#what has she done? what has she done? what she had to. its the only way it makes sense

[angrenwen]

"

I carry my basket along the road, and after two hours of steady plodding I reach the little clearing with its pool and its cave. I set the basket down on the flat stone, and tuck my cold hands into my sleeves to get warm. “Wise and senior one,” I call, using our language’s politest form of address, “I have brought our humble offering of silk for you.” 

I do not know what I will see. Every year, the thing in the woods appears differently. Some things are always the same... the clawed hands, the human face, the long black hair. But other things change, depending on its mood. 

One year they tried sending only a third of the silk. It was a terrifying spider monster that year, and the child who met it fled our village that spring and never returned. 

It seems like a long time, though it is probably only a few minutes, before the thing in the woods emerges from the cave. I breathe a sigh of relief. It is mostly shaped like a human being, this time, so it’s not angry.  Good. 

It is tall, taller than the tallest man, but it looks female this time and is gowned in silk like a rich woman, the short jacket and wide skirts so covered with embroidery that a princess would envy them. She walks towards me, her long hair brushing the ground behind her and her ghost-pale face turned towards me. I kneel before her, bowing down politely, and I hear a strange rustling sound that I only realize afterwards is a laugh. 

“You are not good at that,” she says, and her voice rustles too, like autumn leaves or fine silk. “You abase yourself as if you are pulling tubers.” 

I sit back on my heels. “I’ve never done it before,” I admit, looking up at her. She looks fearsome - those sharp teeth, and the long claws on her hands - but a sense of humour is such a human thing, it makes her seem less frightening. “They had to show me how, before I came.” 

She rustles a laugh again, and somehow the long claws don’t snag the silk as she slips her hands into the basket and examines what I have brought. “I have not seen this blue before,” she says, sounding pleased. “A new dye?” 

“Merchants from Qing brought it in the summer.” It’s a lovely colour, not the bright blue of summer sky but the delicate grey-blue of a winter twilight. Merchants from everywhere bring their dyes here, for our fine silks. “They said they’d come back next year.” 

“Good. I would like more of this.” She cocks her head at me. “You are not running away,” she adds, sounding interested. “They usually run away.” 

I get to my feet. “I would like to ask you something, if I may.” 

“You may ask. I do not promise to answer.” 

I point to the basket of silk. “What do you do with it?” I ask curiously. “We’ve brought enough to clothe everyone in the village twice over, just in my father’s lifetime. Where does it all go? There can’t be that much room in that cave.” 

She smiles, pointed teeth bared and ghost-white eyes fixed on me, and yet it’s almost a friendly expression. “It has been generations since anyone asked that one. I suppose you have all forgotten, since the last time.” She lifts a fold of pink silk, and it glimmers in the sunlight. “This silk, mortal made, from the immortal groves of my forest, will clothe heroes and sacrifices, lost princes and babes of unknown birth. Do you tell no stories, in your village, of the goddess or goblin or ghost who dresses the clever mortal in fine raiment?” 

I nod slowly. “I know those stories.” Everyone’s heard them - there is at least one kingdom whose king was one of those heroes, appearing in silken garments with a magical sword to claim the kingdom from its previous king. “I always thought it was magical cloth.” 

“Well, and so it is, but cloth cannot be made from magic.” She strokes the silk. “Not if it is to be worn by mortals. So I tend my trees, and the silkworms that live nowhere but here, and mortal hands make the silk for mortal heroes to wear. I make the shirts and robes and swaddling clothes, the court gowns and fine shrouds, that heroes and kings are given by the gods.” 

“Oh.” I think about that. “Should we bring thread, then, as well as woven silk? You must need it to sew the things together.” 

She laughs again, the rustling louder this time. “That would be helpful, yes. Thank you for asking it.” 

I smile at her. “I will tell them, for next time.” I have more questions, but the rules are very strict. Only one question, for a child brave enough to ask, and then no more, and I’ve already pushed that by asking about the thread. So I bow to her and turn to go. 

“Child,” she calls softly. 

I look back, and she has the basket in her hands now. “Yes, wise and senior one?” 

She hefts the basket meaningfully. “This is short by two lengths. Tell them that, too. I will let it pass, this time, for the new dye and the clever questions, but I expect two extra lengths next year, to make up.” 

I sigh. “I will tell them that too.” I think I know who did it, too - I knew he had a shifty look. It’s stupid to do it, but there are always stupid people who try it. Who can only see the gold they lose when the thing in the woods takes half their silk, and never look at all they gain by our bargain.

The thing in the woods takes only half of the silk. No food. No lives. We pay taxes to no king, our men fight in no wars, our village is never raided by bandits. The thing in the woods does not take servants from our children, nor treat us cruelly - even when someone steals from it, it punishes only those truly responsible, not everyone.

It is a good landlord. 

There are many worse."

Deep Water Prompt #1886

The thing in the woods returned every winter, to demand half of the silk we had spun that year. One unlucky child would be chosen to deliver the gift into its long clawed hands.

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - the price of desire (part three)

warnings ; masturbation (f recieving), you lowkey being a jealous bitch, jk being annoying

prompt ; in which you learn that your dignity has a price, and unfortunately, it looks a lot like Jeon Jungkook in Calvin Klein boxers.

note ; see, the thing about writing a character that reminds you of yourself is you need to do some deep introspection to conjure up this chapter 💀 this one is a shit show ngl yall we got jealous!oc and she’s losing her marbles over him and jk is such a little shit and i hate him. last night i was up alllllll nite writing part 7 of this and its giving you’re all getting a part 9. clearly i have not learned how to pace my writing. oh well! enjoy!

playlist here

series masterlist here

Dinner should have ended an hour ago.

Everyone is full, warm, and just tipsy enough from multiple rounds of soju to start thinking they’re invincible. At some point, probably around the fourth bottle, Daniel had leaned back in his seat, exhaled loudly, and declared, “We’re not done.”

He wasn’t alone in the endeavor. Jungkook’s team, your team, everyone had agreed in unison, fueled by the kind of reckless confidence that only comes after a good meal and too much alcohol.

Unfortunately, that’s how you all ended up at the hotel bar.

Someone, anyone, needs to get you out of here. Like now. You were this close to having a peaceful night, hotel bar dimly lit and stupidly aesthetic, all warm amber tones and overpriced cocktails, the kind of place that whispers “sip slowly and pretend you’re not emotionally unhinged.” You had a glass of Sauvignon blanc in one hand, your crossed legs, your carefully composed expression. Everything was fine. Everything was dandy.

But, of course, no rest for the wicked because Jeon Jungkook is testing you. Again.

Somehow this time, it’s worse.

Because now there’s no boardroom, no work talk, no distractions.

The conversation around the barstools flows, but you barely process it. Not when Jungkook’s arm is draped over the back of your stool, the curve of his wrist just inches from your shoulder. Not when he shifts slightly, slow, deliberate, enough that his knee presses against yours again.

You ignore it. Or, at least, you try to.

Because unfortunately for you and your dignity, he leans in. Just enough so that when he speaks, his voice is low, warm, meant just for you. “You’re not as unaffected as you want everyone to think.”

You pause, fingers tightening slightly around your glass. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jungkook lets out a quiet, amused hum. “Don’t you?”

His voice is calm, casual, never wavering an octave. You take a slow sip of your drink, hoping he’ll drop it. He doesn’t (the little shit that he is.) Instead, he moves again. A shift of his leg, a brush of fabric against fabric, a subtle press of warmth where his knee collides with yours beneath the bar top.

Your pulse ticks higher.

“You keep doing that,” he murmurs, tilting his head slightly.

You don’t look at him. “Doing what?”

“Hm. Nothing.”

Your lips press into a thin line.

Jungkook watches you a second too long.

You feel it, not just the weight of his gaze, but the smug satisfaction practically radiating off him like heat from a flame. And then, predictably, it happens. His mouth curves into that maddening half-smirk, the one that always looks like he knows something you don’t.

Your fingers curl tighter around your glass. It’s subtle— just a minor flex at the knuckles — but it’s the only tell you allow yourself. You inhale slowly like you’ve trained for this moment in a monastery somewhere. Like you didn’t just get goosebumps from the sound of his voice.

His words, his stupid little observations, his entire existence, it all hangs between you like a lit match waiting for a breeze.

You don’t flinch. You don’t blink. You certainly don’t look at him.

Instead, you pivot. You turn your attention back to Daniel, who’s halfway through a sentence about tomorrow’s logistics and blissfully unaware that you are seconds away from launching a fork across the bar.

“We should confirm final call times with production before we leave in the morning,” you say smoothly, voice as calm and cool as the ice melting in your drink.

Daniel nods, already unlocking his phone. “I’ll check in with them tonight. We need to make sure—”

A low chuckle cuts through the conversation.

You don’t need to look. You already know who it is.

He shifts beside you, slow and easy, like someone stretching out in the sun. Like someone who’s already won. Then comes the voice. That infuriating, honey-laced drawl. “I bet you’re thinking about emails right now too, huh?”

Honestly, you might kill him.

You gulp down some saliva, hopefully not dramatically at all. Just enough to prove to no one but yourself that yes, you are still tethered to reality and no, you are not about to respond to whatever stupid thing just came out of his mouth.

Daniel doesn’t even look up. “She probably is.”

You exhale sharply through your nose. “I’m literally sitting right here.”

Jungkook doesn’t miss a beat. Grinning, he taps one lazy finger against the side of his glass like this is all a game and you’re the most entertaining piece on the board.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Sitting here, sure. But mentally? You’re already drafting a five-paragraph email about… what? Scheduling conflicts? Budget approvals? A strongly worded message to legal about font usage?”

You don’t dignify that with a response. You don’t even blink. That’s the only way you survive this, by pretending he’s white noise. Annoying, persistent, occasionally rhythmic, but ultimately ignorable.

Except Jungkook doesn’t move, doesn’t look away. He just keeps watching you with that infuriating mix of patience and heat, like he’s got all night to wait for the crack.

He leans in. Not much. Just enough to enter your atmosphere, enough to make the hair at the back of your neck stand up like he physically touched you.

His voice drops lower, slipping beneath your skin, curling at the base of your spine. “What would it take,” he says softly, “to get a real reaction out of you?”

Your pulse jumps. Just once. You think you’ve spared anyone noticing, but Jungkook notices. Of course he fucking does.

His gaze flickers down, quick and precise, catching the way your breath hitches, how your throat tightens just slightly before you mask it with a sip of your drink.

You scoff. A perfect, practiced sound. Tilting your head, you fix him with a look so flat it might as well be a screen saver. “You’d have to be interesting first.”

That earns a low chuckle from him, the kind that vibrates in his chest before spilling past his lips. His tongue presses briefly against the inside of his cheek like he’s holding back something worse. Something better.

However, the worst part? The part that makes your skin itch beneath your outfit and your pride scream into a pillow?

He’s right.

You are thinking about emails. About schedules. About anything that isn’t the slow, creeping awareness building in your chest every time he looks at you like that, like he sees through you. You’ve mastered restraint. But with him, you’re starting to wonder if you ever really had it.

By the time you settle the bill on the corporate card — after three more hours, four rounds of wine, and one very questionable attempt at a poker game — the team is absolutely gone.

Not in a scandalous, HR-nightmare kind of way. Just the warm, giggly, soft-around-the-edges kind of gone, where every sentence is funnier than it should be, and people keep bumping into furniture like the floor’s decided to quietly rotate.

Daniel is the worst offender. Laughing at something Jungkook’s manager said ten full minutes ago, still holding onto a half-empty water bottle like it’s a holy relic capable of sobering him up through sheer willpower.

“I need sleep,” One of your assistants mumbles, rubbing their temples with the weary gravitas of a soldier in a war film.

Daniel sighs dramatically, clutching his chest like he’s been mortally wounded. “I need a raise.”

“You’re literally the VP,” You deadpan, pressing the elevator button with the exact energy of someone who wants to be horizontal in thirty seconds or less.

Daniel waves you off like you’re boring him. “Yeah, yeah, but emotional labor is expensive.”

The elevator dings and you move forward automatically, ready to herd the group in like tipsy sheep, but the moment the doors slide open, it’s clear: it’s a clown car situation. Overpacked. Your team is squished in like sardines, not a single centimeter of space left. And unfortunately, neither you nor Jungkook are among the chosen ones.

He’s already near you, of course, standing off to the side with his hands tucked into the pockets of his gray Calvin Klein sweats — God, even those manage to look insane on him — leaning casually against the mirrored wall like this was always part of the plan. Like he manifested this moment with sheer arrogance.

You pause. Just for a second. Just long enough for your brain to scream no, no, absolutely not.

Daniel, blissfully unaware of the silent hellscape unfolding beside him, reaches out from the crowded elevator and claps you on the shoulder. “Get to your room safe,” he mutters like it’s a personal attack, before the doors close with the rest of your saving grace inside there.

You’re alone… you and Jungkook. In the fluorescent-lit purgatory of the hotel lobby, with absolutely no witnesses and nowhere to run.

Another elevator dings almost immediately, like the universe is trying to be merciful for once. You step in without hesitation, hitting your floor number.

You pray — actually pray — that Jungkook will take the hint. That he’ll wait for the next one. That he’ll remember this morning, or last night, or literally any of the moments where you made it painfully clear that proximity to him was not something you enjoyed.

But, to your dismay, of course he follows.

The doors slide shut behind you two, and instantly, the atmosphere shifts. Not heavy. Not claustrophobic. Just… electrically still, like the silence right before a storm hits.

You take a step back farther than necessary, like putting a little distance between you will somehow neutralize the static humming between your ribs.

Jungkook doesn’t say anything. Not yet. He just stands there calmly and silently like this isn’t a small metal box and you aren’t slowly suffocating on tension.

His reflection flickers in the mirrored panels. The lights overhead cast soft shadows across his face, catching on the faint curve of his jaw, the delicate slope of his nose, the glint of his silver chain resting just above the collar of his hoodie.

And that’s when you do it. You look at him. It’s stupid how unfair it is; how someone can look like that with zero effort with a hoodie and sweatpants on. Post-drinks hair slightly tousled. Like he rolled out of a Vogue spread and into your elevator just to ruin your night.

Your eyes drag up slowly, his mouth, still curved like he’s just barely holding back a grin. His hands still tucked in his pockets like he’s relaxed, as if this isn’t killing him even a little.

You shift your gaze back to the elevator doors, jaw clenched.

You won’t be the first to speak. You refuse to be the first to speak. In fact, you’d rather not speak at all.

You exhale slowly, a practiced breath, long, quiet, like it cost you nothing to let it go. Your eyes fix straight ahead. You’ve mastered this look, worn it like armor.

Jungkook sees the twitch in your jaw, the way your fingers curl slightly at your sides like they’re bracing for impact. He sees the second you hold your breath, just long enough to mean something.

And when he finally speaks, his voice is lower than it has any right to be. Smooth. Almost casual. “You sure you don’t like me?”

The words don’t land gently. They settle, then sink right into the center of your chest, where all your irritation and confusion lives in a tangled knot. Somewhere between the fourth and fifth floor, you realize you don’t have an answer.

You should roll your eyes. Say nothing. Laugh it off like you always do.

Despite what your brain knows, the Sauvignon blanc speaks for you. You finally let yourself turn to him. And for the first time tonight, you allow yourself to enjoy it.

The way his gaze is fixed on you now, intense, unreadable, dark in that infuriating way that makes you feel stripped down without ever being touched. The way his jaw ticks, like he’s already bracing for your next sharp remark. The way he’s not leaning in, not crowding you, but somehow still manages to take up every inch of air in the elevator.

So you tilt your head, let your lips curl, slow and deliberate, into something just short of a smirk.

“That’s funny,” you whisper, tone smooth, like you’re discussing quarterly projections. “Because from where I’m standing…”

Your gaze drops unapologetically. You let it travel down the stretch of his chest, over the chain glinting against his collarbone, down the trail of ink barely visible beneath the edge of his sleeve. You linger just long enough to be rude. Then you look back up, straight into his eyes. “…it looks like you’re the one begging for my attention.”

You see it in him almost instantly; the crack. Jungkook’s lips part slightly, brows lifting a fraction, not enough to call it surprise, not enough to be obvious. But enough to confirm it: he wasn’t expecting that.

But then, like clockwork, he recovers. The shift is seamless. An uptick of his mouth. A flicker of amusement. That practiced, pretty smirk he wears like a shield.

“Is that right?” he says, voice far too smooth, like silk dragged across skin.

You shrug effortlessly, sounding borderline bored. “I mean, I get it. Happens to the best of them.”

That earns a laugh, quiet, but little breathy. He shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair, the silver rings on his fingers catching the light as he exhales like he doesn’t know what to do with you.

Ding. The elevator reaches your floor.

