offered a small wave, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his sweater. “Nice to meet you,” he said quietly, his gaze flicking between M/n and Daena before landing on the floor.

Daena stepped in to lead the conversation. “I’m Daena, and this is M/n,” she said, nodding toward her brother. “We’re the kids of your mom’s coworker. We just moved here, actually.”

“Like, just moved?” Keeho asked, his tone curious.

“Yep,” Daena confirmed with a slight shrug.

“Where do you guys go to school?”

“Oh, uh, I go to an all-girls school,” Daena replied, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “And M/n does school online.”

“Oh, okay,” Keeho said, nodding slowly. “I was just curious because most of the kids here go to the same school. But honestly… we don’t really mingle with them much. We don’t exactly fit in.”

Daena chuckled dryly. “Tell me about it.”

Before anyone could say more, a sharp beep followed by a soft vibration drew M/n’s attention. He glanced down at his smartwatch, tugging his sweater sleeve up just enough to read the message. He didn’t even notice that part of his tattoo had slipped into view—though Yechan definitely did.

Yechan’s gaze lingered on the ink, curiosity flashing in his eyes, but he didn’t say anything.

“Oh, shoot,” M/n muttered, lowering his arm quickly. “It’s Mom. We should head back upstairs.”

As the four made their way back upstairs, M/n and Yechan fell behind their more talkative siblings, both of them awkwardly stealing glances at each other. There was a quiet tension between them, unspoken but palpable, as they lingered just out of earshot of Daena and Keeho.

M/n glanced at Yechan, who quickly looked away, his cheeks faintly pink. They both seemed unsure of what to say, the silence between them growing heavier with every step.

When they finally made it upstairs, the twins stepped outside to find their parents still deep in conversation. As they approached, the topic of lunch came up.

“Why don’t you guys come with us for lunch?” Mrs. Yoon asked with a warm smile. “The place we always go has amazing Korean food. I know you’re probably dying for a real homey kind of meal, Kara.”

Kara raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Homey kinda meal, huh? You’re not wrong,” she replied with a grin, clearly excited at the thought of a good, home-cooked-style meal.

The Korean restaurant bustled with life, the warm lighting casting a cozy glow over the large booth where the families gathered. Kara slid in first, followed by Daena, Keeho, and Mrs. Yoon. Mr. Yoon took a seat at the end, leaving M/n and Yechan to share the other side of the booth.

M/n hesitated, glancing at Yechan before sliding into the booth first, tucking himself against the wall. Yechan followed, sitting stiffly next to him, leaving a small but noticeable gap between them.

As menus were handed out, Kara turned to Mrs. Yoon. “It’s a shame your daughter couldn’t come. What’s she up to today?”

“She has gymnastics practice,” Mrs. Yoon said with a proud smile. “She’s been working hard for an upcoming competition.”

“Gymnastics? That’s incredible!” Kara said, her enthusiasm genuine. “Daena used to compete back in Vancouver. She loved it.”

Daena perked up at the mention. “Yeah, it’s been a while, but I’d love to get back into it.”

Mrs. Yoon’s eyes lit up. “Oh, Mina would love to meet you! Maybe they could practice together sometime.”

“That sounds perfect,” Kara said, turning to Daena with a grin. “You could use a friend here.”

While the adults chatted, M/n glanced sideways at Yechan, who was studying the menu intently. Not wanting to seem rude, he spoke softly. “Um, do you come here a lot?”

Yechan startled slightly but looked over at him, nodding quickly. “Yeah, it’s… one of our favorite spots. The kimchi jjigae is really good.”

“Oh. Cool.” M/n smiled faintly, looking back at his menu. After a pause, he added, “I’ve never had it before. Is it, like, really spicy?”

Yechan’s lips quirked up in a small smile. “Not too bad. You should try it.”

“Maybe I will,” M/n murmured, his fingers fiddling with the edge of the menu.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, but neither seemed to know how to push the conversation further. Every so often, their shoulders brushed as Yechan shifted slightly, and M/n felt a blush creep up his neck.

“Hey, what are you two whispering about?” Keeho’s voice cut in from across the table, making both boys freeze.

“Nothing,” M/n said quickly, his voice slightly higher than usual. He ducked his head, pretending to study the menu again. Yechan turned back to his own menu, his ears tinged pink.

The dinner wrapped up without much fuss, the table full of empty dishes and the air light with easy conversation. Kara and Mrs. Yoon had spent most of the meal reminiscing and swapping work stories, while Keeho and Daena kept the energy up with their playful banter. Yechan and M/n barely exchanged words, though M/n felt Yechan’s quiet presence beside him like a shadow he couldn’t quite shake.

When the group finally stepped out into the cool evening air, M/n quietly slipped away from the group, drawn toward the brightly lit window of a record store nearby. The neon “OPEN” sign buzzed faintly, its light reflecting off the glass as M/n pressed closer to the display. Rows of vintage records caught his attention—Guns N’ Roses, Boney M., and some SOTD vinyls prominently displayed.

He let out a soft breath, his fingers twitching at his sides. This was his kind of space, somewhere far removed from the suffocating politeness of dinner and the confusing tug-of-war inside his head.

“You like that kinda music?”

The voice, soft but clear, made him stiffen. He didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“Yeah,” M/n said after a pause, keeping his eyes on the display. “I collect them. When I can afford it, anyway.”

Yechan moved to stand beside him, his reflection appearing faintly in the glass. He didn’t say anything at first, just slipped his hands into his coat pockets and tilted his head as if studying the display himself.

“You’ve got an interesting taste,” Yechan said finally, his tone casual but his words landing heavy, like he was trying to say more than he let on.

M/n glanced at him, his gaze flickering briefly before returning to the window. “Yeah? Didn’t know you’d be into this kind of stuff.”

Yechan chuckled, the sound low and warm. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

M/n swallowed hard, the tension from dinner creeping back into his chest. It wasn’t just the words; it was the way Yechan said them, like he was deliberately pulling at a thread M/n didn’t want unraveled.

“Anyway,” M/n said, shifting on his feet. “I should probably—”

“You’ve got a tattoo.” Yechan’s voice cut through, soft but firm.

M/n froze for a moment, then glanced down instinctively at his arm, realizing the sleeve of his sweater had slipped up slightly. The edge of one of his tattoos peeked out, the dark lines stark against his skin.

“So what?” M/n muttered, tugging the fabric back down.

Yechan’s lips quirked into a faint smile, but his gaze stayed steady. “Nothing. Just didn’t expect it.”

There it was again—that strange undercurrent, like Yechan was circling him, trying to draw something out. M/n felt his pulse quicken, and for a moment, he couldn’t tell if it was annoyance or something else entirely.

“I should get back,” M/n said abruptly, stepping back from the window.

Yechan didn’t stop him, but as M/n turned away, he caught the faintest flicker of a smirk on Yechan’s face in the reflection.

The walk back to the group felt heavier than it should have, and even as they said their goodbyes and piled into the car, M/n couldn’t shake the feeling that Yechan had gotten under his skin in a way he wasn’t sure he liked—or understood.

Back at the apartment, the bathroom mirror was fogged from the warm air rising from the sink as M/n and Daena stood side by side, reclaiming their identities piece by piece.