You step forward, pressing your palm against the door to hold it open. But you don’t step out immediately.

You glance over your shoulder, just enough to catch his eye. “Sweet dreams, Jungkook.”

You walk out like you didn’t just set the room on fire with your mouth. Like your pulse isn’t thudding against your ribcage. Like this wasn’t the most dangerous ten floors of your entire career.

The doors slide shut behind you with a soft click, and you can still feel him on your skin.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Los Angeles is a blur.

Not the dreamy kind, the kind with sunsets over palm trees and smoothies named after zodiac signs. No, this is the real kind. The kind that grinds your bones into paste and calls it glamour. The kind that starts at 5AM with your phone vibrating off a marble nightstand and ends — if it even ends — with you asleep in front of your laptop, mascara smudged and calendar still open like a horror novel.

The campaign is moving like a bullet train with no brakes. Shoot schedules locked. Press engagements triple confirmed. Creative edits approved so fast it’s suspicious. You don’t breathe so much as manage air intake. Your inbox is a warzone all flags, forwards, follow-ups, and your calendar is a meticulously color-coded march toward the inevitable collapse of your sanity.

Every day begins before the sun even considers rising. You’re on conference calls with the international team while the city’s still asleep, firing off approvals, putting out fires you didn’t start. Fires that, frankly, should never have existed in the first place; why the Tokyo team decided to schedule a last-minute denim edit on a national holiday is beyond you.

Your days are spent in transit. You’re a ghost in a power suit, haunting fitting rooms, lurking behind monitors, whispering death threats to the printer in the production trailer when it jams mid-deadline. There is not a single frame, not a single outfit, not a single loose thread that escapes your notice.

You are everywhere. And… you are exhausted.

So when your team finally earns a night off, where do you end up?

A charity gala.

Because rest is a myth and Calvin Klein has a reputation to maintain.

You hope, pray, that tonight will be uneventful. A blur of small talk and handshakes. A chance to wear heels and pretend you’re not one bad cocktail away from sobbing into the nearest light fixture.

But the universe has jokes and all of them are wearing CK-logo embroidery.

Jungkook, for example, has apparently decided that shirts are optional now. Which would be fine, if he wasn’t your problem. If he didn’t strut onto set like every denim jacket ever made was stitched just to showcase the dip of his collarbone. If every stylist on earth didn’t keep insisting that “this shoot would really work if we just lost the shirt.”

It’s criminal. It’s maddening.

The worst part of it all is you’re not immune.

You’re supposed to be above this. You’re supposed to be focused. You’re supposed to be untouchable. Instead, you’re flustered, trapped between campaign deadlines and the unbearable fact that Jungkook exists with a jawline like that and tattoos that wink at you every time he stretches.

You hate it here.

The Calvin Klein charity gala is everything you expected and everything you dreaded. From the moment you arrive, it’s clear: this is not just a party.

The floral arrangements alone are taller than most of your assistants. The lighting is soft, golden, flattering to skin tones and egos alike. Everyone here looks like money, even the ones pretending they don’t care.

You know the script. You’ve been to more of these than you can count. You know how to nod just right, how to fake-laugh without showing teeth.

You keep your head high, your heels steady, your face unreadable. You’re tired, but keeping it together best you can.

And then, of course, there are the faces. The ones whose names print headlines without trying. Whose cheekbones alone could fund a campaign. Models, actors, musicians; the walking endorsements who keep Calvin Klein perched high in the cultural stratosphere, where one perfectly timed Instagram post can move product faster than a quarterly media buy.

You know them all. You’ve worked with most of them. Negotiated their contracts, managed their meltdowns, rewritten their press releases at 2AM when their publicists mysteriously “lost signal.” You spot them all within minutes.

You spot a familiar swish of black hair a few feet away — Jennie Kim. She’s stationed effortlessly near the center of the room, composed in a sleek black dress that whispers Calvin Klein with just enough subtlety to be expensive. Nothing about her is trying too hard. Nothing ever is. To the public, she’s still a K-pop idol.

But to you? She’s a brand asset. A clean campaign file in your Dropbox. A woman who understands strategy and ROI better than most middle-aged execs with a Wharton degree.

You worked with her last year; she was a dream partnership. Professional. Polished. Sharp as hell. She showed up on time, approved edits without ego, understood how to sell a lifestyle without looking like she was trying to sell anything.

You don’t mind her, which is a rare compliment, considering half the people in this room make you want to walk directly into traffic.

A server floats by, all crisp collar and too-bright smile. You take a flute of champagne with a quiet nod, murmuring a “thank you” before redirecting your gaze toward the entrance.

Still no sign of Jungkook. Good.

The longer you go without seeing him tonight, the better. Because while this event may technically be about Calvin Klein — the brand, the philanthropy, the public-facing purity of fashion-for-good — you know the second he walks in, that narrative is going to collapse under the weight of your impending demise.

You hover near the edge of the room, your team circling close by, half-listening as they rattle off the rest of the night’s agenda. Silent auctions. Keynote speeches. A press check-in before the dinner service begins.

It’s all noise. You’ve heard it a hundred times before. So you nod along, fingers tracing the delicate curve of your champagne glass, your expression politely engaged while your brain drifts.

What’s throwing you off isn’t the gala. It’s the creeping awareness at the back of your spine. The kind that makes you glance toward the doors without realizing it. The kind that tightens the air in the room without anyone needing to speak, like you’re looking for someone.

You should really get a primetime spot of Ashton Kutcher’s Punkd for thinking of that as soon he as enters.

The shift is immediate, unmistakable. The atmosphere bends slightly around him, conversation fluttering for half a second before regaining composure. Heads turn. Bodies angle. A ripple moves through the room like the collective instinct to look good suddenly got dialed up to eleven. The crowd practically parts for him like the Red Sea.

And of course Jungkook acts like he doesn’t notice, like he hasn’t timed this entrance perfectly. He’s draped in Calvin Klein, naturally.

The black button-down is simple, classic, and tailored to perfection. The white shirt underneath is open at the collar, just enough to flirt with impropriety. His silver chain glints under the chandelier lights.

He looks good.

Another massive problem. This night is supposed to be about control, about keeping the spotlight fixed exactly where you want it. Now he’s here and nothing is going to stay on script.

His eyes sweep the room, not searching, not scanning, just…passing through. As if he belongs everywhere and nowhere at once.

You don’t look. You absolutely do not look. Instead, you swirl the champagne in your glass like it’s interesting, like Daniel murmuring something about the CEO’s arrival is the most riveting thing you’ve heard all night.

You keep your focus forward. You keep your expression locked.

He moves about, nothing showy. Just a calm shift, a casual step deeper into the crowd, his pace unhurried as he slips past people with a nod here, a handshake there.

Somehow, you feel it. The creeping closeness, the magnetic pull of him inching nearer. Your fingertips nearly break the glass stem.

And because admitting anything else would be dangerous, you tell yourself it’s the dress. The one you almost didn’t wear. The one that makes you feel too aware of your own body. The one that skims too close, holds too tight, and is not helping your composure right now.

You tell yourself he hasn’t noticed. You lie to yourself for sport. You know how he looks at you when you’re not paying attention, or when you pretend not to be.

You refuse to give him the satisfaction. You keep your eyes on the far wall like it’s about to announce the cure for burnout.

Luckily, Jungkook doesn’t approach you. Instead, he does what he’s supposed to do, what every hour of media training and brand grooming prepared him for. He slides into conversations with executives like he’s known them for years, shakes hands with museum donors like he’s interested in tax-deductible causes. He smiles brightly, poses when needed. A perfect product in perfect packaging.

He’s such a damn good return on investment that you almost feel proud.

Because if you were the kind of person who let herself admit things, you’d admit he’s doing everything right, that he’s holding the brand on his shoulders and making it look light. That he’s annoyingly nailing it.

And — oh god. Goddamnit.

He’s looking at you.

Daniel notices before you do. You’re busy pretending not to care, running your thumb along the base of your glass, when he leans a little closer and mutters under his breath “Christ. He’s not even pretending to hide it.”

You don’t look up. “Hide what?”

Daniel gestures loosely across the room with his chin. “The fact that he’s mentally stripping you while shaking hands with the chairman of the board.”

You pause, then tilt your glass slightly, watching the bubbles trail upward. “You’re being dramatic.”

Daniel snorts. “Am I?”

You take a sip, calm and practiced, expression smooth as ever.

The truth — the part that lives somewhere tight in your chest and buzzes beneath your skin — is that you feel it. You feel him. The burn of his gaze every time it finds you, dragging over the fabric of your dress like he’s trying to memorize the way it hugs your waist. The way it dips at your back. The way you’re very much not wearing a blazer to cover it up.

You don’t need to look to know what expression he’s wearing.

However, if you acknowledge it… that would mean giving him what he wants.

So instead, you turn to Daniel. One brow lifted, lips barely curved. “If he’s looking,” you murmur, voice smooth as ever and twice as dismissive, “that sounds like a him problem.”

Daniel huffs out a laugh, low and knowing. “Right. And you don’t care. Not even a little.”

You take another sip, “Nope.”

Daniel, your observant little coworker… yeah, he doesn’t buy that for a single second.

You inhale once, then glance over at him flat-eyed. “Zip it.”

He rolls his eyes but grins into his champagne. “Sure, boss.”

To your luck, the conversation shifts. The room continues its expensive dance around you. Conversations ebb and flow, the gentle hum of a jazz quartet pulsing through the air. You do your best to work the room; a strategic presence, handshake here, a check-in with PR there. A nod to the editor-in-chief of a magazine you ghosted twice last year. You move through the event like you belong in every corner of it.

But… your eyes keep drifting back. (Not intentionally. Not at first.)

Just one glance… okay, then another, and another.

Jungkook moves through the space, unlike the the cocky brat you’ve been tolerating behind the scenes, but the golden boy the brand paid for. No smirk, no teasing, just that lethal kind of charm that makes executives lean in and reporters jot down adjectives like “magnetic” and “boyish, but timeless.”

You catch flashes of him; the subtle nods, the confident handshake, the curated smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

He looks disgustingly good.

And maybe it wouldn’t matter if it weren’t for this: there’s a sharp, stupid feeling tightening low in your stomach. This quiet awareness that you’ve been trying to kill all night. The way it coils, slow and unwelcome, every time he runs a hand through his hair like it’s nothing, like he doesn’t know exactly where your eyes are.

It’s been years since anything like this has touched you, since a man has taken up any space in your mind or your body, im the heat that simmers behind your ribs before you shut it down. You’ve buried yourself in work and the relentless climb toward a version of success that left no time for softness.

Yet here you are, white-knuckling a champagne flute like it insulted your family. Fighting off the burn creeping up your spine. Pretending you don’t see him, don’t feel him, don’t care.

You straighten your posture, swallow the ache in your throat, and refocus. The night moves forward. Press is being escorted in. Introductions are underway. The gala is running like clockwork, exactly as you planned it. Your team is finalizing the press list. Your assistant is confirming cues. Daniel is muttering under his breath about black-tie events being the eighth circle of hell.

Everything is in its rightful place.

Until it isn’t.

Because when you glance up, a temporary flick of the eyes, a reflex, your stomach drops.

What the fuck?

Jungkook is talking to Jennie. And not just talking… they’re close. Too comfortable

Your brain immediately leaps into rationalization mode. They obviously know each other. It’s the industry. The Korean music scene is a small world. They’ve probably worked together. Filmed something. Shared stylists.

It’s nothing.

Or.. well, it doesn’t look like nothing.

He shifts slightly, his posture loose and shoulders dipped. His focus dialed in like whatever she’s saying is the only thing worth hearing tonight.

Jennie tilts her head, eyes gleaming beneath the chandelier. Her mouth curls into the kind of smile you know isn’t just polite. She laughs lowly, the kind of laugh people lean in to hear.

Your jaw clenches. What the hell is he doing?

You’ve seen him charm a dozen people tonight. You’ve watched him play the room like a pro. This is different. This is intentional. This is just enough to start rumors, to spark headlines. It’s a flicker of chemistry, a well-timed glance, a private moment, dressed up for public consumption.

Jungkook has to know exactly what he’s doing.

Your fingers curl tightly around the stem of your glass, pulse ticking higher, heat prickling at the back of your neck. Your mind starts moving fast, quicker than it should.

You’re already thinking about damage control, angle management, what gets picked up by press. What kind of fire this could start if it circulates. If Dispatch catches wind. If fans start spinning theories.

This is how it starts — not the campaign, not the narrative you’ve so carefully constructed over the past month.

No. This is how the other thing starts.

The thing that spirals out of your reach before you’ve even finished your champagne. The kind of chaos that turns into a PR nightmare before dessert hits the table. The kind of moment that ends with your team spending three days scrubbing TikTok edits off the internet while Twitter builds a conspiracy theory with color-coded timelines and three million likes.

This is exactly the kind of thing that keeps you up at night.

You haven’t even tasted the crab cake yet. Damnit.

Your eyes track across the room, locked on Jungkook and Jennie. And yeah, you’re watching. So what? You’re not hovering, you’re not jealous, you’re not spiraling, you’re monitoring. For the brand. For optics. For reasons.

He laughs again. That stupid, low laugh he does when he’s being charming on purpose. Jennie smirks and a strand of hair behind her ear like she was born for red carpet flirtation.

Something inside you, small and sharp and completely unwelcome, tightens. You don’t let it show. Your expression doesn’t shift.

He has to feel it. The silent pull between your body language and the knife-edge restraint in your jaw. The way you haven’t touched your drink in three whole minutes. The way your spine is a little too straight.

There’s a part of you that curls inward at the sight. A part that doesn’t give a single fuck about brand strategy or headlines or the possibility of Dispatch camping outside your hotel. A part that just hates that it’s him.

Because if it were anyone else — some other Calvin Klein face, some other industry darling — you could write it off.

This is Jungkook. And now, you can see it happening in real time. He leans in even more, enough to make it look natural and make people wonder.

His hand brushes Jennie’s waist. A blink-and-you-miss-it kind of touch, probably for the camera. Probably for the campaign. Probably a thousand justifiable things.

And Jennie, ever the pro, plays her part flawlessly. She leans in too, smiles, gives the moment enough weight to catch the light.

You watch every second of it. And then you realize you’re about to get caught in a really compromising position, so you keep your focus trained forward on the executive beside you talking about Q4 metrics, on your assistant adjusting a speech note, on the champagne in your hand that you haven’t touched in twelve minutes.

Anything but him.

However, you do feel it before you see it. That electric awareness buzzing just under your skin. You glance over and catch him already looking. When your eyes meet, he tosses you a smirk that anyone could miss easily, like he won.

Like this is a game and you just played your hand without meaning to.

Something ugly twists in your chest. It’s sharp and immediate and furious. He should know better. He does know better. He’s not some clueless rookie who doesn’t understand how this works. He’s Jeon fucking Jungkook.

He knows how Korea works, how netizens twist everything. How one look becomes a dating rumor, how one hand on a waist becomes “Calvin Klein’s It Couple?”

But he’s dragging this out for some reason you can’t put your finger on. Your heart kicks once, hard. You just keep telling yourself you’re fine (even though you’re not. Not even close.)

It’s really so reckless. Borderline suicidal, if we’re talking about headlines and stockholder morale. The part that makes your pulse spike and your jaw clench is that he knows.

You can see it in the way he leans just a little too casually into Jennie, posture loose, like he didn’t just detonate a PR landmine in the middle of your gala. He’s playing some game called “see how close he can get to the edge.” How hot he can let the fire burn before everything goes up with it.

It pisses you off mostly because you don’t have time for this, not with investors watching and press circling like sharks. Not with your reputation balancing on the razor-thin edge of flawless execution.

You don’t have room for his recklessness, for his smug little power plays, for whatever masochistic need he has to push and poke and test the limits of your patience especially when there are stakes involved. Real stakes.

So when his gaze flicks back to you like he’s waiting to see if you’ll crack, you don’t blink.

And if Jeon Jungkook thinks he can play you?

He’s about to learn what happens when you push someone who’s spent their entire life building something from nothing.

You excuse yourself mid-sentence to literally nobody, deposit your untouched champagne on the nearest tray like it personally offended you, and walk gracefully out of the space and into the restroom.

The second the bathroom door clicks shut behind you, the noise fades. It becomes background like the night is happening in some other timeline you no longer belong to.

You plant your palms against the marble sink. It’s cool, anchoring you. You breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.

You’re not here to unravel. You’re not here to throw a fit over a boy who thinks teasing you in public is some twisted mating ritual. The solution is simple. You’re going to yell at his publicist.

That has to be the answer. That has to be the valve you release so the pressure doesn’t implode somewhere messier — or worse, somewhere emotional or personal. This thing he’s doing: it’s not cute. It’s not clever. It’s a liability.