Daena twisted her septum piercings back in, her reflection smirking at her brother. “You okay? You’ve been quiet since dinner.”

“I’m fine,” M/n replied curtly, focusing on threading his earring through the hole in his lobe and cuffs back at the top of his ears.

“Sure you are,” she teased, nudging him lightly. “You looked like a deer in headlights the whole time. Or maybe more like a deer being stalked.”

M/n paused, glancing at her through the mirror. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Daena raised an eyebrow, leaning closer to inspect her nose ring. “You tell me. Yechan barely looked at anyone else, and you? You looked like you didn’t know whether to run or… something else.”

M/n scowled, but his pulse betrayed him, quickening as he remembered the way Yechan’s eyes lingered, the way his voice had dipped just slightly, like he knew he was throwing M/n off balance.

“Whatever, I’m not falling in love with the church boy,” he muttered, shoving his cartilage piercing back in and turning toward the door.

Daena shrugged, watching him go with a knowing smirk. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

Alone in his room, M/n sat on his bed, his fingers idly tracing the edges of his tattoos through his sleeve. He couldn’t shake the feeling Yechan had left behind—a strange mix of curiosity and unease.

Hunted. That was the word Daena used, and as much as he hated to admit it, she wasn’t wrong.

M/n lay sprawled on his bed, the dim light of his bedside lamp casting a warm, hazy glow across his room. The soft hum of distant traffic filtered through the partially open window, a quiet backdrop to the storm of thoughts swirling in his mind. He stared up at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling in a slow, uneven rhythm.

Yechan’s face lingered there, vivid in the soft shadows. The way his dark eyes had locked onto M/n, steady and unreadable, was impossible to forget. There had been something unsettling in that gaze—like Yechan had been looking at him, through him, peeling back the layers he kept hidden.

M/n shifted under the covers, his skin prickling with an almost unbearable awareness, and his hand traveled down to his crotch underneath his sweatpants. He could still feel Yechan’s presence beside him at the dinner table, the faint brush of his shoulder when he leaned too close, the low timbre of his voice curling around words that seemed to hold a double meaning. Slowly, M/n’s hand slow stroked himself hard as he leaned back on his pillow, lips clamped together to keep his sinful noises muted.

It wasn’t just the memory of Yechan’s smirk, his lips, as they stood by the record store window, or the quiet way he had said, “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” It was the way he made M/n feel—cornered, exposed, and something else. Something electric.

M/n’s fingers tightened around the edge of his blanket as his mind wandered unbidden to the faint scent of Yechan’s cologne, how it lingered just enough to pull him in without overwhelming him. The thought of it made his stomach tighten, as his pace fastened and his whiny moans seeped through his lips. “Fuck,” he whined, covering his mouth with his free hand, a desire that his hand was Yechan’s, veins creeping up his slender fingers. With a few more strokes, M/n came with his body jolting with satisfaction.

What the hell is wrong with me?

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration mingling with something deeper, harder to name as he reached over to his nightstand to grab some tissue and clean himself up then turned over. The air in the room felt heavy, and no matter how much he shifted, he couldn’t seem to find a comfortable position. His thoughts looped back to Yechan’s smirk, the almost predatory way he seemed to observe him, as though he was waiting for M/n to stumble, to react.

And M/n hated how much he had reacted—how his heart had pounded when their eyes met, how his pulse had quickened at Yechan’s quiet remarks.

He pressed his palms against his face, willing his thoughts to quiet, but the warmth pooling in his chest betrayed him. Yechan had gotten under his skin, in his head, and M/n wasn’t sure he could or even wanted to shake him out.

Now he felt like something horrible.

He felt like a sinner.

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Rigor Mortis (part 9)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 8, Part 10

summary: You both come to a realisation.

warnings: smut! f! masturbation, grinding, humping, fingering, (implied) recreational drug use, alcohol, dubcon (-ish! reader is drunk but the interaction is consensual, tagging just in case xx), teeny tiny bit of mutual pining. 18+ Minors DNI

a/n: yuhh

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

Join my taglists here

wc: 7.2k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

all that light lost in gaps

You're gone, in the morning.

…he should've expected it. Miguel stumbles out of sleep, groggy and disoriented. He finds himself reaching out for something in the half-light. 

He finds himself reaching for you. And when you're not there, leaving a person sized gap at the crook of his arm, his stomach churns. He pretends it's not disappointment, or the sharp crack of yearning ; settling at his chest like a crowbar, and prying open his ribs. It's worry, he decides resolutely, a perfectly normal, healthy amount of worry. As your roommate; and nothing else, he keeps reminding himself; he's just worried about where you've rushed off to, especially after yesterday. 

Senior year. He was assigned a bullshit paper in a Civics class – one he'd usually half-ass for an easy A. He'd wax poetic about morality – amorphous, vague platitudes about duty and societal expectations. By the end of the year, he had it down to a science: a couple thousand words remixed and plucked from lesser known philosophers, videos online, and overdue library books. Either he was getting too good at it, or his teacher was too stupid to notice; but regardless, he coasted through the class right up until graduation. His last paper, and he remembers it distinctly, was on the book of the same name; aptly titled What We Owe Each Other. A plodding, pluralistic read; of which he had only scanned through, anyways. Extra credit, anything to graduate early, and he'd had more than enough on his plate at the time. 

 And so, he wasn't expecting the B+ underlined and circled in red ink on the front page. It felt like his teacher had handed it back to him face down, slammed onto the desk like the thunderous crack of a whip. And he didn't need that A, strictly speaking. Yet, he had found himself staying over after class, crinkling that piece of paper in hand as he'd asked why. 

She sighs. Miss Hunter's glasses slip down her nose, as they are prone to do. 

"You're an outstanding student. I hear you're graduating early, and you're off somewhere prestigious in the fall. This is… definitely not a bad grade, and it's nothing, I promise you."

It doesn't work like that, for him. His teacher doesn't get it, but it will eat him up inside-out if he's not able to understand. 

"Was it my referencing?" He fumbles with the strap of his bag. 

"No. Not at all–" 

"I did the extra reading…the article you mentioned in class, and–" 

He's cut off by the scrape of a desk chair. Miss Hunter gets up to close the door, before settling on her desk. 

Arms crossed, she seems tired. Worried, maybe, but it doesn't register with Miguel. The thought doesn't even cross his mind, that there are others with the capacity to worry about him. 

"Technically, it's well written. As usual, Miguel." She gives him a weak smile. "It just… lacked heart."

His brows jump up. "...heart?" 

"There's not really a narrative voice, here."

He taps at the paper on the desk, frustrated. "You didn't ask for a narrative voice, though. You didn't ask for… for heart. I read the book, I did the extra reading, and I wrote a report. That was the brief."

"Not quite." She says it gently, but it still sounds like nails on a chalkboard to him. "The brief was vague, intentionally so. 'What Do We Owe Each Other? Discuss.' I gave examples, sure: excerpts from the book we touched on in class, articles, academic papers, etcetera. They were… suggestions."

"...suggestions." He's incredulous. 

She nods. "You followed it to the letter, Miguel. You gave me a summary, with a few key links. Fully referenced, yes. Well-written, yes. But this feels like a sum of parts. It doesn't tell me anything about you; your perspective, your angle. Your voice."