You knew working with Jungkook would be complicated the second you saw the contract terms his team sent yours. You anticipated creative clashes. Maybe the occasional passive-aggressive email about photo approval rights. But not this, not the glances that land like weapons, not the way he’s looking at you like he wants something from you.

Your hands curl into fists against the sink. Everything he’s doing has nothing to do with Calvin Klein. It’s about you. It’s about the way he keeps watching you, waiting.

And if it’s a reaction he wants? Fine. He’ll get one, just not the kind he’s expecting.

You straighten and smooth the fabric of your dress with a practiced hand. You open the door, slipping out of the room with ease as not to be seen. And then you turn the corner —

Body slammed right into an unsuspecting soul. It’s a hard chest, kinda warm.

The apology is already half-formed on your lips until your brain catches up. You smell the cologne; it’s suble but familiar.

The gaze that meets yours when you look up is smug, so recognizable it’s almost laughable.

You stumble back a step, instinctive, like he’s toxic to the touch. He stands there like he has all the time in the world. Jungkook looks quite pleased with himself, as if he hasn’t completely derailed your night.

And you, still holding onto that last sliver of restraint, realize one very important thing: you are absolutely going to lose it.

Just like that, the spark hits gasoline.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Your voice is controlled, a velvet-wrapped blade drawn without ceremony.

Jungkook blinks at you like he’s just been asked his coffee order. “Existing?”

You inhale sharply through your nose. “Don’t.”

You take a step back, not because it helps, not because distance makes anything better, but because your body needs something to do that isn’t launching him into the nearest wall. It’s useless, of course. His presence is still all over you. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

He tilts his head slightly with faux confusion. “Do I?”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides, nails pressing into your palms like anchors. “Don’t play dumb,” you snap, voice tight. “You’re being irresponsible.”

That makes his eyebrows lift like you’ve said something adorable. “Oh?”

“Yes,” you bite out. “You can’t just stand there in the middle of a gala, flirting with Jennie like you’re not a walking headline. You know how this works. You’ve been doing this longer than I’ve been in this job.”

He exhales through his nostrils, soft and dismissive, like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. “And what exactly did I do, hmm?”

That voice… it’s low and infuriating and far too calm for someone who’s about ten seconds away from having a garbage can thrown at his head.

“You leaned in,” you narrow your eyes. “You lingered. You gave them just enough to write a story, and don’t pretend you don’t know exactly what that story will be.”

He’s still, tense, not so much defensive. He almost looks like he’s enjoying this. The realization hits low in your stomach, nauseating and warm. He likes this. Your anger, your control slipping.

That lights another fuse.

“You know how netizens are,” you say, biting off every word like it costs you. “You know how fast things spiral. One fucking look, Jungkook. One picture. That’s all it takes.”

Nothing. No panic. No apology. Just the faintest trace of amusement at the corner of his mouth like he’s listening to you rant about shipping delays, not a potential scandal that could blow up an entire marketing strategy.

Your breathing turns shallow. Rage simmering beneath your skin, humming through your bones like a second pulse.

“You seem upset,” he murmurs. “Why is that?”

Your blood feels like it’s about to vibrate through your skin. You don’t have an answer to that question, or not one you’re willing to say out loud.

You snap, not loudly or dramatically, but more precisely like the crack of something finally breaking after being held too tightly for too long.

“Because you’re a fucking irresponsible idol,” you seethe, your voice like steel honed to a axe. “You’re all the same.”

Jungkook’s brows lift, intrigued. Clearly, he’s watching something unfold that he’s been waiting for.

You’re not done, not even close. “You act like nothing sticks to you. Like you’re untouchable. Like the rules don’t apply because you’re Jeon Jungkook, global superstar, golden boy of Korea, the one everyone bows down to no matter what you do.”

Your voice is building, rising with the fire you’ve tried for weeks to keep buried under professionalism and politeness. “You fuck around, you flirt, you play, and people let you. Because they want to. Because they love you. Because they think you can do no wrong. And when you do, when you make a mess? Someone’s always there to clean it up.”

He doesn’t interrupt or defend himself. But that infuriating smirk you’ve come to hate more than anything flickers. He’s less certain.

Still, you press forward. Once the dam breaks, there’s no holding it back.

“You think what you did tonight means nothing?” you demand, your words like fire. “You think you can just cozy up to Jennie in front of photographers, in front of executives, in front of me, and it won’t get turned into something it was never supposed to be?”

Your chest is tight, pulse slamming beneath your skin. You’re starting to think he’s getting some kind of sick pleasure from watching you unravel.

He probably is, the bastard.

You draw a breath and try to center yourself. Try to remember that you’re not in your apartment or on a closed set. You’re in a dark hallway of a charity gala, one wrong word away from scandal.

Thank god you’re alone.

The last thing you need is a journalist stumbling across this, catching you flushed, furious, so far off-script you wouldn’t even recognize the version of yourself they’d quote.

You say a silent prayer that no one’s out looking for you. Because if they saw this, they might start asking questions.

He just lets your words hang there densely.

“Are you done?” His voice is not playful or light or amused anymore.

You tilt your head, lips curving into something sharp. “I don’t know. Am I?”

The words land like a slap. You watch it, how his jaw tenses, how his body shifts, how he takes a breath like it costs him.

Suddenly the hallway doesn’t feel quiet anymore. He moves, one singular step. He’s closer now. Closer than he’s been all night.

Now, he’s angry too with the kind that builds. You see it in the way his gaze sharpens. In how his expression hardens, dark eyes locked onto yours like he’s warning you.

You should back off, turn around, and walk away. Do the responsible thing.

Yet you can’t because your hands are still trembling from holding back and chest is still burning from everything you’ve wanted to say but couldn’t and your pride is still aching from being dragged through the night like a puppet on his string.

You hold your ground and meet his stare.

Neither of you speaks, or moves, or dares to look away.

“You act like I committed a felony,” Jungkook mutters, exhaling through his nose like he’s already exhausted by this conversation. “Like I grabbed a mic and told the press Jennie and I secretly eloped in Jeju.”

“That’s not the point,” you say, each word clipped but quiet, the kind of sharp that draws blood without raising volume. “The point is you know exactly how this industry operates. You know how quickly stories spread, how easily narratives twist, and you still fed into it.”

His expression flickers but you catch it; the slight tension around his eyes.

“You think I’m feeding into it?” he asks, tone just dry enough to test you.

You scoff. “You’re playing with it. And for what? To stir up buzz? To make yourself feel powerful? Or is this just another way to get under my skin?”

A short laugh escapes him, more disbelief than humor. He shakes his head, mouth twitching like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “You are so fucking full of yourself.”

You bristle, shoulders stiffening before you can stop them. “Excuse me?”

“You think this is about you?” he says, voice louder now, sharper. “Not everything revolves around you, [Y/N].”

“Oh, right,” you fire back, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “Because you were out there acting like that for brand optics, not for my benefit.”

His gaze hardens. And when he speaks again, his voice is rougher. “You’re pissed because you think I was trying to start a scandal,” he says, slowly, like he’s testing the weight of the words as they leave his mouth.

His eyes scan your face, zeroing in, his tone quieting even further. “But that’s not why you’re mad.”

Your throat tightens. You hate that it does.

“If it was just about the cameras,” he tilts his head slightly, “you wouldn’t be this upset.”

You exhale hard, rolling your shoulders back like it’ll shake off the pressure building in your chest. “Oh, fuck off.”

His lips twitch. “Hit a nerve?”

“No,” you swallow, your jaw clenched so tight it aches. “You’re just delusional.”

Jungkook hums, unconvinced. His body leans forward just slightly, enough to make the space feel tighter.

“So tell me,” he says, “what pissed you off more?”

You roll your eyes, force out a scoff, push the moment back where it belongs.

“You,” you say, tone steady but laced with venom, “are the cockiest person I’ve ever met.”

He exhales a laugh, low and infuriating, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he’s trying not to grin. He doesn’t deny it, doesn’t say he secretly likes the way you’re seething, likes the way he gets under your skin, likes the fact that he’s the one pulling this version of you out into the open, entirely unlike the woman you spend so much effort trying to be.

Jungkook’s tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek as he shakes his head like you are the ridiculous one in this conversation.

“You are so tightly wound,” he says, sounding more that it’s an observation, not an insult.

Your jaw tightens instantly. “Come again?”

His tone doesn’t shift. If anything, it softens.

“I’m just saying,” he murmurs, watching you closely, “maybe you need to get off or something.”

The words land like a match to gasoline.

There’s a pause so brief it might’ve gone unnoticed. He sees the momentary flicker behind your eyes, the way your throat closes before you force yourself to exhale through your nose, to reset your features back into bored indifference. You school your expression with a precision you’ve mastered.

But it’s already too late. His lips twitch into a slow, knowing curve.

“That shut you up quick,” he says, quiet and far too satisfied with himself.

The last thread snaps, tension curling through you like electricity with nowhere to go. You step forward, not a warning or a threat, but close enough that your words hit the air between you like something physical. “Bet you wish it was you helping me do it, huh?”

It’s subtle. The smallest shift in the set of his shoulders, the faintest flicker behind his eyes, jaw flexes once. No retort. No easy comeback.

That’s a win.

Before he can recover, before he can pull another smug line from that bottomless well of cocky self-assurance, you push his shoulder.

Enough to make him take a single step back. Enough to prove a point. Enough to make it clear that you’re done. That whatever game he thought this was, it’s over.

Without waiting, without flinching, without looking back, you turn and walk away. He stays behind, backlit in the dim hallway light, still watching you.

You don’t stop moving. If you don’t leave now, you might not walk away at all and that’s a risk you’re not willing to take.

You don’t go back to the event. You don’t say goodbye to anyone. You don’t even wait for your team.

You call a car with shaking fingers and step inside without looking back, seething so hard you can barely speak when the driver asks where to. Your hotel, you manage to grit out.

The moment the door closes behind you, you’re already kicking off your heels, yanking the zipper of your gown down too hard. The silence of the room is almost mocking, like even the walls are waiting for you to admit what you won’t say out loud.

Who the fuck does he think he is?

You pace. You throw your bag onto the desk. You curse his name under your breath like a mantra, like if you say it enough times it might finally lose meaning.

Maybe you just need to get off.

Your jaw clenches. “Fucking unbelievable,” you mutter aloud, storming into the bathroom to scrub off your makeup. “Says the man who was practically dry-humping Jennie for the press.”

Your face is flushed, possibly from anger or something worse. You splash water over your skin, cold enough to sting. But the thought still slips in, unwelcome and heavy.

What if he’s right?

You grip the counter, knuckles white, water dripping from your jaw. You hate how the echo of his voice lingers in your head and how you can still see the way his jaw flexed, the way his button-down clung to every inch of him under those lights.

God, he looked good. Too good. Like a fucking problem with a dick and an attitude.

You groan and press your palms to your face, willing yourself to forget how your body reacted even while your brain was screaming at him.

You hate him. You also hate… that you want him. He put the idea in your head and now it’s floating around in there, out in the open.

You march to the bed, flop onto it, and stare at the ceiling, the sheets cool against your bare legs. Your heart won’t slow. Your mind won’t stop. And worst of all, your body won’t listen.

Because no matter how angry you are, no matter how justified you feel, you can’t shake the image of his mouth when he smirked, the look in his eyes when he said that stupid sentence. Who does he think he is? Some character from a Wattpad fanfiction?

You toss and turn. You flip the pillow over like that’ll make a difference, like the cooler side of the fabric will somehow quiet the fever burning under your skin. The sheets are twisted around your thighs. The moonlight bleeding through the curtains feels too bright.

Even when you close your eyes, all you see is him. His lips. That stupid silver ring that glinted when he smirked. The look in his eyes when he leaned in too close, when he said the most obscene thing in the most casual voice.

You roll onto your stomach and scream into the pillow. A muffled, frustrated sound that doesn’t help at all. You feel like you’re crawling out of your own skin like every part of your body is tuned to him.

His voice. His mouth. His hands.

God, those hands.

You squeeze your eyes shut tighter and will the thoughts away, but they crawl back in like ivy through cracks in the foundation.

Now you’re alone in your hotel room, aching, restless, and nothing — not anger, not pride, or even common sense — is helping.

You whisper, just to the empty room, “Goddamn you, Jungkook.”

And your hand starts to drift, almost without permission like gravity’s pulling it there. Like your body’s answering a question your brain refuses to ask.

You let out a shaky breath as your fingertips slide lower past your underwear, pushing it to the side with haste.

You’re too tired to fight it. You are wound too tight. You hate that he’s right.

You’re not even thinking about the way he touched Jennie. You’re thinking about how his hands might’ve felt on you if you’d let them.

You lie there, still as stone, for exactly three seconds before muttering, “I am out of my fucking mind.”

But your hand doesn’t stop moving. It’s slow at first against your clit. It’s a gentle rub, just to see if you’ll even have any reaction to it. Almost tentative, like you’re testing yourself, waiting to regain some semblance of dignity and snap out of it. But you don’t.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, slamming your eyes shut. The pads of your fingers speed up against your clit, breathy moans escaping you, echoing the room and taunting you.

It’s all because of the stupid hallway. The stupid smirk. The stupid way his voice dipped when he said maybe you just need to get off.

Your entire body curls at the memory. You clench your jaw and bite your bottom lip, but the image is too vivid now, too detailed. The fight. The heat of it.

Your fingers move quickly, experimentally, like you’re trying to prove some point to yourself. You’re not sure if it’s self-care or a nervous breakdown. All you know is that your pulse is racing and your brain has left the chat entirely.

You try to focus on anything else. That random hookup you had last year. Emails. Deadlines. Q3 marketing reports. The breakup sex you had with your ex. Nothing works.

All you can see is the tension in Jungkook’s arms. The way his chest rose and fell. The way he looked at you like he wanted to ruin your life and kiss you senseless in the same breath.

You groan softly, one hand gripping the sheets, the other sliding two fingers into you, hot and slick and aching.

It’s so unfair. He’s not even here, and he’s still winning, under your skin and in your fucking head.

You try to bite back the sounds slipping out of you, but they come anyway involuntarily. You can’t stop thinking about what it would’ve felt like if he touched you like this. Probably would’ve been rough, would definitely make you cum in under three minutes.

Of course he would. The cocky fucker.

He’d look you in the eyes the entire time, wouldn’t he? Mouth parted, lip ring cool against your lips, voice deep, asking still wound up, baby?

Your hips twitch and your fingers are soaking wet now with your arousal, messily pumping in and out desperately. Your ego shrivels up into a piece of lint and floats off into the distance. The sounds that are coming out of you are borderline obscene and you pray no one from your team walks this floor.

Finally — god willing — you come apart, eyes screwed shut, chest heaving, body tensing and then softening all at once.

You lie there afterward, stunned and drenched in sweat, breathing like you just ran a marathon fueled entirely by spite and delusion.

For a long time, you don’t move. Eventually though,a soft, incredulous laugh escapes your lips. “God, I am so pathetic.”

You stare at the ceiling completely mortified. But beneath the embarrassment, buried under the heat still humming through your skin, is one clear, undeniable thought: You’re in deep.

So much deeper than you ever meant to be.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

masterlist + request

taglist ; @lovingkoalaface @maybetheproblemisme @mimi1097 @mar-lo-pap @mysjammy @yooniepot @tinytan-gerine @ashslight @sky-23s-world @myzzysstuff @elinaki92 @7fever @munchkin-kitty7-blog @uarmygguk @jjkluver7 @coletaehyung @jkxlvrr @amarawayne @kooslilhoe @bangchanwantsmesobad @kpopslur @senaqsstuff @sugakookies77 @tteokbokibyjk @emmie2308 @neurospicynugget @prxdajeon @majesticjung-97 @jksusawife @rkivesarchive @hyunjinswifetingzz @bjoriis @nan4rf @parkinglot-nights

[mustardsticks]

Migyua's Stobotnik Gift Exchange

Totally forgot to post this on tumblr. This Gift was for @scaredofstyrofoam

Will also be adding details about my sonic prime stone because i got wayyy to into it. These details are not exactly fleshed out since I never really had the time beyond discord messages and me answering questions about their dynamic. Also please note that i did not watch all of sonic prime, i only got up to season 2.

Its angsty please remember that. Also please ask me any questions if you want, I will gladly share!

CW : Mentions of - violence/abuse, thoughts of suicide, loss of autonomy, and possibly more. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. Please also ignore any spelling or grammar mistakes lol I typed it up and never edited it.

In the shatterverse there is only one Agent Stone that exists. He's first the Agent/Assistant to Mr. Dr. Eggman and later on extends his role to the other members of the Chaos Councils when they meet and team up. There was an incident where Stone was injured beyond repair and was just waiting to die. The Chaos Council wouldn't let that happen so they turned him into a cyborg. They had built his body as human as possible, even giving him artificial nerves.

Now that Stone was a cyborg, he's also to do more things his human body wasn't able to do. He was also more efficient and needed less time to rest. The Chaos Council began to demand more from him and started to think of him as a robot, their property, and not human anymore.

One day Stone goes to Mr. Dr. Eggman asking him to let him go and deactivate him. While Stone was devoted and loyal to the Chaos Council, he was also suppose to die and didn't want to live. The problem is that he was still human. While his body might not reflect the damage, his brain still remembers the incident and Stone has phantom pains everywhere on his body and it really messes him up. He knows the Chaos Council only saved him because he believes they cared about him as much as he does. Stone tells him that it was unhealthy for them to cling to him, to preserve a life by building it a body. Mr. Dr. Eggman didn't like that, the idea of Stone not being by his side was impossible and so he took away Stone's autonomy, basically having full control of him so he couldn't leave because Stone is theirs. While Stone no longer had control of his body and his brain was numbed. He was still able to hear, see, and feel what does council does to him but he no longer able to feel the phantom pains.

Stone doesn't get the right side of his face robotized until after his autonomy was taken. I had the idea that either Dr. Babble or Dr. Done-it did it in a fit of rage. They took their anger out on Stone and injured him, they had smashed his head in and some more around his body. They never knew that they inflected that much damage on Stone as they also took their anger out on their surroundings. Rusty Rose pulled him out of there while they focused their rage on something else. She brings him to Mr. Dr. Eggman who helps him the damage severe and almost reversable, to save time he robotizes the right side of his face. Later he punishes the two council members by revoking their access to Stone.

[spr1ngtweaks]

DESPERATE REQUEST:

what would happen if Stella, Leith, and Eddie forced Harley and his partner to join them in a game of hide and seek in the factory where every location is open after hours in the middle of the night and s/o has to be the hider and they are absolutely impossible to find meanwhile the executes are paranoid and terrified (especially Harley) knowing that a/o won’t be able to resist jumping out and scaring them!? Headcanons?? :3

A hide-and-seek game in an abandoned toy factory at midnight? With a partner who thrives on scaring people? With executives who are already on edge? And with Harley being the most paranoid of them all?

This is going to be so much fun.

Headcanons – Midnight Hide-and-Seek in Playtime Co.

(Or: How to Give the Entire Executive Team a Heart Attack in One Night)

🌙 The Setup

This whole thing probably started because Eddie and Stella were bored out of their minds and somehow convinced (read: pressured) Harley into participating.

Leith, being the reasonable one, initially refused. But then Eddie threw in some corporate-level guilt-tripping like, “C’mon, Pierre, don’t be a killjoy. You already make us suffer during work hours—let us have this.”

Harley, naturally, thought this was the stupidest idea imaginable and was completely against it.

“This is a waste of time.”

“You do realize we work in a factory known for its many mysterious disappearances, yes?”

“If any of you so much as touch my lab, I will make sure you regret it.”

He only relents when Stella, in all her unhinged glory, insists it’ll be “fun” to see who lasts the longest before they start losing their minds.

🦇 The Rules

Your job? Hide. You get a full five-minute head start.

Their job? Find you. But there’s a catch:

No lights—only flashlights are allowed.

No splitting up (because even THEY know that’s how horror movies start).

No chickening out halfway through.

…Harley is already suspicious. Way too suspicious.

👣 The Game Begins…

As soon as the game starts, you vanish. Completely. No sound. No trace.

The factory is massive, labyrinthine, and filled with shadows. The further they go, the more uneasy they get.

Eddie, at first, tries to play it cool. “Okay, okay. This isn’t bad. We just gotta—”

Something creaks.

Leith freezes.

Harley pulls out a scalpel like it’s going to help.

😨 The Executives Start to Panic

Leith is the most vocal about his regrets.

“This is a terrible idea.”

“I knew I should’ve stayed in my office.”

“I don’t get paid enough for this.”

Eddie tries to stay rational, but his nerves are showing.

“Okay, but seriously. Where the hell did they go? They couldn’t have just disappeared—”

Stella? She’s THRIVING.

Absolutely living for the tension.

Is the only one laughing while the others are actively regretting their life choices.

🔦 Where’s Harley in All This?

PARANOID.

ON EDGE.

CONVINCED YOU’RE GOING TO JUMP OUT AND GIVE HIM A HEART ATTACK.

“This isn’t a game. This is psychological warfare.”

“They’ve been waiting for this moment. I know it.”

“This is a calculated attack on my well-being.”

Every slight movement? Every distant noise? He notices.

His brain is in overdrive.

If they were hiding in ventilation shafts, they would’ve had to access it from…

If they were in the old testing chambers, there would’ve been a slight reverberation in sound…

If they were in the prototype storage area—

Oh, wait. The door creaked.

HE KNOWS.

And yet—he still jumps when you finally strike.

👻 The Grand Reveal (AKA: Your Victory)

When you finally decide to end it, you wait until the absolute worst moment—

They’re huddled together in some darkened corridor.

Their nerves are fraying.

Harley is visibly tense, Leith is done with everything, Eddie is regretting his life choices, and Stella is just watching chaos unfold.

Then?

You jump out.

With zero warning.

Directly behind Harley.

🎤 Reactions:

Harley?

JOLTS like someone just defibrillated his soul.

Immediately turns around, ready to commit a crime.

“I should have you thrown into a furnace.”

Leith?

Screams.

Not even an ashamed scream—just pure, unfiltered terror.

“I KNEW THIS WOULD HAPPEN.”

Eddie?

Nearly drops his flashlight.

Tries to act like he wasn’t scared.

“I— I wasn’t scared. I was— I was just—”

Stella?

CACKLING.

Absolutely delighted.

“Worth it. Every second of it.”

✨ The Aftermath

Harley refuses to speak to you for the rest of the night.

Leith files an unofficial complaint against you.

It goes directly into the trash.

Eddie still insists he wasn’t scared.

But he is now suspiciously avoiding dark hallways alone.

Stella? Already planning the next game.

“Next time, we blindfold Harley and make him the seeker.”

“NO.”

…And you?

You have a new favorite pastime.

[othernaut]

My brain isn't silent, but it's... well, okay.

So, first off, I'd like to say that this isn't an endorsement of Recreational Substances, or any use or abuse of said Substances. That said, they are going to play into the story. Sometimes, the normal symphony of neural processes like to play a single chord very, very loudly for a very, very long time; sometimes that chord is "everything sucks, you suck worst of all, let's feel pain about it"; sometimes, the only variation in the monotony is a Substance. If you've had terrible experiences with drugs or depression and don't want to read anything about them at all (or you're a cop), this is that warning.

Excellent. Let's go.

So, one night when I was much younger, after smoking a lot of weed and drinking a little bit, I found a relative's leftover codeine and chowed it down. (this is normally a bad combination, and was probably done on a Tuesday or something, but like I said, depression.) The three depressants were somehow accidentally dosed to a point where the normal, single chord of Pain was muted down to an annoying whine. This was good! It was what I wanted! The thing is, it also muted all my higher processing capabilities - speech and movement was pretty much impossible, all thought seemed to struggle up from the bottom of a vat of petroleum jelly, but that was fine, as all I wanted to do was lay back and enjoy the soft near-silence of an existence that didn't hurt so badly.

In this visibly zonked state, I found myself able to casually wander down to where my brain kept the barrier of sleep and explore the process in conscious detail. With my normal mental players now whisper-quiet, I could toe back the curtain of oblivion while still sorta conscious and observe, with memory intact, what my subconscious mind was doing down there.

To my delight, I found that it sounded like a five-year-old child telling an excitedly purposeless story with no beginning and no end.

"BUT THE UNICORN WAS LONELY AND WANTED TO BE AROUND OTHER HORSES," it said, "SO IT LAID DOWN IN THE MUD BY THE RIVERBANKS UNTIL IT SOAKED INTO ALL ITS FUR AND MANE, BUT IT WAS SO SOFT AND COOL THERE THAT IT FORGOT ABOUT ITS LONELINESS AND STAYED UNTIL THE FIREFLIES CAME OUT, AND THE FIREFLIES SPELLED OUT A SECRET WORD THAT THE UNICORN COULD REMEMBER WHENEVER IT WANTED TO CHANGE ITSELF, BUT THE RIVER REFLECTED THE WORD BACKWARDS AND THE SKY REFLECTED IT DOUBLE-BACKWARDS SO AS THE UNICORN WAS GOING TO SLEEP IT COULDN'T REMEMBER WHICH WORD WAS THE RIGHT ONE, AND THEN --"

Ceaselessly. Little subconscious hands waving around. I could pull back up and observe the world around me, with the painted drywall and stacked bills and ever-comforting night, and then dip my head behind the curtain to find the kid still going at it back there, still telling her story, forever.

Thankfully, I'm not the sort of person who has a fun time on drugs and immediately tries to do it again the next day, all the time, forever (which was also why I put the warning up ahead of time, as I know not all brains operate like that). But for someone whose Pain still and will always tell me how much I suck, how much I don't deserve to be here - it comforts me, to know that at my deepest parts, far past the point of rational thought, I'm just a little kid that wants to tell a story and never wants to stop.

Sometimes, when I meditate the right way, I can go back there and check up on her (meditation being a more reliable and accessible way to find the same effect). She's still down there, hasn't aged even a minute, still going. It's the one thing I can point to in a long lifetime of change that is truly infinite. I have the inestimable fortune of knowing who I am at my core and being able to love that little weirdo deeply and easily.

So, I don't really hear my mental processes all the time, but I know what they sound like. I've somehow gotten Pain to sit down in their assigned seat and wrestled away their volume controls - it's part of the symphony now, limited to pencilling in extra fortes when it wants to be heard. "Symphony" is actually a good metaphor - all the parts mostly play in sync, but if someone decides to randomly insert a solo or I know the piece well enough to remember the score, I can pick out the individual players. And I know who's there behind the curtain, unsupervised and, despite it all, doing okay.

Part of the reason my brain never shuts up is that I can “hear” echoes of my subconscious processing things constantly. And I do mean constantly.

There’s certain things I’m not supposed to know about up here in the conscious mind that the chemicals and the neurons are supposed to be quietly connecting together in the background but my neurons are yelling loudly in echoey hallways

I think the ADHD medication was supposed to quiet down my echoey hallways somewhat but it has done nothing of the sort. I can hear the little men working in the back room furiously trying to string concepts together like pieces from completely different puzzles and they are not subtle about it in the slightest.

[reasonsforhope]

"Twenty million trees will be planted and 2,500 hectares (6,178 acres) of new woodland created in the west of England as part of a "national forest" drive, the government has announced.

The Western Forest will be made up of new and existing woodlands across Gloucestershire, Wiltshire, Somerset, the Cotswolds and the Mendips as well as in urban areas such as Bristol, Swindon and Gloucester.

It will be the first of three new national forests promised by the government to help meet a legally-binding target of achieving 16.5% woodland cover in England by 2050.

However, with only 10% cover achieved so far, environmental groups have warned much more needs to be done to meet tree-planting targets.

The most recent research shows the total area of woodland across the whole of the UK is currently estimated to be 3.28m hectares.

That represents 13% of the total land area of the UK but in England just 10% is woodland.

Across the UK, the aim is for 30,000 hectares of woodland to be planted every year.

The latest annual figures show about 21,000 hectares were planted, with the vast majority in Scotland and just 5,500 hectares in England.

Andy Egan, head of conservation policy at the Woodland Trust, said there had been "significant progress" on tree planting but that there was still "much more to do" to meet the UK's targets.

He said maintaining government funding was essential.

"Successful tree planting and ongoing management needs long-term grant support," he said.

Alex Stone, chief executive of the Forest of Avon Trust, which leads the partnership behind the Western Forest project, said there were some areas in the region that currently had only 7% of land covered by trees.

"This is about bringing those areas up so we have trees where we really need them," she said.

"What we are aiming to do with the Western Forest is get to 20% of canopy cover by 2050 and, in five priority areas, we are looking at getting above 30%."

The scheme will particularly target urban areas, including Bristol, Swindon and Gloucester.

The government said it would be putting £7.5m of public money into the forest over the next five years.

It said the project would not only help the UK's drive to net zero but would also promote economic growth and create jobs in the region.

Mary Creagh, minister for nature, said she hoped the Western Forest would also "make a huge difference" to water quality, flood resilience and to wildlife as well as bringing nature "closer to people" in the region.

But she conceded there was much more to do in order to hit England's national tree-planting target.

"I am absolutely confident that we can get to where we need to get to," she said.

"Projects like this give me hope and confidence that, with everybody pulling together, working with the public sector and the private sector, we can do it." ...

The Western Forest is the first new national forest to be designated in England in 30 years, following the creation of the original National Forest across Leicestershire, Derbyshire and Staffordshire, where 9.8m trees have been planted."

-via BBC, March 20, 2025

[undirmanjarpakdingo]

Bridgeton era LADS brainrot.

Slightly Yandere- but come on its Caleb.

Caleb is nasty with it sorry.

He's seething when he finds out. The letter crumpling in his palm with such cold anger, it makes his roommate take in a laboured breath. His grandmother had seemingly planned this, made sure she paid his commission for the army so he was out of the way. And once he was, the next second she pushed you in front of the queen.

He was so isolated on the field that he wouldn't even have known if it wasn't for your excited letter. Despite his best efforts, it seemed his grandmother wasn't unaware of his intentions.

You weren't related by blood, a matter that was known but hadn't been discussed in that sense before. Everyone overlooked it, brushing past the morbidly obvious thought, finding content in watching you two play pretend family. It was suffocating. The only person who had the guts to hint at it was actually lady Whistledown.

Dearest Gentle Reader, We often say, blood is thicker than water, this surely rings true in the case of young miss Y/n, and her surprising debut this season. A long line of callers flank the gates of their home, but their bright faces dull as they walk out, egos bruised and hearts shattered. It is because her tight lipped colonel is back from the ranks, here specially to see his dear MC's season through. Keeping aside the lingering glances between them that tread the line of what would or wouldn't be appropriate, one is left to wonder if his harsh protectiveness over young miss MC is out of familial love, or something else entirely.

The thought of it is was so scandalous it sends shockwaves through the ton. Yet it still isn't enough to ward off potential suitors.

The baron was painfully stupid, the viscount a raging misogynist even that Marquis his grandmother was so dead set on, wasn't worth you. None of them were. He was the one who knew you, saw you like none of them ever could. They would just take you away from him, from home. The thought of separation consumed him entirely. Twisting in his bed, he grew more and more desperate to somehow stop this charade.

But he couldn't just walk up and propose. It wasn't that easy, he had to find a way so that no one would have a choice but to accept his proclamation. The gut wrenching realisation made itself placidly obvious. He had to ruin your reputation. Make it so no one else could have you. He had to make sure they caught you with him, but you'll understand right? You have to, Its the only way! He would never hurt you otherwise. But it has to be done, your reputation has to be compromised. That way he can stay by your side forever, that way you don't ever have to leave home, never leave him.

It'll be fine. Caleb thinks, You'll be happy. You have to be.

[nathanbatemanfucker]

Fault Lines Ch. 2

request: wanted to know if you could write something where the reader is a ex-winter solider (just like bucky, but maybe she doesn't lose her arm) and how she struggles to accept Joaquin. An overall angst to fluff.

pairing: joaquin torres x ex-super soldier!f!reader

contents: canon typical violence, illusions to abuse and torture, ptsd and other mental illness, enemies to lovers, angst

wc: 1,383

an: this series is based off of this request here! this is definitely a slow burn/fluff if you squint type beat so just bear with me <3

fault lines masterlist

The safe house is quiet, save for the low hum of the overhead light and the occasional rustle of movement from Joaquin as he leans against the wall opposite of you. He knows better than to box you in—that’d only make you more restless than you already are.

Post-meal and shower, you sit on his cot, arms crossed, gaze fixed somewhere past him like you’re already planning your exit. The space smells of antiseptic and metal despite the warm paint and comforting art. Someone had tried to make this as home-y as they could and failed.  

He doesn’t doubt that you are.  And you are. You’re on edge, always hypervigilant for the worst. That the two men in front of you that promise to stand on decency and honor are liars just like everyone else you’ve ever encountered. 

There’s only one door and a few windows, but you had immediately noticed the door under the rug in the bathroom. Its doable.

Sam’s outside, making calls, searching for loopholes to clean up the mess you’ve already made. That leaves Joaquin with what he does best—talking. But tonight, that skill is failing him.

Something about you is making the words sticky in his throat, unable to flow as usual. He doesn’t know what to say to you to make you understand, to make you change. Though he’s not really sure that’s his goal given what you’ve suffered.