He's biting back choice words. It sounds like bullshit to him, for lack of a better word. Flowery, hoity-toity BS; served up to him on a steaming platter. That's it? 

Maybe it shows on his face, because she's asking, as delicately as possible, 

"Is everything okay?" 

Instinctually, he seizes up. 

"Yeah. Yes. I'm good."

"I know you don't take this class as seriously because it's not an AP, or an elective, or maybe not as challenging as you need it to be. And that's okay, Miguel. I'm happy for you to use my class as a break from all the other stuff." She swallows thickly. "You're not from our usual feeder schools. The Academy is particularly rigorous. But considering your… situation, we can make exceptions. If there's anything I can do–" 

"There isn't a 'situation'."

"Right. Of course, I'm sorry. But if you need a couple days off of school because of…" She pasues, saying the next part softly. "Because of the baby… I mean, you're already acing my class–"

"No." He says it firmly, eyes trained onto the wood grain peeking out from underneath piles of documents. He wants to ask how she knows, and how he's always the last to find out that rumours have spread, and–

"Miguel." Her voice cuts through dense fog. She repeats her previous statement. “If there's anything I can do–”

“If you want to help, you can give me that A.” It's bone dry, said with the kind of sarcasm he's grown accustomed to. He wears it over his shoulders, sometimes; draped to keep out biting cold, or unfamiliar warmth from a stranger - it all feels the same, now.

She gives him a rueful smile. “Need more than that, m'afraid.”

Heart. Voice. What We Owe Each Other – and he doesn't know why that phrase sticks in his throat. It's been drilled into him since childhood; family and community, helping each other out of the starting blocks; and beaten out of him during adolescence. The creaking and cracking of bones after each step, where out in the world it's a different matter entirely. 

His mama has bad taste in men, and he finds himself picking up the pieces. Gabi is more sensitive than he'll ever admit, trying not to cry amongst broken plates and chicken-wire hidden in a bouquet of peonies: prickly words that cut and hack, and it's Miguel that wipes the tears from his brother's cheek. That devastatingly gentle sigh when he had told his mama what he had done - how he had fallen for a soft bed and even softer lips at the ripe age of 16 and a half - and Miguel carries that weight. What We Owe Each Other – and he's only ever fed entitled egos. Not his family, of course, but he's been burned. He's had more than his fair share of it. 

He doesn't owe the world shit, he thinks. 

He doesn't owe you shit. 

It doesn't help that he's been stuck in place, grasping at cushion covers and a raggedy blanket. Trying not to drown in the heady scent of you, he's been dragging thick fingers over the fabric as if in a trance. You don't owe him anything, either. Nary an apology, an explanation; so much as a sorry spilling from pretty lips in that way where they quiver like a gentle flame. 

He's touched them, felt them drag across his skin like the finest silk, and dropped to his knees in search of something you've never given him. It doesn't matter if you don't; kiss him , that is; the swirling, desperate sort that leaves him heaving and creaking and begging for more. He thinks he'd still scuff up the denim at his knees if you asked, regardless - he'd do anything , if it was for you. 

It's not realistic to expect anything from you. You don't need to tell him where you've gone or why you've left so early. You don't need to, and yet he finds himself reaching for his phone. 

Miguel sends a well placed message; deft fingers tapping away at the screen. Before he changes his mind, it's sent; and he's chewing his lip whilst waiting for a steady three dots. Lyla is slower than usual, but she comes through. She doesn't ask questions - because she knows him better than he knows himself - and gives him a thumbs up. 

They'll call each other later, that much he's sure of, but for now he reads between the lines. Short bursts of text, like firecrackers flashing across a night sky, and only through nonsensical emojis and odd slang can they understand each other. 

This part, he can do. And he'll do whatever he needs to, not what he owes.

~~~

You make it to Pam's just after it opens. 

At 7 o'clock sharp, you've made the journey; in an empty subway car, spilling out onto the streets like treacle left in the neck of a bottle. It's not quite a squeeze, passing by only a handful of people, with nothing but a jacket thrown over last night's clothes. In a daze, you realise too late: it's Miguel's. A dusty, worn thing; brown leather crackling at the sleeves and heavy on your shoulders. It feels like a hug, and it feels like him : warm and stiff. It smells like him too, and you bury your nose in the collar on the subway, sleeves kissing your palm like his hand is in yours. 

It's a feeling that takes you all the way to the doors: past the slats bolted shut and down a familiar alley. You push past them, sneakers on slick tiles, and give a weak smile to the woman that perks up from behind the counter, kicking away the mop and bucket. 

"Hiya, welcome to Pam's! How can I–" 

"Oh, God , no." You wave her off. "Take your time. I need a minute, if that's okay."

Settling on the barstool, you watch as the young woman smiles, picking up a rag and wiping at the counter. You sit in it, for a while. 

Dregs drip in through the front. The bell at the top of the door chimes, tinny and cheerful in the relative gloom of a quiet morning. 

It's cold , outside. Autumn, biting at your fingers and nose. Eventually you opt for a coffee, piping hot to stave off that chill. Bitter, the aftertaste lingers at the back of your throat. You find yourself picking at the chipped mug, chasing away that taste with fluffy pancakes. The combination doesn't feel quite the same – not after many a morning with your roommate. 

You settle into the seat. You wrap that old jacket around you. You sip at tart coffee and pick at your nails. A quiet morning, one to yourself, one to keep hidden at the crook of your chest. Some semblance of peace , wrapped up in the spindles of a dandelion. That is to say; delicate and fleeting, whipped away by the breeze. 

You've decided not to think too hard about it. That kind of thinking ends dangerously, you've realised: with long, hot nights spent tossing and turning. It ends with a head full of cotton, and a pounding at your chest. With blood, with tears, with a stranger in your bed. And so, you go for the cleaner option. The safer one, all things considered, that's less likely to end in a broken heart. 

You float around for a while. Walking without a real destination, trying to ground yourself. Eventually, you end up home,  opening the door to an empty apartment. There's no traces left of a night spent in Miguel's arms. Good, you think, slipping your shoes off at the door. It doesn't feel good , but if you say it enough times you just might believe it. 

The cleaner option; the one with less gristle and bone; is a familiar one. You settle into a shower; steamy and soapy, taking your time to clean out the blood from under your fingernails. The grime, the dirt ; you watch it swirl into the drain, hands running across soft flesh. You try to do it like Jamie did, once upon a time. It doesn't feel right, and has you leaning onto the cool tile. The shower head sputters, a shaky pressure on your back but you lean into it and close your eyes. You rub a hand at the crook of your chest, and then down, down, down, circling your breast and then following the curve of hips to the apex of your legs. Tipping your head, letting the hot water stream through your hair and then your back; and you touch, feel , and you can almost taste him ; sweet and saccharine Miguel, at your lips. 

With two fingers flat against your clit, you rub little circles at the nub, dipping into your hole for much needed wetness. Your other hand travels up soft skin, pads of your fingers grazing collarbone, and then they curl around your neck. With a little pressure, your thumb grazes your jaw. Like he does, except your hands aren't as deliciously rough or as large. You slip a finger in, and then two, water pounding your back and eyes screwed. You push past that initial tightness, searching for a little give. When it comes, cunt clenching around your fingers, just shy of that sweet spot as you press your clit with the heel of your palm; you're imagining it's your roommate. He'd wrap those thick forearms around you, press his cock to the crest of your back and touch you like you deserve. 

You do it like Miguel would, reverent , touching you as if you were clay at a potter's wheel. In the hands of God herself, you cum; falling, falling, falling; tumbling down white water rapids and spit back up into the rushing water. You're panting, now, out of breath.

When you sink onto your bed, you realise it's not quite enough. Still in a fluffy robe, steam curls from your skin like clouds – ones that smell of cheap body wash and shampoo. Before you know it, you're reaching for your phone, sending two quick messages to a certain somebody. 

[Sent: 15:32]

hey mig

[Sent: 15:32]

where did u go? 

You don't expect a quick reply - he's never been much of a texter. But those three dots pop up in no time at all, much to your surprise. 

[Received: 15:33]

Out. 

[Received: 15:33]

Running errands. 

It's succinct and to the point – of which you expect nothing else from Miguel. Your thumbs fly to the screen to reply but another message tugs the rug out from under your shaky legs. 

[Received: 15:35]

Is everything okay? 

[Sent: 15:35]

yeah

[Sent: 15:36]

all good

When that provides no response, you're left chewing on your lip, anxious. He's seen the message, he's read the message; but for some reason, several minutes go by and there's no response. 

You're ready to give up and chalk it to your roommate's hot-and-cold nature, when your phone rings. 

Immediately, you pick up. 

" Don't believe you." His voice rings out, tinny, nestled amongst the covers. 

"Hey, Mig." You settle down on the bed, putting him on speaker and placing it by your ears. 

" Did you hear what I said?" His tone is deep and intense, making you shiver. It's not quite the same, of course, but you're reminded of nights spent with his lips tucked close the shell of your ear. 

You swallow. "Yeah. I… I did."

" You sure? Because you suck at lying."

"Don't be an asshole." 

" Think I get a free pass when you disappear for the whole day."

You roll your eyes. “You didn't call–”

“ Would you have answered?”

Ouch. He sounds frustrated, the quiet chatter of his background bathed in heavy silence. Silence thick with tension, and you almost choke on it.

He breaks it with a heavy sigh. “ You okay? ”

“No. Not really.”

“ Okay. ” He lets it sit for a while, before saying, “ I'll be home, soon. There's leftovers in the fridge, and you should eat, sweetheart. You want anything from the store? ”

His voice is so, so soft. It crackles like kindling on a fire: warmth that blooms and spreads to your chest. Like slipping off frozen gloves to thaw off in front of a heater, and he just makes you feel impossibly warm. 

“Not really, thanks.” You mumble it, and hear a satisfied grunt from the other end. Before you change your mind, you say, “Sorry. M'sorry.”

Miguel gives a light chuckle and you think you can hear him smile, the kind you always chase after a stupid argument: one that tugs at the corners of his pretty lips.

“ You've got nothin' to be sorry about .”

He gives you a moment to feel the weight of his words, and ends the call. That heat at your chest blooms. 

If Miguel O'Hara is the Sun, then maybe you don't mind being pulled into his orbit; bathing in steady light and warmth.