“You look like you wanna be anywhere but here,” he observes, arms mirroring yours.

“What a shocking observation, baby bird,” you mutter, voice steeped in sarcasm.

Joaquin exhales through his nose, tilting his head. “Ok, ouch. But let’s be real—you could’ve run already. Hell, you could’ve fought harder. So why are you still here?”

Your fingers curl in your lap, like the truth will slink into your hands if you don’t force it out; it isn’t something you're ready to touch. You flex them once before stilling. “Just because I’m here doesn’t mean I trust you,” you say eventually, voice quieter, more measured.

“Fair.” Joaquin watches you, gaze steady. He hasn’t been able to take his eyes off you unless he has too– he chalks it up to your dangerous capabilities and nothing more. “No one’s asking you to, querida. But you want something. You can tell me what that is, I won’t use it against you.”

Something stirs at his pet name, something you thought was dead and rotted. Its easy to shove it back down in the wake of what you see is a lie. He would use it against you, that’s what everyone does. If he didn’t then Sam would. You know the game. 

You let out a breath, eyes meeting his. “You’re after Hydra and so am I. But I don’t trust that you’ll actually do what needs to be done. In fact, I know you won’t.”

Joaquin frowns. He knows what you mean but asks anyway, “And what’s that?”

“You tell me,” you challenge. “You really think you’re gonna dismantle them by playing by the rules? By arresting a few low-level pricks and calling it a day? Hydra isn’t just an organization—it’s a disease. One that’s smart enough to outmaneuver every cure. You cut off a limb, and another grows back.” Your voice lowers, darkens. “I go for the heart.”

Joaquin studies you. The shadowy certainty in your tone. The way your hands have curled into fists, nails pinching into your skin before you even realize it. He should be alarmed, maybe even afraid of you and what you can do with those hands. But mostly? He just feels tired for you and all the baggage you have to carry. He wishes there were more he could do more for you, but he knows the oath he’s taken. His values, his morals—they won’t be compromised.

“I get it,” he says, voice softer now. “You think we’re a waste of time. That we’re too soft.”

“You are,” you say, like it’s obvious and with no remorse. “Your Captain? He’s trying to lead a world that doesn’t even know what to do with itself. One that hardly wants him. He’s gotta play politics. Me? I don’t have to play anything. I owe nothing to no one but myself.”

Joaquin shakes his head. “That’s not a life. That’s a war you never get to leave. That darkness won’t let you go.”

Your jaw tightens, and you look away. You don’t deny it.

For the first time since bringing you in, Joaquin feels like he has something solid to work with. You know that your past is controlling you but you won’t let it go. With their help, you could finally be free. He lets you sit with his words, grabbing a water from the mini-fridge before settling across from you on Sam’s bunk.

Silently, he offers it. Begrudgingly, you take it, careful not to touch him.

“Look, I know what it’s like to be made into something you didn’t ask for,” he says. “To be trained to survive, not to live. And I know that once you start thinking like that, it’s almost impossible to stop.”

Your fingers tighten around the bottle, the plastic nearly giving out under the pressure. The sound brings you back to the present and you loosen your grip letting the bottle fall to the ground. Joaquin says nothing, letting you be.  When your eyes meet again, he can see that you recognize that. That you believe him when he says that he understands. You let it fade away as quickly as it appeared.

Joaquin presses forward anyway. “You don’t trust us? Fine. But what if we can help? What if we can end this without you burning yourself out trying to do it alone?”

You shake your head. “God, baby bird, you don’t fucking get it.”

“Then make me fucking get it,” Joaquin challenges, matching your energy. He hopes that in doing so you'll level with him.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The space between you is heavy with something unspoken, pressing down on your chest. Your breath is too sharp, and his is too shallow, like being stuck in each other's gaze has sucked all the air out of the room before either of you could even think. You exhale sharply, pulling back, re-centering yourself just as another presence fills the doorway.

"There's a name," you mutter, almost reluctant. "One of the last remaining heads of Hydra. He’s been running a black ops division off-grid. And if you think what was done to your precious boy was bad, what they’re doing is worse."

Joaquin barely has time to process before your gaze flicks past him, landing on Sam, now standing in the doorway, arms crossed.

The two men exchange a look. “How do we know you’re not leading us into a trap?” Sam asks.

You scoff. “I’m not like them and you thinking I would walk you into a trap is like them. If you don’t believe me, I can happily do this on my own. And I wouldn’t have either of you slowing me down.”

Sam meets Joaquin’s gaze again; its pleading, laced with the idea of giving you a chance. A long beat of silent communication passes between them.

Sam rolls his eyes, exhaling reluctantly. He knows what its like to be an advocate, the one who’s seeing more than others. He’ll let Joaquin take his chance on you. “You’re lucky he likes you,” he mutters, jerking his chin toward Joaquin before turning back toward the door. “We’re wheels up in an hour. Try not to make me regret this.”

Joaquin looks back at you, and you could swear that you see some warmth in his cheeks. “That makes two of us.” He barely catches it—the slight quirk at the corner of your mouth. It’s smug, not quite a smirk, but it’s something. An attempt at humor. He softens again, seeing the effects of what Hydra put you through.

What had they done to you where you can’t even smile? Laugh? See yourself as more than just their pawn? The thought makes him sad, yes, but it also makes him angry. You deserve better than that.

“Three of us.” You shake your head, pushing to your feet. You’re tired of being cooped up. “Guess we’ll see.”

let me know if you'd like to be on the sfw joaquin torres taglist!

sfw joaquin taglist: @magikdarkholme, @plan3t-plut0, @mewmew222, @linnygirl09, @ezhz444, @karmaswitch, @badbishsblog, @glader13, @how2besalty, @happypopcornprincess, @hiireadstuffsometimes , @lisiliely, @spider-steve, @nolita-fairytale, @hrlzy, @faretheeoscar, @giuliahowlett, @abriefnirvana, @fanboyswhore9, @sidkneeeee, @sophreakingfunny, @heartbreakgirlism, @peachyxlynch, @lomlbuckybarnes, @a-randomscrub, @ajcs150, @glimodejun, @isuckatmath1998, @arsonhotchner, @sidkneeeee, @galaxywannabe, @retrosabers, @marchingicenotes7, @marroonwitch, @jaebugzz, @that-girl-named-alex, @bxtchboy69, @moonymeloncholymoney, @mischiefmanaged71, @something-random-idk, @dualinstinct, @alevanswrites, @articel1967

> ch. 3

[spiderb00bs]

- Deer protector

Lottie Matthews x reader  

“Something bad was about to happen, and the only thing you knew for sure was that you wouldn't be able to protect your girlfriend forever” 

Genre – fluff/angst     Warnings – none

Now playing – Dark Red, by Steve Lacy 

“Only you, my girl. Only you, baby. Only you, darling. Only you.” 

Your muscles burned, as did your eyes, your stomach seemed to wrap up even more with every step you took, and you had a few scratches on your arms from the night's adventure. Your brain doesn't remember everything, just flashes through your head. People, Coach Ben, rescue, going home, axe, dead guy, Lottie.

Lottie.

You didn't know how your girlfriend was, you couldn't take a look at her, not when Shauna pulled you violently, threatening you and making you chase the man who had shot Melissa. The last thing you saw was Lottie on the floor, her hands bloodied, admiring and adoring the work she had done. You never felt afraid of your girlfriend, but you also couldn't lie and say that you didn't feel afraid of how you would have to deal with the consequences of her actions.

You and Lottie started dating at the beginning of high school, you really love that girl with all your heart. You know all the traumas, flaws and problems the brown-eyed girl has been through, and you swore you would never leave her. And you meant it. You took responsibility for every little thing your girlfriend did, you never let any of the girls cross the line with Lottie, and you were on high alert with the girl - especially after the violent episode with Shauna.

You were tired, exhausted, but you wouldn't leave Lottie behind for a second. You knew everything, while for the others Lottie was just a crazy girl, you knew that your girlfriend was just an innocent girl who was left to die by the universe without her medication. You knew that things were deeper than they seemed, with Lottie, with her parents, with her mind, with everything.

As your feet stepped into the camp, you heard Mari barking something cruel at Lottie, the girl lowering her head and muttering something you couldn't understand. Looking sideways, her brown eyes landed on you, a slight smile forming on her face as she approached you, smearing blood on your hand in a firm grip.

"Are you angry?" was the first thing she asked. Without the strength to answer, you just shook your head, pulling the girl towards the makeshift hut you shared.

"Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

Lottie followed you, like a child follows its mother down an unfamiliar path. You didn't even bother to respond to Mari's sarcastic comment, and if you'd been more observant, you could have seen the look of envy on Melissa's face. Shauna was nowhere in sight.

"Sit down." Grabbing some old cloths, and a bucket of water, you set to work, tenderly wiping your girlfriend's hands and face.

God, you were tired, you were destroyed, all you longed for was to be able to go home, all you wanted was for none of this to have happened. But when you looked into Lottie's eyes, you remembered why you had never given up, why you had come so far through all this hell.

"Baby…" A hot tear ran down your cheek, Lottie's voice making you break your mask. "Baby, are you crying? Are you hurt?"

Searching your body for bruises, Lottie's hands stained your skin and clothes with the walker's blood. Sobs escaped you, and your girlfriend's hands grabbed you, pulling you close and hugging you. The brunette's eyes searched the hut for something, anything, it was almost as if she was looking for something to distract you from what you were feeling.

Sniffling, you lifted your head from Lottie's chest, pulling away from the girl's embrace. "It's okay, baby." Wiping away your tears, you snorted slightly, seeing that you were now covered in blood too.

"You understand that he didn't belong here, don't you?" You could feel Lottie's eyes on you. Raising your head, you looked into her eyes, raising your hand and stroking her cheek. "It would come between us. Between our future, they'll ruin our house, baby."

"Baby, you know that wasn't right." Your voice comes out in a light tone, almost a whisper, and you rise from your kneeling position only to sit down next to your girlfriend on the makeshift mattress.

Lottie's eyes follow your every move, and you swore you'd go weak from the way she was looking at you. Those sweet, innocent eyes, almost making you forget that she had killed someone with an axe a few hours ago.

"No one will stand between us." You grabbed her hand, Lottie's fingers intertwining firmly with yours, almost as if you were going to run away from her. "I love you."

Smiling at you, Lottie leaned in, kissing your lips gently, as if you were going to break. Her lips tasted metallic, and you fought not to pull away from the kiss, knowing it would hurt her.

"I love you." She whispered into your lips, a small smile on her face as she grabbed the back of your neck and pulled you into an intense kiss.

You knew you couldn't protect Lottie forever, maybe you were even making the whole situation worse by protecting her like this. But you couldn't help it, you love the girl with all your heart, and if she asked you to die here with her, you'd accept without question.

Hello everyone, I hope you're well. I'm too inspired to write about YJ, so I'm just leaving it here.

I have a sequel to this, in the adult timeline, cause I love Lottie in any timeline. Blah blah blah, she's my love, I'm not accepting arguments.

my shayla 😭😭😭

drink water and be safe,

xoxo, spider.

[thhouseofblack]

Deleted scene from "My Love I Kept You Well"

HERA

Hera moaned elegantly as she sunk into her divine divan, swirling the delicious wine in her goblet as she watched Athena stalk back and forth like a caged peacock. Her armoured sandals clacked sharply against the marbled floor of her abode, her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her cloak billowing with every sharp turn. The air thrummed with the weight of her divine wrath, each breath she took an effort to contain herself.

Hera took a slow, deliberate sip of her wine, savouring its taste.

Let her work herself into a frenzy.

Darling Athena always did.

Finally, she stopped mid-stride, her wild eyes locking onto her. “How can I tell him?” she demanded, her voice taut, trembling – obviously not with fear, but with fury. “How can I look him in the eye and tell him that his wife – his loyal, faithful, loving wife – is being…” She sucked in a sharp breath, unable to say the words, her hands shaking with rage.

“That that thing – that vile creature – forces himself upon her, and she cries for his name? His name, not the bastard’s who holds her!”

Hera did not move. She only observed, chin propped upon one hand, the other still idly playing with her goblet.

It was a true pity, and she had done her dues with regard to the disrespect to her domains that goat boy had shown twice over now.

Ugh, some mortals think they are so above it all just because some silly goddess had their ego boosted by them.

Athena’s face twisted further, her pacing resuming with greater fervour. “And how, by the gods, am I supposed to tell him this and then preserve his life still?” she went on, words tumbling out in rapid succession. “The moment he hears, he will throw himself at the walls of Troy as though he were a foolish mortal like the rest of them, as though he has not spent months upon months unravelling this war with patience and cunning! He will rush, he will climb – he will do something so utterly Odysseus and let his grief and fury devour him whole!”

Hera sighed. “Yes, well. That does sound like your precious little boy.”

Thinking of Athena’s Precious Odysseus always made her wish to giggle. Such a charming little thing, so full of light and love and devotion to his wife and wife alone. She was incredibly impressed by all of it. Why she had blessed the hero so that when he would return to his homeland, he and his wife could fill their pretty castle up with all the children they wished for.

Hera took another savoury sip.

Athena ignored her. Her fingers pressed against her temples as though attempting to force order into her mind, as though divine thought alone could undo the madness of the situation they had at hand. But then – her hands dropped, and something darker flickered across her face.

Aww look at her plotting war and death – how adorable she was.

“What if,” she murmured, “her womb quickens with that wretch’s child?”

Hera let out an inelegant snort.

Athena blinked, startled.

“Oh, do not be ridiculous,” Hera said, waving a lazy hand, careful not to let her wine spill. “I have seen to it that Paris is utterly, entirely, and quite irreversibly impotent.”

Athena froze.

Hera arched a brow. “What? You are surprised?”

“…You did that?”

Her mouth thinned. “She is from Sparta,” she said pointedly, sitting up now, setting her goblet down with a sharp clink. “One of the three cities – along with Argos and Mycenae of course – that I love the best. And one of the few places that worships me as I am meant to be worshipped.” Her expression hardened. “Of course I watch over that child.”

Athena let out a slow breath, pressing a hand over her heart, her fury not quelled, but momentarily steadied. She nodded – not in gratitude, but in understanding.

A new thought, it seemed, came swiftly to her dear girl. She turned sharply to Hermes, who had been lounging off to the side, silent and watchful as always, his eyes gleaming with some secret amusement that Hera did not care to unravel.

“You,” Athena said, striding toward him, urgency returning to her voice. “Can you not take her? Whisk her away as you have done before to others? She is the wife of your own great-grandchild, Hermes. She holds in her embrace another one of your descendants. Would you not see her safe?”

Hermes tilted his head, a slow, knowing smile curling at the edges of his mouth. “By that logic, dear sister,” he said, his voice rich with amusement, “should you not have gone to Zeus first? After all, is Penelope not of the blood of Perseus’ only daughter? Surely her great-grandfather would be most concerned for her well-being?”

On the other side of the chamber, a deep, rumbling snort cut through the air.

“Oh, please,” Poseidon muttered, rolling his eyes as he lifted his own cup of wine to his lips. “By that logic, Zeus should be running about rescuing everyone and their mothers. Half of Olympus and half the mortal realm are of his blood.”

Hera’s frown deepened.

Because unfortunately, Poseidon had a point.

Which infuriated her.

Ugh. She hated when her stupid younger brother made sense.

Her fingers tightened around her goblet. Yes, she knew Zeus went around “spreading his blood,” as he so delicately liked to put it. She knew it, had suffered it, had spent centuries exacting her vengeance for it.

And oh, how irritating it was.

Sometimes – sometimes, she thought – if only she could lock Zeus in a little cage, tuck him away where no one else could touch him. Play with him as she pleased, twist and mould him into exactly what she wanted. A husband who belonged to her and her alone.

The thought was so delightful, so deliciously entertaining, that she let out a quiet, delighted giggle.

Silence followed.

All eyes turned toward her.

Athena blinked, Hermes arched a brow, and even Poseidon paused, his cup still halfway to his mouth.

Hera only hummed to herself, reaching for her goblet once more, taking another slow sip of her wine as if she had not just sent every god in the room into mild concern.

“Shut it, Poseidon,” she said airily, waving a hand in dismissal. “You may be my favourite brother but let us not pretend you are any better than Zeus when it comes to your lovers. If anything–” her lips curled, her gaze flicking lazily over to him– “you are infinitely worse.”

Poseidon scoffed. “Hardly.”

“Oh?” she arched a brow. “Would you like for me to bring about a list of both your progeny and compare who has fathered the most?”

Poseidon scowled. Hermes, meanwhile, smothered a laugh behind his hand.

But then, in a truly devious display of perfect timing, Hermes straightened, his smirk returning in full force as he leaned toward Poseidon, eyes alight with mischief.