~~~

He comes home with flowers. A beautiful bouquet; delicate and balanced, featherlight wildflowers and brush, interspersed with sprays of blue and purple and pink. It's wonderfully dense, reminding you of the tangles of colour a child might decorate a picture with in wobbly crayon. Simply put, it's nothing short of a vision, and you notice how delicately he places it on the dining table.

With the rest of the grocery bags, Miguel clatters in, and you can't help but be curious. You're poking through the bags, sitting on the counter as he puts them away – after offering to help, of course, but he bats you away easily. Your bare legs bristle in the chill brought on by the window cracked open, and he just breezes past. 

The cabinet opens with a thud , and your roommate busies himself with putting away food. Carefully, you watch the way the muscles of his back flexes this way and that - cut and lean under that thin sweater. He’s otherwise occupied, and so you take the opportunity to stare, playing with a loose string at the hem of silky shorts. And so, it makes you jump when your phone buzzes beside you. Innocuously, you glance at the notification, and your eyes go wide.

“Who’s that?” Miguel asks, voice light. With that freaky sixth sense of his, he doesn’t need to turn around to know, it seems. 

“Lyla.” You murmur, reading the rest of the message.

“ ...And? ”

“Uh. Well…” Blinking, you can’t quite believe what she’s asking. “ Girl’s Night . I-I mean… she’s asking me to come with her for a Girl’s Night.”

“Really?” His tone is surprising, and you can hear how he beams by its lilting nature. Maybe he’s laughing at you, maybe he’s not, but you snap back regardless.

“ ... don’t act so surprised.”

“ You sound surprised.” He laughs.

“It’s different when I do it.” You say simply. “I just… I didn’t expect it. I didn’t even know we were close enough to–”

“Bullshit. You text her all the time.”

“A couple of times, Mig.” You correct him, trying to pin down a suitable response to give Lyla. You draw a blank. “I don’t want her to feel like she has to, or anything.”

He turns around, sleeves still rolled up. The look he gives makes you wither: one that could say about a million things. You think it means cut the crap , but he could just be constipated: you haven't quite mastered the art of reading Miguel O’Hara.

“Do you want to go?” He gets closer, hand flat on the counter next to your thigh. 

You nod, and his hand creeps up and up. 

Giving you a little smile, he shrugs. “Then go.”

It makes you shy. Bashful , even; and you’re wriggling as he squeezes the flesh. A hand on his forearm, and he’s close; so much so that all you can feel is the press of skin, and feel gentle breath fluttering past your cheek. You’re stuck underneath the gaze of his pretty lashes, and entranced at the way he licks his even prettier lips. A sudden thought seizes you - so heavy it makes your chest tight and leaden. 

Oh. You want to kiss him.

In a moment, it’s gone. A broad palm nudges your thigh aside, and you’re shifting so he can reach the drawers just by your legs. You oblige, falling back into familiar routine. 

Life moves on. Like Miguel said it would, and you find yourself entwined with the idea of time passing. Lying awake each night, picking out sand from underneath your fingernails, after clawing your way out of the hourglass. Steady, slow dregs; and it's tipped over each morning, restarting the clock. 

The flowers disappear from the dining table. Miguel retreats into the folds and dark corners of your apartment; you see him less and less. Passing ships in the night, you seem to miss each other by a fraction of a second. All of a sudden he's busy , and all of a sudden you're swamped with work. You only see each other at night, looking out for the bits and pieces left as proof of life: sometimes he'll leave a hot flask out for you in the mornings, and you'll greet him with a cheesy soap in the evenings. If he's not leaving later and later after work, that is. 

He looks tired, you note. Exhausted; prone to little yawns as you turn to him every now and then whilst watching on the couch. It's sweet, the way his frown has made way to a dopey smile, but it's frayed at the edges, tinged with something you can't quite place. You let him sleep that night, bringing pillows to lay his head on, and wrapping him up in that old blanket. 

Girl's night creeps up on you. It shakes you by the shoulders when you collapse on the sofa after a long day – and you're rushing to get ready. There's no Miguel to make sly remarks or prod you into action, this time. You wonder what he'd say about what you're wearing; a leftover dress buried in boxes from your ex's apartment. 

Short, tight, snug; it has you feeling glamorous – but you hope it doesn't look as fanciful as it feels. Too much; yet again, you're worried about being too much. Even though you're running a little late, you take the time to carefully apply makeup; something shiny on your lids, a dab of blush, and gloss slathered onto your lips. When you sling on little heels, and snatch a petite bag from the hooks near the door, there's barely enough time to catch that last glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Down and out you go, into a dusky night.

~~~

“I had to go through her manager– and wait, can you believe this girl has a fucking manager, now?” Lyla bats at MJ's shoulder, and the redhead laughs good-naturedly. 

“It's not– she's exaggerating! My manager's just my mom, I swear.” 

“It's a good thing, no?” You smile, taking a healthy swig of a brightly coloured cocktail. 

“It means she is booked, and–” Lyla hiccups, raising an unsteady glass that threatens to tip. MJ straightens her elbow instinctually, before raising her own. “ – very busy .”

It's your turn to laugh, glass held high in the air. With a clink , there's a clash of crystal that's all but drowned out by the chatter in the upscale bar.

Somewhere fancy, courtesy of Lyla. One of those places that serves tiny portions in big, empty plates, a fusion of cultural food with white, upper class owners. No-doubt the result of summering somewhere in the ever-broad global South , Lyla had said slyly, under the lip of a menu. 

There's powdered sugar on the rim of your flute. It dissolves on your tongue. You down the rest. Sickly sweet, and you wipe what drips onto your lips. 

It has you checking your phone. Miguel hasn't called, not that you were expecting anything. Whilst Lyla and MJ talk, you scroll mindlessly through his chat; a smattering of one word answers. Missed calls. Unanswered messages.

" –what about you, babe?" 

Your eyes snap back up to meet Lyla's, expectant. 

"Uhhh…"

"Nevermind." Sharp eyes travel to your phone, and there's a flash of recognition. "Miggy said you're in school. He said you're gonna graduate early, this year."

"He said that?" You're confused. "I mean… I'm trying but it's not looking like that, right now."

She wags a finger, shaking her head like she's trying to remember something. "No, no, he seemed adamant. Said you're working hard, doing well."

"Doing better ." You correct her, shyly. 

" Bullshit. " She says it the way Miguel does, and it makes you laugh. You see it now; he's the product of the people he loves. A kind of Frankenstein's monster, he's stitched together those bits and pieces; he's made himself beautiful. You wonder what piece of you he carries. If he even holds you that close to his chest. 

"I bet you're doing amazing. " MJ finishes. Her smile is warm, and copper-coloured; it feels hazy and ambered in your little corner. "Better than me, anyways. I would rather die than go back to college."

"Back?" You ask. 

"Oh, of course! You don't know." She giggles, leaning in like she's about to say something scandalous - the drink is clearly doing its job. Her next words are an exaggerated stage whisper. "I dropped out."

" Seriously? " You play along, with faux shock. 

"...damn right she did." Lyla gives a drunken wave to a nearby waiter, asking for another glass of wine. Something expensive, she whispers, giving a deceptive smile. 

"It just wasn't for me, I guess. I went because everyone around me was going, even Pete. Uhh, English Lit, or something. And it didn't… I–I mean it just wasn't–" 

"It didn't click."

" Right!" She snaps her fingers. "It was too much. I didn't know what I was doing, I was 18, for God's sake. Think I stuck at it for a bit too long, honestly."

"...and the world didn't explode." You breathe. 

MJ answers with a knowing nod. She chugs the rest of a crisp Mojito, raising the empty glass once more. 

"To doing better ."

You're quick to follow. "To doing better."

Lyla frowns, looking for a glass that's tucked into the corner. The room must be spinning already, with the way she pats around for it. You nudge it towards her with an elbow, and she's raucous; crumpling into a fit of giggles. 

One drink turns to two, two turns to three, and then four ; until you're ready to spill out onto the busy strip. When the waiter places a slip of paper into the centre, one with so many zeroes it makes your eyes bulge, you don't even have to pretend to reach for your wallet. Gleefully, Lyla picks up the bill, sliding a shiny Amex card onto the dish. 

She's generous, you note, as she buys a bottle of wine to go when MJ picks up her bag. She's perceptive, too. You see it when MJ wrings her hands, still tipsy and stuttering in her heels as you pile onto the street. She's making apologies already - I've got an early start and need to see my May - but Lyla intercepts. There's the gentle clink of a bottle thrust into her hands, something expensive, and she kisses the apples of her cheeks before sending her off in a taxi. 

Her own cheeks are ruddy, rosy with drink and she splits into a wide smile. The back of her hand comes up to your neck. Warm , she whispers, before linking arms with you like a schoolgirl off to do something they shouldn't. 

Eventually, with shaky legs, you end up in a nightclub. She knows someone who knows someone, apparently, and you're ushered into a packed place just off 76th. Lights and pounding music, a flurry of limbs; you let the crowd take you in. If this is what it means to be a part of a whole; some writhing, heaving beast, to be more than your hand in someone else's and theirs in yours; then you could live here forever, you think. Forever, for the night, for the next ten minutes; you blink , and time passes. 

You're having fun, you think. Letting the blood rush to your head, hips swaying to the music and you don't push away the quiet snap of a phone camera, nor it's red recording light. Dancing, singing, many seem to be pulled into orbit around you. This is how it works , pushed into an ebb and flow of people held together by broken lyrics and a thumping bassline. You let it wash over you, all-consuming, dragging yourself into murky depths. 

You're in a booth, now, anchored by a dainty hand around your wrist. Pupils blown, she cups your face to inspect you, to figure out where you've gone. Someone's bought you a drink, there's a stranger's arm around your shoulders, but Lyla pushes them both away. Too much? It's a question, of which you shake your head firmly - lolling and with a distinct lack of fine motor skills - no. Not enough. 

You blink. Bitter liquor hits your throat, and you chase the taste of somebody else's lips. A stranger, and even under the influence you know it doesn't feel right. Bile rises, and you're gone, clamping onto your stomach and trying not to hurl. 

You blink. You're on the sidewalk, with a heavy head on someone's shoulder. The strap of your heels dig into your ankles and you fumble with it, trying to stop the road from spinning. Lyla holds you up, not much more up to task than you are. 

A car pulls up, and at first you don't recognise it; entranced by shiny rims coming to a stop. You look up, still buried in Lyla's thick jacket; and you see it. You see him. 

Miguel's wearing glasses. That's the first thing you notice, stumbling to your feet. Immediately, your face cracks into a dopey smile, leaning onto the lip of the open window. He gives you a once over, swallowing thickly, brows drawn. 

Quiet chatter flys straight over your head. Lyla arguing, Miguel wagging a finger at her; but all you can see is him. It's like you've got blinkers on, tunnel vision making you focus on the curve of cheekbone, and the way his eyes scrunch up around black rims and glass. 

You clamber into the backseat.