“Speaking of which,” he drawled, “how is young Thetis’ boy faring? I had heard you had taken it upon yourself to give his little lover – another of Father’s grandchildren, some– shall we say – personal lessons in how to ride a horse?”

The room exploded.

Athena choked on air, nearly knocking over an entire golden brazier in her sputtering. Poseidon, mid-drink, actually coughed – her precious wine spilling from his lips as his entire face twisted into one of pure outrage.

Hera laughed, full-bodied and bright, draping herself over the cushions as she clutched her goblet. “Oh, my dear brother,” she purred, her voice rich with amusement. “You’ve upset Thetis, you know. Last I remember she was in quite the state over it.”

Poseidon, still wiping the last drops of wine from his beard, scowled. “Over what?”

Hera smirked. “Over you.” She stretched out her fingers, enjoying the way the light caught on her golden rings. “Her son is distraught, you see. Apparently, he was most displeased that his dear lover was stolen away and ravished by none other than the Lord of the Sea.”

Athena let out a sharp noise of disgust. Hermes all but howled with laughter.

Poseidon groaned, setting his cup down with a loud thud. “Oh, come now,” he muttered. “It was not as though the boy fought me on it. He was so sweet, so pretty–” He sighed wistfully. “And such a lovely, gentle heart. How could I resist?”

Hera cooed, reaching out to stroke his hair, knowing he will relent because it was her. Her fingers combing through the sea-salted curls as one might pet their favourite cow – though she did not have favourites, she loved all her cows equally and dearly.

Much like her children.

“Of course you could not,” she soothed mockingly, her voice dripping with indulgence. “You would have needed self-control for that, and we all know you’ve never possessed a single grain of it.”

Hermes howled again, slapping his knee as Poseidon pouted up at her, brows furrowed, looking for all the world like a sulking child.

Hera chuckled, ruffling his hair fondly before withdrawing her hand and reclining once more against her divan. She lifted her goblet and took another long, luxurious sip, wholly unbothered by the absolute mess her younger brother had made of things.

But then–

Athena snapped.

“For Olympus’ sake!” she shouted, throwing her hands in the air. “Can we focus?”

Hera glanced at her, as Hermes wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. Poseidon only raised a brow, reaching for his wine once more.

Athena, however, was undeterred.

Her gaze locked onto Hera’s, sharp and determined, her mind already racing ahead of them all. “You must go to Grandfather Oceanus and Grandmother Tethys,” she ordered. “Tell them to send Periboea to Ilium, to Penelope’s side.”

She hummed, tilting her head. Hera traced a finger along the rim of her goblet, considering.

“Well,” she said after a moment, “I can attempt to sneak Periboea in.”

Athena’s eyes brightened, hope flashing across her face.

“But,” Hera continued smoothly, “there is little else I can do. You know as well as I that Troy is Zeus’ own city.” She swirled her wine, watching the deep red liquid dance against the gold. “He adores it more than any other in the world, and he does not appreciate our interference – especially when it does not serve his interests.”

Athena’s jaw tightened.

Hera smiled at her, slow and knowing.

“You know this, dear girl,” she said softly. “Do you think he will let me play my hand so easily?”

She rested further into the silk-laden comfort of her divan. She ran her fingers idly along the stem of her goblet, watching the light of the heavens dance along its intricately made designs. Her precious Hephaestus made such wonderful gifts for her.

“I like it not,” she admitted, her voice softer now, more pensive. “I, too, am fond of Penelope. It was my blessing – a gift to Mother Tethys, for her Periboea who had borne seven sons and yet still not the daughter she longed for, that resulted in her birth after all. She is a rare one among mortals – steadfast, wise, and loyal beyond all reason.” Her lips pressed together. “But, my dear girl, you must forget her. Ignore her plight for the moment and turn your mind to what truly matters.”

Athena’s face darkened, but before she could protest, Poseidon let out a heavy sigh.

“Hera is right,” he said, his voice weighted with something uncharacteristically serious. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his expression thoughtful. “We want our victory over the Trojans, and to achieve it we must turn our attention to Troy, you must turn your attention to bringing down the infallible walls of Troy. That is what matters.”

Athena’s jaw clenched, and her hands curled into fists at her sides. She could understand how her brilliant girl was feeling – one of her chosen being treated in such a demeaning manner. But she would not find sympathetic ears in the company of Hermes and Poseidon – or most men – in this qualm of hers.

“Oh, there he goes, bragging again,” she drawled, swirling her wine as she cast Poseidon a dry look. “Yes, yes, we all know you built the damn thing.”

Poseidon smirked. “And thus, I know it will not fall easily.”

Athena inhaled sharply through her nose. Oh, Hera’s precious girl. She was clever – cleverer than all of them, in truth. She surely knew this was the best course of action, but that did not make it easier to swallow.

Then, with impeccable timing, Hermes – ever sly – rose smoothly to his feet and strode toward Athena. With an exaggerated sigh, he draped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his easy embrace.

“Dearest sister,” he crooned, “if we bring down the walls of Troy, the matter of darling Odysseus’ wife will be solved before we know it.”

Athena did not move, but her shoulders loosened – if only slightly.

Hera tilted her head, gazing at her gently. She had seen Athena furious before. She had seen her livid, seething, ready to tear the world apart. But this – this was something quieter. Something more dangerous.

They had done what they could for Penelope.

Hera reached out, brushing her fingers lightly over Athena’s knuckles.

“We have done all we can,” she murmured.

[miyaagis]

ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ ‐ birth is the death of us. iwaizumi hajime

not feeling like yourself can ruin so many beautiful things like watching your baby grow and sharing such joy with your husband. even your intimate life with him... if there's any left.

explicit content - mdni. ₊˚⊹ ⚝ marriage + parenthood au. cuckquean reader, fem oc, reader is in her 20s, iwaizumi and fem oc in their 30s. angst, lowkey emotional cheating, unprotected sex, humiliation, body comparison. mentions of giving birth, implied postpartum depression and low self-esteem related to physical appearance.

word c. a little over 1,900

the last time i had the pleasure of including iwaizumi hajime (27) in a fic was prob two years ago (maybe more). so thank u so much @mycolorhologram for commissioning me and trusting me with ur idea ♡

“Do you think we should switch to an SUV?” He asks with his finger hovering over the screen of his phone, the crease above his left brow stands out as he frowns down at it—a feature you've learned to become familiar with. “For safety purposes, I mean.”

The laundry machine hums in the background, disturbing the atmosphere of your home while simultaneously joining the white noise machine in your baby’s room. You dismiss his question, which seemingly came out of the blue.

“It’s a big spend.” You shrug it off, not realizing that, in reality, it’s not a random thought. “Maybe in the future.”

A sigh from him is all you get, which prompts you to leave the laundry basket on the floor and step closer. He still hasn’t scrolled past whatever he’s looking at on his phone, so your curiosity wins.

You suddenly wish you hadn’t peeked. 

“Is that Minako?”

Noticing you standing close enough to see his screen, he locks it at the same time he clears his throat. “Uh– Yeah.”

It’s only an Instagram post, that’s the first thing your brain tells you. But your gut knows that him mentioning getting a new car when his ex shows off her brand-new Lexus is not a coincidence.

“I’ll go check on the baby.” He knows your silence is dangerous territory, so he’s quick to flee the scene.

He hasn’t even reached the hall when you speak again, calm as ever, but he can see the cogs turning in your brain.

“She still works at your old job?”

He hesitates for a second, debating between sharing what he really knows and what he’s supposed to know.

“I think so?” His tone is light and dismissive, shrugging it off like it’s nothing. “Last I heard, she was after a promotion. Why?”

The laundry machine stops, its alarm letting you know the cycle is done. You try to ignore it, just like how you’ve been ignoring how boring your marriage has become and how exhausted you always are. It’s only been two months since your baby was born, but it feels like it’s been two years instead. Lately, time moves slow for you, but not fast enough for your husband.

You decide it’s best to drop the subject. 

“No reason.”

—

The clock reads 23:15 when his hand snakes around your waist.

You don’t say anything at first, merely enjoying his embrace as he spoons you close to him. It’s a gesture you’ll always welcome, especially after a long day of mom duty.

A tender kiss is placed at the crown of your head, and you smile, sinking further in his arms. It doesn’t take long for his lips to travel all over the side of your face, his warm breath and presence comforting your tired spirit. But when his hand moves under your shirt, gliding up to the underside of your breast, the comfort switches to uneasiness.

“Haji…” A weak murmur from you is quickly lost in the dark.

His kisses persist, his hand swiftly reaching up to cup the soft flesh and give a squeeze. All you can hear from him are his heavy breaths while he presses you close, his front making contact with your backside at the same time his rough fingers pinch a sensitive nipple. You try to turn around so his hand would lose contact with your breast, but his hold is too firm, and you’re left squirming against what seems to be a wall of concrete.

You think it’s over when he lets go and his hand moves down to your hip bone, staying there idly.

“Finally got you all to myself, mama.” Lust drips over the huskiness in his voice, the sound of clearly being desired making your heart beat faster.

However, as much as you long to hear his words of worship, you just… don’t really feel that excitement anymore. Especially since it’d involve him seeing your postpartum body in too much detail—which also makes it harder to believe his praise.

You swat his hand away—gently, of course. “Not yet.”

He’s not new to this apparent rejection from your part, he has heard it all: ‘I’m tired’, ‘It hurts’, ‘I don’t feel comfortable’. And he’s getting tired of fighting you, his disappointment steadily turning into annoyance as he rolls over with a sigh. 

—

The following night, he doesn't even try.

From your side of the bed, you watch as he goes straight to the bathroom, the door slamming behind him and a minute later the water from the shower starts to run along with echoes of his deep grunts.

Once he gets in bed, your hand settles over his bare chest, a little uncertain. 

“I could’ve helped.” You offer him a soft smile, but he seems genuinely confused. “I mean– giving you a hand?”

It’s awkward and cringe enough to make you wince at your own words. He’s your husband, sex shouldn’t be this awkward when he has seen you birth your child.

His amusement lasts a few seconds before he’s clearing his throat and leaning in to kiss your forehead. “Don’t worry about it.”

That’s when you make your decision.

—

“Are you out of your damn mind?!”

You should’ve seen it coming. 

Hajime is clearly upset, sporting his characteristic scowl and directing it at you once he made sure the door of your bedroom was closed.

What you fail to see is how, in reality, he’s upset at himself. He refuses to admit how much he likes the idea. It’s so, so wrong of him to immediately picture himself with another woman, the ‘what if’s’ playing in his mind effortlessly—he’s disgusted.

“Hear me out, please.” You rush to explain yourself, his troubled gaze making contact with yours.

He nods once. It’s all he can give you right now to acknowledge he’s willing to listen. Doesn’t mean he’s happy about it, though.

“I still don’t feel comfortable after the baby… with my body, I mean.” He’s aware of it, he has seen you drown yourself in his shirts and sweatpants, rejecting every chance to go out, even for a coffee, because you don’t feel your best. “It’s weird to explain, but I think it’s an opportunity for us to bond, to– I don’t know, deepen our trust?”

And you mean it. Giving him the chance to explore his pent-up sexual energy in a controlled and safe environment is something you look forward to. 

He loves you, he truly does. You have not only given him unconditional love for the past few years, but also a child, pouring your heart, body, and soul into nurturing your little one. But he can see what you mean, he’s noticed your skin looking dull, your lack of excitement when it comes to the sexual side of your marriage. Of course he never says anything, it’s not your fault.

And then there’s your libido. Non-existent.

“It sounds insane.” 

You see a bit of the initial resistance fade, and you internally celebrate it.

“You can decide who.” Your tone turns bashful, a little ashamed of what you’re about to admit. “I’ve seen sites, we can browse those together?” 

He hesitates again, looking away before staring back at your hopeful expression. He hates that he’s even entertaining the idea, but he hates it even more that he already knows who he wants.

“I guess...”

—

Seeing your husband kiss his college girlfriend with a passion that should be reserved for you, feels like a punch to the gut—especially when said ex-girlfriend is closer in age to him than you are.

She came in carrying her successful self with confidence, and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t affect your own self-esteem. But this isn’t about you or her, this is about him. You can only hope she’s also aware of it.

He parts from her mouth with a soft bite to her bottom lip, your core reacting to the sight of it even as your heart squeezes painfully. His head turns your way and his darkened eyes land on you, it only takes him a few steps to reach you, your back rigid as you stay seated by the couch next to the bed.

“Sit pretty for me, yeah?” His lips meet your temple in a tender and loving kiss, one you’ve gotten countless times as reassurance. “I love you, baby.”

And then he’s back with her.

It all goes too quickly, and you don't know if you should be grateful that he’s just… getting it over with. The sooner it ends, the better. Right? You truly want to enjoy this experience, but she’s not making it easy.

He easily gets her legs up on his shoulders, their eyes on each other as he thrusts in short yet harsh strokes. You can’t hear clearly what they’re saying, relying mostly on where his eyes or hands land on her body.

“Fuck–” curses slip from his mouth effortlessly, and he feels himself throb when his hands circle Minako’s waist perfectly. There’s a look of utter bliss on her, one he’s very familiar with, and takes him back to the intense nights they used to share.

“Mhm… harder, Haji.” His ex drags her nails from his shoulders down to his biceps, the nickname slipping easily and with a familiarity that makes you feel uneasy. “Need it deeper.” 

His heart feels weak the more he watches her take every inch without complaining. For once, after God-knows-how-long, he’s able to suck and bite on a pair of nipples to his heart’s content without worrying about being pushed away. He can move hard and deep, pressing his sensitive tip against the cervix without expecting the woman underneath him to scoot away in discomfort.

It’s a never-ending bliss of having passionate, dirty sex with someone that won’t shy away from his touch. 

Which means, in his lust-clouded mind, that it shouldn’t come as a surprise to you when he pumps her full of his cum, jerking his hips rapidly and causing the excess to seep from around the edges of her slit and down her ass.

“Hajime.” You panic but don’t get up from your seat, “We said–”

“I know, I know.” He grunts, aware of your concern but dismissing it at the same time. In all honesty, he thought he could resist the temptation, but he didn’t. So, what? You didn’t say a thing when he slipped inside without a condom–even after you asked him to. “I couldn’t, okay?”

You immediately fall silent, not knowing what else to say. What do you even say in a moment like this?

Her laughter makes your body go cold. She’s not even looking at you, her eyes set on your husband’s features. 

“Relax, girl. I’m on the pill.” She’s interrupted by his kiss, way too tender for your liking, as he moves her legs down his shoulders, causing his length to slip out of her with a wet pop. His hands swiftly move her so she’s lying on her side, facing you, while he’s behind her. Her eyes finally look at you right as he lifts her leg and guides himself back inside her with a raspy groan, her smirk faltering and eyes rolling back once he sets a languid pace, his mouth latching onto her shoulder. “So we’re gonna do it again, and again, and again.”

And your husband smiles because he knows this is far from done. He hasn’t even made you lick his cum off of her yet.

[on-the-clear-blue]

Even though I know Bruce would have a brain aneurism at the mere thought of it because "what part of no identifying features do you not understand" I am thinking about the batfam and body art (tattoos, piercings and the such)

Alfred: you would think that this man is a proper British gentleman! But no, this man fought in wars and was a thespian, he would be tatted from wrist to collar bone in the style of wherever he was stationed during the war and likely with his battalions nickname somewhere. (Thomas and Martha both enjoyed kissing each one while they-...thats another post entirely)

Bruce: While he now thinks that they are horrible mistakes and had spent so much money seamlessly removing them from his body, Bruce was a party boy in the early 80s through the 2ks, that man got a tribalism tramp stamp, he had a butterfly/dolphin ankle tattoo, he got a Disney character doing a sexy pose on his back, and it pains him incredibly that he has to apply fake tattoos whenever Brucie needs to be seen somewhat unclothed (the only actually body modification that he has is scarification of the dates when he met all of his children) also likely had gages at some point but spent a lot of money to get his ears to a more natural point noe

Dick: so from brief research, (I am in no means an expert) Romani people don't tend to do tattoos, but as they are not a monolith and have many different groups among the Romani, I am going to have it that Dick gets at most his ears pierced? Maybe with some thst look similar to his mother's? Though I can see him being into henna, and getting it done on special occasions

Jason: Before getting picked up by batman this sweet boy ran in the streets and likely joined a gang at some point for protection? I can see some messily done, likely infected stick and poke of a skull or whatever some edgy gang leader chose as his "brand" to put on the street rats, but post dunk in the angriest lime jello? That little thing is gone, and after being a mob boss? I think Jason has a few tattoos, more than a few piercings, (I hc Jason as Hispanic, and we do have a tradition of getting piercings at a young age, though I think Jason would have lost the small diamond studs his momma saved up for to buy for him) he has at least one stylized cross somewhere on his body

Cass: I feel like she would like the idea tattoos, and would be an absolute trooper and not even flinching at the most painful places to get a needle jabbed repeatability into her skin, but wouldn't like the fact she can't change it, the same going for piercings, so I can see much more clip on stuff and temp tattoos!