“Get in, Ly.”

The other woman seems resolute. “ M'not –”

“Did you take something?”

“Fuck you.” Flashing a middle finger, she wraps up her coat like a robe, walking away down the road. 

He's adamant, driving up next to her. You keep your head on the glass where it's cool.

“Let me take you home. Please. ”

Frowning, she stops. When he leans over to open the passenger's side, she slips off her boots, and sidles in.

Their voices feel like a blur. You can barely register, only picking up half of the words hissed under their breath.

“... I called you, you can't give me a lecture…”

“...not fair, Lyla…. can't keep babysitting…”

“... fucking hypocrite… not the only one… I'm going through some shit…”

“...too far…. always taking it too…”

He drops her off outside of the apartment. From the backseat, you're sobering up; able to catch his heavy sigh as he watches her through the window. It's only when he sees her walk in does he turn to you, passing bottled water kept in the console.

“You want to come out to the front?”

You like the way he says it, for some reason. Any anger or frustration he had towards Lyla dissipates. He doesn't bring that into a quiet conversation with you.

He's too solemn, too serious, and so you clamber into the front over the console; limbs and legs everywhere, as obnoxiously as you can. A slight elbow to his chest, a hand clutching his shirt; you want to make him laugh. As you settle onto the seat, you see it: huffing dramatically, he gives you a small smile.

Miguel reverses back out onto the road.

You blink, and you're home. Legs still shaky, he helps you up the stairs, settling you onto the sofa. Car keys clink onto the dish by the door, and he slips off his coat – that brown one, your favourite, you think.

Fumbling with the strap of your heels, it must be too painful for him to watch as Miguel settles by your feet. His big, strong hands are surprisingly deft when he undoes the dainty buckle.

“Are you mad at me?” Meekishly, you watch and he shakes his head, not making eye-contact. Maybe it's the alcohol, but you're staring; looking for that light in his eyes amongst the dark room. 

Now, he looks up. “What?”

“M'just looking.” You say, chewing the inside of your cheek as one shoe slips off. “ I'm not allowed to look?”

The other one comes off, and he hisses when he spots a little cut where the strap dug into your ankle. He can't help it, rolling it gently in his hands, trying to ease the pain with a massage.

“You wear glasses.” You say it softly, more to yourself than to anyone else. Giggling now, you cradle his face and he sits up. “I didn't know that.”

“ That's not – I've always worn glasses. You're just not paying attention.” He shrugs lazily, but he's smiling.

“Not true , Mig. I would've noticed.”

“You're drunk–”

“When it's you, I always pay attention.” Absent-mindedly, your hand curls into his hair. He keens . “Like… your hair's getting longer.”

Gently, he shakes out of your grip, getting up. “I know, I know. I need a haircut.”

“I like it.” Starry-eyed, you look up at him. “You're so pretty, Mig.”

It makes him heave. Still tipsy, your legs spread ever so slightly, hand taking his and pulling him closer. Placing his hand on your thigh, you let it trace up, up, up, catching at the hem of your short dress.

He practically caves in, collapsing next to you on the couch. 

“You should–” His eyes are glassy as you ease yourself onto his lap. “ F-Fuck . You should go to bed, sweetheart.”

Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, you roll your hips, watching as he groans wantonly. 

“But I'm not tired.” His hand ends up on your waist, applying just the right amount of pressure. Underneath, you can feel him stir, increasingly hard under loose sweats. “And you haven't touched me in weeks. ”

You're exaggerating, but it goes to his head anyway. He buries his head into the crook of your shoulder, whispering into the bare skin.

“I know, I know…”

“Just the tip, Miguel.” You're grinding your clit onto him, pussy barely covered by a thin thong. Whispered into the shell of his ear, you're a siren, honeyed words dangerously close to breaking him down. “Just the tip, and I promise , I'll let it go. Please , baby.”

Your dress rides up, and his hands come down to palm at your ass.

“ Please…” You're pleading, lips on his neck as he squeezes, forcing you down to hump directly over his cock.

“Oh, shit.” His hips jump once, twice; and then he stills, hands at your hips and ass to stop you.

Desperate, you whine, trying to fight against it. He doesn't let up, hand cradling your chin so you can look him in the eye.

“ Bed .” He says, shakily. “Not like this.”

He slips you off, noticeably adjusting his pants. Legs spread wide, head tipped back as he sighs; he looks delicious , and you're fighting off the urge to let him take you right there and then. 

You stumble through the little hallway, pushing past some doors. Something clatters into your thigh, and you hear a dull thud as another thing falls to the floor. Frustrated, you strip down to your underwear, something light and lacy and it leaves very little to the imagination. 

There's a bed, and you collapse on it; swimming in the silky sheets. It smells like him - musky and oaky and gentle - and you think you must be dreaming already. And then, you sit up, realising too late - this isn't your room. 

Miguel wasn't too far off, hearing the thumping and clattering; hesitant as he opens the door. You're wrapped up like a present, spilling out of lingerie on his bed. He swallows, turning away to dig into his wardrobe, intending to pull out a baggy shirt for you.

“ Miguel .” You croak, but he ignores the want in your voice, so heavy it goes straight to his cock. “Miguel, please. ”

All his shirts blend together. He can't concentrate.

“Do you think I don't want it? Because I do, fuck, I need it. So bad, baby, please.” Your body heaves with a half sob. 

Heart splintering, he turns. Finally, you meet his eye. You spread your legs.

“ Here. Right here .” You tap your clothed cunt with shaky fingers, pulling your thong to the side. His eyes drink it up, the way you glisten when your cunt eats up the fabric. You know he's watching, and you take advantage of it, circling your clit with the pads of two fingers. “Like this . When I touch myself, I think of you… d-did you know that?”

Swallowing roughly, he can't take his eyes off of you.

“What… What else?” He croaks.

“I think of your tongue, a-at my pussy. And your fingers… God. ” You slip a finger in, and he watches as your cunt clenches around it; gushing and sloppy. “Your l-lips. Meant it, before. When I said you were pretty. Want to sit on that pretty face and watch you melt– oh-h- fuck- ”

He wants to lick it up, all that slick that sluices from your hole. His mouth waters, just thinking about it. 

“Put another one in, for me.” He says it low, sinking to his knees to watch you fuck yourself. 

Nodding, you oblige. 

“Does it feel good?”

“ Yes. ” You don't hesitate. 

“Can you fit another one? Want to see how good she looks when she comes, sweetheart.”

Three fingers in, now, and he slides your thong a little further aside; reaching up to press his thumb to your clit. Light streams in from blinds cracked open and highlights your thighs perfectly. Nevertheless, he adjusts his glasses to make sure he doesn't miss anything.

The twitch of your leg, the way your hand cramps up, the way your lips curl into a delicious O - he sees it all, commits it to memory.

“ Faster , please.”

“ Doesn't –” You're frustrated, clearly chasing something that refuses to surface. “Not the same. Can't fucking reach. ”

He titters, nipping at your thighs and soothing the bites with the flat of his tongue.

“Poor baby. Will you let me help?”

Fervently, you nod, slipping out your fingers as he takes off his glasses. They're discarded, too foggy to be useful right now.

“Did I tell you to take them out?” He sighs and gestures for your hand. Wrapping his lips around them he sucks them clean, humming lightly. He pats your clit with a wet slap, content. “Put two fingers in, sweetheart.”

Doing as he says, your head feels full - cotton wool and bubble wrap, only able to focus on the pleasure building behind your clit. And when he slots two fingers in next to yours , it rips out a gravelly moan. 

“ Here? ” He says dragging himself deeper, curling his fingers up. “Or is it… here? ”

You groan, limp against his hand as you feel impossibly full. It reminds you of the stretch of his cock; creaming around the base of his two fingers and yours. That wonderful curl as he pumps himself in and out, cupping your hand in the process to make sure you match his pace. He can feel your walls spasm around him, impossibly soft and velveteen. 

“Can't say no to you,” His eyes are low, grunting as he palms himself roughly. “Even though… fuck … even though I should.”

It's wet, the slap slap slap of skin against skin echoing in his room. Miguel sits up, pressing his lips to your neck, and you take the opportunity to slip your other hand into his sweats. You start pumping, in time with his ministrations, eyes blown as you swipe your thumb over his weeping slit.

You know he likes it rough, and you jerk him into your palm; fast and hard and you watch as he matches your pace. Even now, you're competing, trying to catch the him up; to see who can make the other cum first. 

You push back on his fingers, hips slotting against his, whispering nonsense into his neck. You're too fucked out to care; confessions you never thought would see the light of day. All the little things you like about him, things he says, things he does; and you don't even register the ochred flush smattered along the ridge of cheekbone.

He spills into your hand, and you're quick to follow; cumming around him as his fingers stutter in and out. It feels good , dangerously so, and has you pressing shaky kisses around his mouth, and nipping at his bottom lip.

He stills, but you're greedy, aching for more. You want him in you; seating his thick cock deep inside, painting your walls with hot cum, and pushing it back in with deft fingers. Every part of you is on fire, barely satiated by your heated foray.

You tip back onto the bed, and he joins you; caging you in with thick forearms, looking at you like you've stolen all the stars in the sky. That feeling , again, slams into your chest like a bullet. Messy hair, ruddy cheeks, hand gently tracing your jaw; he looks gone, and oh so soft. You want to kiss him ; and it's a thought that sticks, embedding itself somewhere you can't reach to dig it out.

“ Miguel .” You whisper, enough alcohol at the edges of your mind to stop thinking and spill your guts to him, unfiltered. “Are you sleeping with someone else?”

His eyes flit over your face before answering and he shakes his head. 

“No. No. Just you. Only you.” 

“ Don't believe you .” But you want to. So, so desperately. “Promise me?”

“I promise, sweetheart.” He swallows. “Are you?”

“No. Don't think I could if I tried.” It comes out watery, stuck at the back of your throat.

He just looks, for a moment, cradling the back of your head. 

“I want to kiss you.” It spills out from your lips.

“I know.” 

“Then why won't you kiss me?”

“Not a good idea.” He strains, kissing your forehead, and then each cheek. Hesitating, he places a gentle peck to your chin. “Ask me tomorrow.”

He says it simply, too easily; and it makes you want to sob. When Miguel slips away, and you hear the sound of a light turned on in the bathroom, you can't move. Catatonic; you blink, and he's cleaned you up, and slipped a shirt over your shoulders. Laying back in his bed, you watch as he lingers by the doorway, shrouded in shadow. 

Goodnight. Y ou think you say it out loud, but it echoes in your head. 

He says back, but not really. Instead, he leaves that goodnight hanging by the doorway like an old coat, and you wrap it over your shoulders. 

It keeps you a little warmer through the night.

_

_

_

Rigor Mortis Taglist: @bunnyrose01 @lavenderslemonade @tsukkie-daisuke @malxoxo @thekidscallmebosss @vvitcxen @theyoutubedork @doublevirgogirl @jnghs @taleiak @noblesavagex @cumikering @rebeccawinters @evanpetersrightbigtoe @saucypeanuttt @pix-stuff @maliarenee @truthuntolddd @honeycovered-bandaids @aiyaaayei @aeeliy @amplsblog @sikrettt @opuffmango @spear-bitch @maddielikesmoths @lemonpepsi @sweet-strawberryhoney @lacedinweb22 @bubbsby @jing5uan @ellaandorersoct @hibarbiesblog @valentxi @kittym1ka @delulu-dia @melovetitties @yohoe-hoe @acollectionofcells1 @froggi-mushroom @thund3rthighs

@bonthebunnie @natthernandez @strawberrymiguel @twwcs @mammonispunk @um-well @renn-pumkin-head @ietherealkistar @smallishbook @sonderspider @spear-bitch @cryingintheclubdhmu @mageneire @notdyl4n @slezhara @funkyfoxx0 @smol-beb @iceclaw101 @lixhizy @errorundyne-exe @707xn @beantokki@twentysomethingwereyote

[ozzgin]

Heyyy just checked your masterlist and saw that despite you being into obey me! fandom, you don't have a fic. I'm married to Solomon in my mind so how about a situation where the reader (fem or gn your pick) is equally in love with this old man and begs him to recreate that time potion which made him immortal. Oh? Did i mention i want him to be a yandere? Please do that as well ^^

I love me my morally grey wizard ;)

I have 3 unfinished drafts for Diavolo, Barbatos and Satan on my Wattpad, but it was around the time I started getting Baki related requests here so I haven’t had the time to continue them. This goes for everyone reading, if you see a fandom title with no works you can always request something! :) This blog is only a few months old and I wasn’t writing much before (twice or thrice a year if I was generously inspired), so the variety is rather limited still. (I also finish requests at the pace of a snail, sorry about that)

Yandere! Solomon x Reader Headcanons

Featuring your fellow human classmate and now soon-to-be husband who couldn’t be happier about your wish to spend an eternity with him.

Content: gender neutral reader, obsessive behavior

It started rather subtle. Just idle curiosity at first, a mere feigned surprise that was quickly swept aside for more important matters. Sure, Diavolo bringing another fellow human to the Devildom, especially one without any powers, was at least mildly intriguing. Your situation was as tempting as a puzzle to fiddle with in between tasks. Beyond polite offers to help you handle the new challenging environment, Solomon was not planning on prying further. Then the surprises begun to queue one after another. To think that you had barely learned your way around and somehow still forged a contract with one of the devilish siblings. Then another. And another. Fascination crept its way in and the greatest sorcerer found himself begging to learn more about the mysterious (Y/N).

Naturally such fascination should’ve had an intellectual grounding and nothing more. What is it about you that has caused such a ruckus across RAD? All he needed was an answer. Yet he discovered much too late how embarrassingly involved he’d become. Childishly clutching his D.D.D. in the middle of the night, wondering if you’ve already fallen asleep, and grinning when the screen lit up with a response from you. Cancelling all plans the instant you’d ask - casually - if he wanted to join you after class to check out a new café. No, of course he had nothing else to do. Yes, it’s definitely a lucky coincidence that he’s always available when you want to hang out with him.

Once he accepted he was madly in love with you, he began fretting over all possible obstacles. The demon brothers, life after RAD. He’d never engaged much with other humans and his charisma only covered superficial pleasantries. How was he to properly convey that he’s - mildly put - obsessed with you to the point where rejection won’t be taken lightly? Uh oh. Closer to a threat than a confession. Thankfully the Heavens were gracious and you immediately returned his affections. No need for potions or hexes (not that he would’ve…he had them prepared just in case). He remembers it to this day, years after, the wide, innocent smile that you so generously bestowed upon him. Almost like a premonition, he knew you’d be the person to marry. Something he never considered in his long, lonely life.