Tim: "My body is a temple." Which is a filthy lie he tells the others. This man got Kon to do his piercings. Tim has nipple piercings and nobody finds out until the most unfortunate timing, likely involving an MRI and a lot of explaining to do why his nipples are bleeding.

Duke: This dork, this utter "Um actually 🤓☝️" Looking goober got a singular ear pierced once before he became Signal and cried, yeah maybe he could handle the pain now, but will he ever? Maybe later down the line...much much later.

Damian: isn't allowed to get any yet, wants to get anime weeb tattoos, "Tt, the League has trained me to withstand long sessions of torture, this would be nothing" he gets the names of his pets in a "no regurts" situation when he is 16, drunk and with Jon, thankfully he is able to hide it for a few months before Bruce finds it and is found later hunting down Jon.

Bonus

Babs: I see her as a sunflower kinda gall, has a sleeve of them (its actually a cover up because she used to have one of those super cringe, deathly hollows that flows into a mocking jay and a supernatural tattoo) used to have ear piercings but got rid of them after a particularly bad rogue tried to rip them out.

Steph: she has a nose stud and a tongue piercing, was totally there when Tim got his nips done, voted for him to get tassels, probably thinks tattoos are cool, but can't trust anyone to do it because she has been to nursing school long enough to know to say "fuck that shit"

Kate: similar to Alfred, got hot military tats, though followed after Bruce and removed most of them.

[reveryfics]

hi hi !!!

not a scott lang request, moreso a thor one !!

wow, so different, i know / j

god reader? he's an anchor being (unknown "center of the universe"). he was hiding out in earth in a human form, (like thor, just... his god form is an eldritch horror). endgame timeline. fury says they need more firepower, and thor suggests asking reader for help.

reader has no obligation to, because if he's such a powerful being, thanos has no real threat to him / and or his realm. (his army?)

just, thor practically swooning over readers god form. any scenario, but what i stated (last paragraph) is basically some world building. reader towers over everything, "i eat planets whole" size, with the entire... other worldly, extravagant personality.

imagine the figure that Gorr saw before asking Thor to protect his daughter. (the big, crossed-legged entity of the universe itself).

🪲 anon

Eater Of Worlds

Thor Odinson x Male Reader

Summary: The Avengers need more help against Thanos, and Thor has just the God in mind.

A/N: Currently have a lot of smut requests in my drafts, those will be spaced out as I've done a lot of Smut lately however non-smut requests are still open. I'm not a big fan of how this turned out, so I apologize.

TW: Fluff

The threat of Thanos hung heavy in the air, a suffocating blanket of dread. Everyone present understood the brutal calculus of their situation. They knew the risks intimately, the chilling probability that no matter how meticulously they planned, how fiercely they fought, many wouldn't emerge from the inevitable confrontation alive. The sheer power Thanos wielded was a tangible force, a looming shadow that dwarfed their collective might. They clung to the belief that they were facing a singular, insurmountable obstacle, their options dwindling with each passing hour.

Then, a flicker of improbable hope ignited in the hushed room. Thor, his voice low and tinged with a long-forgotten reverence, murmured about an old tale, a legend whispered by his mother, Frigga. It spoke of a god, a being of immense and terrifying power, one who dwarfed even Thanos in the annals of Asgardian lore. This god, according to the ancient stories, had vanished, choosing to walk among mortals, his true nature masked by a human guise. But the echoes of his past deeds still resonated, tales of devastation and awe that had once sent shivers down even Asgardian spines. This being had once roamed the cosmos in a form that defied comprehension, a wolf so colossal its head pierced the clouds, each earth-shattering step a testament to its raw, untamed power.

Thor recounted these stories, Frigga's voice seemingly echoing in the room, her descriptions so vivid it felt as though she herself had witnessed these incredible events. Yet, even he, a god accustomed to the extraordinary, had never truly believed he would lay eyes on this legendary figure. But here you were, standing amongst them, indistinguishable from any other human, a stark contrast to the monstrous deity of myth. The only hint of your true nature was the casual arrogance in your laughter as Thanos's threat was mentioned, a dismissive scoff that bordered on insulting.

Your amusement abruptly ceased as you registered the gravity etched onto the faces of Thor and Loki. Two Asgardian gods, beings who had faced down cosmic horrors, were visibly concerned. A flicker of something akin to curiosity, perhaps even a grudging respect, crossed your features. If they were taking this seriously, then perhaps, just perhaps, it was worth a moment of your attention.

"Our mother spoke highly of you," Thor ventured, his voice respectful, almost pleading. "You must understand what is at stake here. This… this Thanos… he could even pose a threat to you."

You sighed, a drawn-out exhale of weariness that seemed to carry the weight of ages. "Then you are aware that not even this Thanos can touch me, dear boy," you whispered, your voice a low rumble that resonated in the silence. "It simply isn't my fight."

Tony Stark, who had been observing the exchange with growing impatience, finally interjected, his voice sharp and laced with his usual pragmatism. "Look, with all due respect to the Norse mythology hour, this is getting us nowhere. We're facing a universe-ending threat, and you're talking about some bedtime story. This 'god,' if he even exists, clearly isn't interested in helping. We need a plan, not fairy tales."

Thor ignored Tony, his gaze fixed intently on you. "But you have helped before," he insisted, his voice gaining a desperate edge. "My mother told us stories, Loki and I. Tales of how you single-handedly turned back armies to protect those who couldn't protect themselves. How you devoured entire worlds that posed a danger to others. You possess a power that could tip the scales."

You remained impassive, your eyes flicking briefly towards Tony, a silent acknowledgment of his assessment. "He's right," you stated flatly, your voice devoid of emotion. "Whatever you are attempting will be futile."

Thor refused to be deterred. He pressed on, his voice laced with desperation. Loki, standing beside him, shot Thor a sharp, knowing look, a subtle warning that seemed to suggest Thor was deliberately trying to provoke a reaction.

A low growl rumbled in your chest, a sound that vibrated through the floor. You grunted, the human facade beginning to crack under the weight of Thor's relentless appeals. "Enough!" you roared, your voice booming with an unnatural resonance, silencing Thor mid-sentence. "Stop your mewling, godling! You sound like a child begging for scraps."

Thor, stung by the rebuke, his own patience fraying, retorted, "Perhaps my mother was wrong. Perhaps you are nothing more than a cowardly god, content to hide while others suffer."

The air crackled with a sudden, palpable energy. The sound of bones audibly shifting and cracking filled the room, followed by a guttural growl that seemed to emanate from the very depths of the earth. Your human form began to contort, stretching and shifting in ways that defied natural law. In a matter of seconds, the mortal man was gone, replaced by a wolf of unimaginable size. Its fur was the color of midnight, its muscles rippling beneath its hide like shifting mountains. Its head breached the ceiling, its massive jaws capable of swallowing a planet whole. You bent down, your enormous head looming over the stunned Avengers, a low snarl rumbling in your throat. Your eyes, once human, now glowed with an intense, ember-like light, burning with ancient power.

"Pathetic," you rumbled, your voice a deep, resonant growl that shook the very foundations of the building. "You dare disturb my solitude with such trivial affairs? Matters that have nothing to do with me?"

Thor, however, seemed to have tuned out your words, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and disbelief. He interrupted you, a strange smile spreading across his face. "The stories," he breathed, his voice barely a whisper, "they never truly captured it. How… breathtaking your godly form is." He stepped closer, oblivious to the danger, his gaze sweeping over your massive form. "The sheer power, the majesty… it's… magnificent. I must say, I am rather enjoying this particular form of yours."

You recoiled slightly, taking a massive step back, your paws causing the ground to tremble beneath their weight. You stared at Thor in utter disbelief, your massive head tilting slightly as if trying to comprehend his bizarre reaction. Your colossal form began to shrink, the impossible transformation reversing, albeit not entirely. You settled into the form of a wolf still immense, easily towering over Thor and the other Avengers, but no longer scraping the clouds.

Uncertainty flickered in your glowing eyes. You glanced between the bewildered faces of the Avengers and Thor, who was still gazing at you with an unnerving mixture of fascination and admiration. "I… I am still not obligated to assist you," you finally managed, your voice now a deep, rumbling growl, less earth-shattering than before, but still undeniably powerful. "However… perhaps… if the situation becomes truly dire, if there is absolutely no other recourse… then I might consider lending my aid."

Thor's face lit up, a wide, genuine smile spreading across his features. "Thank you," he exclaimed, his voice filled with relief. "Thank you for reconsidering."

You simply huffed in response, a puff of air that rustled the nearby debris. You turned to leave, your massive form moving with surprising agility. Just as you reached the doorway, you paused, glancing back at Thor, a flicker of something unreadable in your glowing eyes. "And for the record, thunder god," you rumbled, a hint of amusement creeping into your voice. "If that was your attempt at flirting… it worked."

[chernabogs]

For the prompts with malleus?? “If we must face the darkness, we must first accept its there.”

EVAL

Inc: Malleus and Idia Warnings: Brief mention of suicidal ideation, brief mention of medication WC: 1.9k Summary: In the lingering aftermath of his overblot, Malleus finds himself receiving an evaluation from a familiar friend while under STYX hospitality. (Post-OB, JP Spoilers)

It’s colder the lower that they go. For a while, he could hear what he thought to be groans of agony from the walls surrounding, but those have since fallen into a heavy silence. Cold, and quiet. Where solitude was once welcomed in his mind, this has since been sharply erased in recent days, leaving him feeling off-kilter as he sits on the cot.

For the third time today, he finds his hand going back up to brush along the jagged edges of his right horn. He presses his index finger against the keratin shard, and hisses when he feels it cut. He should have expected that. When he withdraws, a single red dot stares up from the pale expanse of his flesh. 

“I wouldn’t keep poking at it if I were you.” 

Abruptly, a voice cuts through the air as the nearby screens flicker to life. Malleus squints against the sudden brightness as he turns his head. Idia has been the only one he’s been talking to lately—probably because he’s the one spearheading this assessment. 

Malleus’ brow furrows in discontent. “Quite hard not to, when it happens to be the source of a vicious headache.” 

Despite this, he does listen, clasping his hands tight on his lap as his eyes adjust to the change in lighting. His headache is a byproduct of the breakage that he knows will linger until at least a few weeks have passed. His grandmother was keen enough to send healers to lessen the agony to a degree, but that which lingers is what Malleus considers a befitting personal punishment. Pain shall bequeath pain, after all. 

“Did you want a healer or something?” Idia hums as the sounds of a keyboard clicking cuts through the line. Malleus listens to the staccato rhythm in interest, imagining all the things Idia is saying about him right now. Considering that their last interaction had been less-then-pleasant, he imagines the report to be a colourful one. “I can have one come down after this assessment.” 

“That will not be necessary, thank you.” Malleus turns his hand over to see that the blood has smeared with the act of clasping. He wipes it mindlessly on the STYX uniform that he wears. His grandmother had given the organization the opportunity to hold him in the facility for a week before resuming supervision from Briar Valley. She just needs to get the systems set up to accommodate the mass of technology STYX intends to bring. 

“Well, whatever. If you change your mind, then give a shout.” The typing slows as Idia sighs, leaning back in what Malleus assumes is an office seat. A tablet appears in his hand on the screen, which he swipes at a few times before glancing back at the prince. “It’s psych eval day.”

A sharp, barking laugh escapes Malleus, which holds no humour to its sound. Oh, that is rich. He would think that they could have saved the psych eval after the magical assessments are done, but he figures that many are eager to know the state of the Crown Prince's mind. “Well then, Shroud. I suppose you can ask away.”

“There’s a few other parties on the line.” Idia doesn’t elaborate this point as he continues setting up what Malleus assumes must be a questionnaire of sorts. “We’ll start off with the basics, then. Who are you, when were you born, and who would be considered your primary care provider?” 

Malleus blinks slowly and then furrows his brow. “I am Malleus Draconia. I was born on January 18th. My primary care provider would be the court physician, Dr. Aelthar.” 

Idia types away on the tablet for a moment, humming to himself as he does, before flashing a thumbs up. “Cool. Okay, are you on drugs?” 

“Beyond the ones for my pain? No.” They have him on four pills of a particularly high dosage for his horn-related agonies right now. Malleus has discovered many new things while occupying this cell, and one of them happens to be that he should be on child-dosages for just about everything. 

“Have you been having hallucinations, delusions, or homicidal ideations recently?” Idia quickly looks up. “Overblot excluded, I mean.” 

Overblot excluded. Malleus thinks that a rather smarmy thing to add at the end as he feels his lips pull to a tight, humourless smile. He never had any ‘homicidal ideations’ during his overblot, but he would not bother to correct Idia on that. Most people seem to think he has forgotten much of what he did while in that state. This is far from the truth. Malleus remembers every vivid minute, and it unsettles him deeply. 

“I saw a pink dancing elephant recently, though perhaps that’s a byproduct of the aforementioned medications.” He snips back as he leans against his cell wall, crossing his legs. His hand continues to throb in time with his pulse from where his horn cut through. “Otherwise, I am not homicidal, or hallucinating, or anything of that sort.”

“What about suicidal, then?” Idia asks, cutting Malleus off before he can continue his commentary. Malleus’ jaw snaps shut with a click at the question. A standard part of any evaluation but one that draws him to a pause. Idia is perceptive enough to catch note of this as he glances back up at the prince again. “Malleus?” 

Everyone was. At least, that’s the gist he’s noticed from the other boys regarding the ones who overblotted. The crashing of emotions, the broken highs, the spiralling distress of how badly one just fucked their entire life over by letting go of the tightly coiled feelings for once. He exhales sharply between clenched teeth before rubbing his hands up and down his thighs in a self-soothing manner. They all got over it, but he’s been caught in the riptide for weeks now. 

“... depends.” Is what he concludes with, his head thumping against the wall in a hollow, off-kilter sound. Idia stares quietly before writing something. Malleus isn’t expecting him to comment on it. It would feel out of touch for the other boy to do so. They, like many of NRC’s students with the rare few exceptions, were not that emotionally vulnerable. “Regardless, thoughts will not lead to action. I have far too much to worry about before I fall down that rabbit hole.” 

A tense smile touches his lips that he hopes is reassuring but looks more pained instead. Idia hums and then scratches his cheek with the butt of the tablet pen. “What have your dreams been like? Anything particular?” 

Dreams? Malleus digs deep into the catalogue of his experience so far to try and see if there are any memories of what he’s been dreaming - when he sleeps, that is. Closing his eyes invokes some strange form of panic in his chest, which has only recently begun to settle to a more anxious hum. His hand comes up once more to brush against the ruins of his horn, smearing a bit of the remaining blood along its base. 

“I have not been sleeping.” He confesses as he looks upwards, towards the flickering fluorescent lights that indicate to him what hour it is inside of this room. They have not shut off, so it isn’t night quite yet. “Or at least, I have not been sleeping well. When I do sleep, I do not remember much of what I see. A lot of darkness, flashes of green. I feel… hunger.”

He pauses, brow furrowing slightly in introspection. “A hunger, mixed in tangent with an odd hollowness, as though I am aware that I am pursuing something that, when lost, will not satiate the ache. As though this hunger is just my mind telling my body that it will not be able to keep what it desires.” 

A moment of pause settles before Malleus clears his throat and shifts to sit up straighter. 

“Did you not feel it too, Shroud?” 

Idia’s gaze drops to something in the corner of the screen that Malleus cannot see. It occurs to him that Idia had mentioned they weren’t alone in this discussion. Once more, his jaw closes sharply, and he finds himself sinking down. He had hoped to extend a line to the other boy who had been caught in similar waters and had pulled himself out with little need for aid. 

“Sort of.” The words are spoken cautiously, as though Idia is placing great thought into them before letting them out. “Most of the dreams I had were pretty dark for a while. Mom and dad said it was a consequence of the blot, but I think that’s up in the air. It took me a while to move past them. I learned pretty quickly that if you need to deal with darkness, you need to first accept it’s there.” 

Idia’s golden eyes seem to dig through Malleus’ mind as they narrow ever so slightly. Then he snorts and leans back again. “Listen, I’m the last person who should be preaching about things you should and shouldn’t do for this, since everyone has their own unique experience. I was lucky to even be accepted back to NRC. At least you know now that you aren’t the only one with a lot of baggage around here. Kinda wish we had all just…”

Idia trails off, but Malleus can easily fill in the missing part of his sentence. He sighs deeply and hunches over to rest his elbows on his knees. The memory of Lilia’s body growing cold in his arms is one that has kept him up repeatedly at night, which reflects in the darkening beneath his eyes. That, in combination with Silver’s crying, and Sebek’s distress, are aspects that Malleus would salt the lands to prevent seeing again. The added knowledge that he orchestrated this all is no lesser burden. 