You lazily lift your hand and admire the ring again. Solomon is quite clumsy and forgetful, but he goes all out for the things that matter. The proposal had been planned to a dizzying amount of detail and you couldn’t believe how much thought he put into it, with many aspects you otherwise assumed he’d forget or omit. Yet staring at the intricately carved band adorning your finger now, you can’t help the pang of melancholy blooming in your chest. Solomon lifts his gaze from the book he’s reading, sensing your discomfort. “Something bothering you?” He inquires with a hint of worry in his voice. “What happens after the wedding?” You demand, turning to face him. “Oh my. I personally prefer to focus on the present.” He answers with a chuckle. “Sure, because you don’t have to worry about your future. It’s mine that will end at some point.” His eyes widen and his hands are suddenly cold. He’s been so entranced by your company that he didn’t even entertain the idea of a potential end to it. He almost strokes his cheek to soothe the hard slap of your words, leaving him in a frightened stupor.

Oh no. No, no, no. Within the blink of an eye he finds himself standing before the alchemy shelves, rattling the bottles for the right ingredients. You didn’t even need to mutter a word. He knew exactly what you’re thinking of. How shameful of him to have caused you this distress in the first place. You’re young, and time for him has lost its human meaning, so your mortality hadn’t crossed his mind this entire time. He would’ve found a solution for it later, most certainly, but he didn’t expect this postponement to make you so anxious. His lips are quivering and his slender fingers are visibly trembling. Partly from the fear of almost failing you as your future husband, partly from the excitement of what’s about to come. He always imagined there’d be nothing more beautiful and precious to witness than you in your wedding attire as you tie the knot. But now? Oh, how ravishingly tempting and seducing, the fact that he can listen to the mundanely repeated words of “Til death do us part” and stare down its meaning until there’s nothing left of it. Not quite. Not for you two. The veil will be lifted and your face will radiate eternity.

After all, nothing will stand between him and his fated soulmate. What’s death to a wizard of his caliber?

[iceiceicecold]

What Your Favorite Band of Brothers character says about you (revamped and based on personal experiences)

Winters- You’re either a pretty level headed person or your life is in complete shambles and you find comfort in characters that know how to handle stress.

Nixon- You love a good self destructive character and more than likely see yourself in them. Also, how is your undiagnosed mental illness treating u lately?

Lipton- You just want to be held and cared for so bad it’s not even funny anymore.

Speirs- You most DEFINITELY read wattpad stories as a kid. The mafia kind. You’re also unnecessarily horny on the internet and probably say he’s “Lana-coded.”

Roe- You love a good tragic and tortured character, I’ll give you that. You also listen to boygenius and love religious imagery.

Babe- I’m gonna take a wild guess and say you’re on some type of lgbt or autism spectrum.

Liebgott- You have a really weird self-confidence complex and read a LOT of enemies to lovers. I’m lowkey scared of you even though you’ve probably never hit anyone in your life.

Webster- You’re an artist at heart and view the world in a way that might set you apart from your peers. You can never and will never tell if that’s a good or a bad thing. Also you call grown men “babygirl.”

Guarnere- You have TERRIBLE taste in men and can never tell the difference between being mean or flirting.

Toye- Ditto ^ but also may I add you probably have a thing for people in uniform.

Buck- You are a very simple person. You like everything to just be kind of normal and calm all of the time. Sometimes you dip your toes in the water, but it’s more of a once a year kind of thing. Your favorite superhero as a kid was Captain America.

Luz- You are just cool. Very Ferris Beuller, Bill and Ted, Matthew Lillard kind of cool. You’re also probably transmasc or into guys to some degree.

Shifty- You’re either one of those “omg smol bean” people or you just love a good ray of sunshine kind of character. Your favorite pony as a kid was probably Fluttershy.

Malarkey- I’m so deeply upset just looking into your eyes dawg you need to take a nap and book a therapy session. Not a single one of you guys is completely and totally stable.

Renee- You so desperately wanted this show to pass the bechdel test and wished more women were included in the production. You’re also into women.

Perconte- You’re either really cool or you’re really annoying. No inbetween.

Bull- You really liked the SNL “Big Boy” skit with SZA

Muck- You want to be the funny friend so bad and you’re still not sure if you’ve earned that title yet. Mad respect though bc I know ur ass has seen supernatural in full. More than once.

Welsh, Penkala, Spina, Talbert, Grant, Martin, Penkala, Hoobler, Skinny- Either you’re lying to be different or you genuinely love a good underrated background character.

Blithe- Mm you’re lying lol

Sobel- Hey, girl! What the fuck!

[coolyiooo]

ok

Please report @m2kitwz for copying my writings and claiming that im the one copying her "work"

^gotta prove that I didn't copy m2kitwz "work"

For the baby scenario, it was requested.

So was the birthday scenario, and ik you didn't write it, but neither did you write the baby scenario

Here's the rough drafts of my writings. They have weird titles but if you look back at the original post on my account, they were posted on the same day and a couple minutes apart bc I was editing them

Here's proof that I also made my own cover of the book. Why would I have the same cover of "your book"? If I truly copied it, that'd be dumb. It was a different cover from back in the day too but here's a screenshot.

It's true that the baby scenario is popular, but why would I wait a month to publish the writing if I could easily copy and paste it (if I truly copied from you) the next day or two weeks?

These are the pics you used to prove that I'm "copying" you, but you also said that you made it private for only you can see it, right? But tell me why the amount/total of reads and stars are different if nobody else can read this book that you apparently made?

❗⚠️❗⚠️❗If you truly wrote my writings....why don't you publicly open the Wattpad book up, that you apparently made, for everyone to read? We can see if the comments are still there and see if they truly add up to what they are responding to. ❗From what I can see here as well is that you have 30 chapters in "your book" while mine has 22...so let's see these 8 other chapters that you have created! But you can't prove it unless you make "your book" public again and it's gotta be in the next couple of 1-3 days bc if you take about two weeks to make it public , we'll believe that you made 8 new chapters during these two weeks, but you have no need to make these 8 chapters if you got it all set and ready to go!❗⚠️❗⚠️❗

Just got proof that your "Wattpad account", 'behind you' , isn't even your account.

❤️🖤"L Take Skill Issue" - Dazai 🖤❤️

Also my Wattpad account was made in Feb 2020. Idk if that's proof but there's that.

Don't know what else to say, but if you did create these writings into Wattpad 2016 why would I copy and paste every single one onto the app, i use to write, and use them until 8 years later? Kinda far fetched

@m2kitwz (the one who's made copies my writings) anymore proof you need, darling? Id happily made a screen recording if you need it too. Idk how you photoshopped it or something to make it look like you wrote my writings in 2016 but that's cool

Also some of these pics are taken by taking a picture of my computer screen

⚠️Edit : Please don't send death threats or anything hateful to my copier 🙏🙏 just report them please ⚠️