Perhaps this is what his hunger is seeking. A means to fill the guilt that lingers from his actions. A manifestation of the being he absorbed to become something he should not have to begin with. 

“Anyway.” The abrupt sentence snaps Malleus’ attention back to Idia as the other man sets the tablet aside. A few more clicking sounds, a pause or two, and then Idia is nodding. “Nothing of immediate concern pops up, though you can bet you’re gonna be seeing a counselor or three over the coming weeks. Same story for all of us.”

“How exciting.” Malleus muses dryly as he watches Idia moving on the screen. The other boy finishes sending what Malleus assumes is the present report before finally meeting his gaze. 

“Got a message from Lilia asking if you’d take a call tonight. You’re not gonna break our phone if we give it to you, right?” Idia grimaces. “‘Cause so far, your track record with tech hasn’t been the greatest…”

Lilia wants to call him? Malleus perks up at this, pushing down the wave of uncertainty before giving a slight nod. “I would like that very much, yes. I promise I shall try to be as careful as possible with your device.” 

“Honestly, I think mom wants you to break it, just so she can see if it’s possible. She designed it herself.” Idia mumbles, but Malleus can see the faint fondness in the boy’s golden eyes. “Cool, cool. I’ll have them drop that in for you.”

Idia gives a thumbs up before cutting the line. Short, sweet, to the point - Malleus can appreciate that at this moment. He stares at his reflection on the screen before looking down to the red smear on his thumb. He sticks it in his mouth, sucking it clean, before wiping the saliva on his pants and gently pulling himself to his feet. Perhaps he’ll do some stretches or give a shot at meditation before taking Lilia’s call. The thought draws a faint smile to his lips. Peace may be found in breathing and movement, and with it, hopefully a dreamless night ahead. 

[shamefilledsnzblog]

Tease

Just some more of Perry and Serafina being silly and horny, featuring a lot of hold-backs, some sneezing while hiding, and Serafina's kink being quite thoroughly indulged. NSFW!

Takes place after both expeditions, so Perry has had quite a journey, and is a lot more confident, and has become quite adept at satisfying his dear Serafina.

“Gods, is he going to drone on all night?”

Serafina caught the eye of a passing waiter and accepted a glass of sparkling wine from a tray. Perry’s newfound status within the university had its benefits, certainly, but it also came at a cost. Namely, having to endure gatherings with some of the dullest people Serafina had met in her life. Perry had told her stories of some of the fascinating and ridiculous characters he had met during his studies, but it seemed all of them had decided to give the end of year celebration a miss. Serafina took a sip of wine, wishing Perry had the sense to do the same.

Perry appeared to be wishing the same thing. He kept his expression polite and interested out of respect, but even he couldn’t hold back a grimace as the chancellor’s speech, which appeared to have been coming to a close, simply began on yet another tangent.

“… Which brings me back to the topic of tradition. In the long and distinguished existence of this most venerated of institutions…”

“I’m sure he’s nearly done. Surely?”

“Peregrine, if I were to suddenly yet gracefully faint, would you be my hero and sweep me off my feet and far away from here?”

Ordinarily Serafina would have resisted the temptation to continually whisper in Perry’s ear. But the speeches had been going on for two hours now, and Serafina had only kept herself smiling by accepting several glasses of wine. She took another deep sip from her current one, and glanced at Perry out of the corner of her eye.

Usually, even at the dullest of events, Perry could be relied upon to provide her with at least some form of entertainment. Yet today, even there she was disappointed. It was the dead of winter, with nothing blooming. The elaborate hall in which the event was taking place had been meticulously dusted. None of the company nearby seemed to be wearing the slightest hint of fragrance. And, remarkably for this time of year, Perry didn’t have even the slightest hint of a cold. Not once, in this entire excruciating ordeal, had he graced her with so much as a sniffle.

“HhhHURSSSHOO!”

Serafina grimaced at the sound. Judging by the state of the man standing nearby, Perry would be sniffling soon enough. The poor fellow was plainly in the grips of a brutal cold. His eyes were glassy, his cheeks flushed, his nose rubbed red-raw and forever twitching with desperate snuffles, or delivering violent, foghorn blows into a long-suffering handkerchief. Perry, who tended to catch cold if someone ill three buildings away even vaguely considered sneezing, was surely doomed.

“HHhRESCHOO! SNRRF! Terribly sorry… Damned cold…”

Perry’s shoulder brushed lightly against Serafina’s, and she looked up to see a mischievous twinkle in his eyes as he leaned down to whisper.

“Should I be feeling jealous?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

The cold-stricken fellow sneezed again, sounding utterly miserable. Serafina found herself wondering why he had dragged himself here, when he was so clearly unwell. She took another sip of her wine, her mind wandering as she ceased even pretending to pay attention to the speech. Perry would have that cold soon. Knowing him, he would be sniffling by breakfast. Probably starting to sneeze in miserable, wet outbursts by lunchtime. How long before he would admit defeat and allow her to take him to bed?

Perry leaned in again.

“You seem distracted.”

“Merely listening to your fascinating colleague.”

She briefly met Perry’s eyes, seeing that rare, cheeky gleam. She hid her grin with another sip of wine, and he disguised a snort of laughter with a polite cough. The waiter passed again, and this time Perry caught his eye, accepting a flute from the tray.

Serafina gave his ankle a slight flick with her tail.

“You know what wine does to you, Peregrine.”

“Can I not enjoy a glass, on such an occasion?”

He raised the flute, holding it beneath his nose as if to take in the bouquet. Serafina watched his delicate nostrils flare as the bubbles burst against them. Maintaining a look of innocence that didn’t fool her in the slightest, he took a sip. His nose twitched, and he rubbed it lightly with one finger as he lowered the glass.

“Mm, lovely. Terribly bubbly, though. Rather tickles.”

“Tease.”

Perry’s grin was hidden by the glass as he sipped a little more. Serafina tried to keep her focus on the chancellor as he droned on, but her eyes continually darted to Perry’s face. His nose, subjected to the bubbles once more, gave an irritated wriggle. When he lowered the glass, his eyes had begun to look distant, as they always did when he drank wine. He made a show of knuckling at his nose, but with a touch so light, he surely wasn’t alleviating the tickle in the slightest.

“Peregrine.”

“Se-hehhh-rafina?”

She was now staring shamelessly, feeling her cheeks flushed. Were anyone to ask, she would blame it on the wine. Her mouth beginning to feel slightly dry, she drained her glass. Her tail began to flick in anticipation. Perry looked ridiculously pleased with himself, although his expression soon changed. His eyes began to flutter closed, his lips parting.

“Hhh… Hfff… Hahh…”

With his free hand, he drew a handkerchief from his pocket, raising it in anticipation. His head tilted back, chest expanding as he took a long, tremulous inhale.

“HahhhhAHhhh… Ahh.”

At the last moment, he pinched his nose shut, holding his breath for a moment, then letting out a satisfied sigh as he fought the tickle back. He sniffed, briefly rubbing at his nose with his handkerchief, and shot Serafina a cheeky glance.

“Terribly sorry. Not sure what came over me.”

Serafina flicked him with her tail again, whispering back.

“Yes, what a mystery. Think you have it under control?”

Had anyone overheard her whisper, they would have heard innocent concern in her voice. Had they looked in her eyes, they would have seen a challenge. Perry saw it quite clearly, and held her gaze as he took another drink.

His reaction this time was more urgent, the previous tickle plainly not having been banished. His eyes closed involuntarily, and he gave his nose a desperate scrunch, hastily lowering the glass. His breath caught, and though he pressed a finger beneath his nose, the ember he had ignited was spreading fast.

“Hiihhhh… Hiehh… Hmm… Hnn… hhHH-TCHMP!”

The stifle was a violent one, jerking him forward, nearly spilling some of his wine. He blinked, dazed, in the aftermath, dabbing at his nose with his handkerchief. It twitched rebelliously, starting to return to its usual shade of pink.

“You know holding them in isn’t good for you.”

Perry attempted to look innocent again, but his nose was twitching in earnest now. He pressed his finger beneath his quivering nostrils, sniffling. Despite plainly still struggling with the tickle, a teasing smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“But I wouldn’t … HeeEHhh… Hm… like to distract from the speech.”

His eyes began to look a little damp, and he gave a sudden, flustered sniffle, plainly losing control.

“Hhhehhh… HffFF! Hm… HeeEH-MPT!”

Serafina squirmed, feeling suddenly too warm in her gown. She watched as the urgent stifle flung Perry forward, the force of it making a strand of hair come loose from his ribbon. He gave a series of quick sniffles, and rubbed his nose more forcefully now, but his chest heaved as he let out another desperate hitch.

“Hhhihhh… Hieehhh…”

“Oh dear. Have we started something we can’t control?”

“Don’t know… HhiiEEHH! SNF!... I don’t know wh-hhhahhhh-at you could… HiyehhhhHEH!... possibly mean…”

He scrunched his nose furiously, and in a show of playful defiance, ceased rubbing at it long enough to attempt another sip of wine. Before the wine even touched his lips, the bubbles resumed their ticklish taunting of his nose. He barely got his handkerchief over his nose in time.

“H-TCHMPH! H-PSHH! K-TCHFF! Snf… SNF!”

He kept the handkerchief in place, though Serafina could imagine how his face was twitching beneath it. He fought to keep his eyes from fluttering shut. Her own glass empty, Serafina took Perry’s, putting it to her lips.

“Oh dear. I told you wine doesn’t agree with you, darling.”

“No.. HihhHEHH… SNF! No… HahAH… blessing?”

“If you’re not going to sneeze properly, no. Besides, you have me, you’re quite blessed enough already.”

“HHURESHOO!”

The cold-stricken fellow let out another roar of a sneeze, as if taunting Perry with the kind of satisfaction he was denying himself. Perry let out a whimper, eyes closing, scrubbing his nose through the soft linen of his handkerchief. It would be getting damp by now, Serafina suspected. She curled her tail around his leg, observing him with a decidedly feline smile.

“Poor Peregrine. That’s quite a tickle. Surely you’ll feel better if you let it out?”

“You… HeEHHhh… HAahh… You know me. Once I… HhfFF! SNF!... Once I start, I… I won’t… Hhiehhh… Hehh…”

“Stop? No, I don’t suppose you will. Perhaps you’d better get some fresh air. We wouldn’t like to make a scene, hm?”

She took Perry’s arm, tugging him towards the door, passing the wine glasses to a waiter as they left. To an onlooker, she would simply seem concerned for a poor fellow having a sudden allergy attack. Unless they saw the gleam in her eyes, and the flush on her cheeks.

As soon as the door closed behind them, leaving them in an empty hallway, Perry lowered his handkerchief, eyes squeezing shut, beginning to draw in an urgent, trembling breath. Before it could come to anything, Serafina pulled him forward by his cravat, pressing a kiss to his lips.

Perry let out a desperate noise, somewhere between a whimper and a moan, his nose twitching against Serafina’s cheek. She felt a little dampness beneath it; he really must have tormented the poor thing.

At last, Perry could take it no longer. Pulling away from the kiss, he lurched forward into his handkerchief.

“HhhHISHYIEW! HhhIIEYESHOO! HSHIEW! Hhh… Hahhh… HAIESHIEW! I beg your pardon, that was… HhIESHIEW!”

He sniffled into his handkerchief, rubbing at his nose, while Serafina watched him, warmth stirring inside her, tail lashing expectantly. She looked up and down the hallway and, spotting a door, seized Perry by the arm and began dragging him towards it.

“Serafina, I… IihhhhHESHIEW!... I believe that’s the… Hehh… HEHHSHIEW! SNF! … the caretaker’s supply closet… SssHIEW!”

“Well, it’s going to have to do. If you’re going to be a tease, you’d best learn to follow through!”

The cupboard, thankfully, was unlocked. With one last look to check that they were alone, Serafina urged Perry inside, shutting the door behind them. Pushing him against a shelf of cleaning supplies, she seized the lapels of his waistcoat and dragged him into another kiss. She felt his hands settle on her waist, and gave his lip a gentle bite, drawing a delightful yelp from him.

When Serafina broke off the kiss, Perry gave her a smile equal parts delighted and dazed.

“Everything we’ve seen and done, and I still can’t believe I can bring you undone, simply by… HhISHIEW! … Well. That. SNf!... Hm. I believe that was the last of them.”

“Oh? Do you, now?”

Serafina swept her tail across the shelf behind her, and brought the furred tip up between them. With the dark vision granted by her devilish heritage, she could see it had picked up quite the coating of fluffy grey dust. Perry, limited by his human sight, seemed to be struggling to see in the dark of the cupboard. But even if his eyes could not detect the dust, his nose could.

“Se-ehh-rafina… Hehh…”

“Oh dear. So sensitive already? I haven’t even touched you yet. Perhaps you oughtn’t to have taunted me.”

Even with his nostrils beginning to flare once more, Perry grinned, one hand sliding from her waist, over her hip. He began to pull up her skirt, inch by teasing inch.

“I thought you… SNF! Hhheh... Ahh… SNF! Snf… I thought you deserved some entertainment, for… HiiiEEHH!...  for enduring tonight for me. Is this not entertaining?”

His breath caught in another desperate hitch, and his nostrils flared wide. Serafina saw dampness beginning to gather at their rims. Perry seemed to feel it, and raised his handkerchief to tend to the matter, but Serafina caught his wrist. Plucking the cloth from his hand, she tossed it to the shelf behind her.

“No, I don’t believe I’ll allow that. For teasing me, you’re going to have to earn it back.”

She kissed him again, and guided his hand beneath her petticoats. By now quite practiced, he found the strings of her undergarments and began to loosen them. His breathing grew quick and unsteady, as did Serafina’s, though for rather different reasons. She felt his nose twitch desperately against her cheek, and he gave an urgent sniffle as he broke off the kiss.

“I need to… Hehh! SNF! HiieeEHH!... I need to blow my nose.”

“Yes, I can hear that. Poor thing, you’re sounding a little stuffy. No blowing yet, but I suppose I can wipe it for you.”

Bringing up her tail again, she swiped the furred tip across Perry’s face, letting it linger beneath his nose. His eyes grew wide as he gave a great, involuntary snort. If he hadn’t been aware of the dust before, he certainly was now.

“HhEH! HHiehhh… Hiiyehhh… Hff… HFF! HaaAAH?”

Before the last desperate hitch could become a sneeze, Serafina pinched Perry’s nose shut, smiling at his look of itchy betrayal. She felt his nostrils pulse beneath her fingers, desperate to purge the dust.

“Not yet, I don’t think. You were doing such an impressive job holding back earlier. And we can’t have you making too much noise. Someone might think to come and investigate.”

“And you… AhhHH! HAHHH!... you call me…  SNF! HFF! … a tease?”

Serafina grinned, and gasped as Perry’s fingers found their destination. Grabbing his lapels again, she pulled him in for another kiss, and moaned against his lips, her hands coming up to loosen his cravat and collar. With Perry’s skilled fingers stroking and circling, she began to move her hips without even thinking.

With his nose too stuffed now for easy breathing, Perry soon came up for air, panting, and gave a series of damp snuffles. Allowing him to catch his breath, Serafina kissed along his jaw and neck instead, feeling the vibrations in his throat as he let out a moan of desperation.

“Mm… Hmm… Hff… HffF! Heh! HEH! HhhHYEHH – AH!”

The impending sneeze was cut off by a yelp, half alarm, half pleasure, as Serafina bit at Perry’s neck. Just enough for her fangs to mark, not enough to seriously hurt. Just enough to distract from his nose’s torment.

“You know, you make the most delightful sounds when you’re bitten. But we’re to keep quiet, remember?”

Perry nodded, his fingers beginning to work faster. Serafina felt her breathing begin to quicken, sweat starting to bead on her brow. She wrapped her arms around Perry, drawing him closer, resting her head on his shoulder. She felt his chest move with unsteady hitches, and had to bite her lip to keep from breaking her own order to keep quiet.

“I still can’t believe you… Ah!... learned this from a book.”

“To be fair, I… Iiiehhh… Snf… Snf, SNF! SNRF!... I’ve had some… Heh! … practice since then…”

His fingers brushed where she was most sensitive, and her breathing grew quicker still, as did Perry’s. She was close to coming undone, and so was he.

“I can’t… I… Iehhh…”

“Peregrine…”

“I say, I couldn’t stand another minute in there! The man could talk until the end of time!”

Serafina froze, hearing the voice outside in the hallway. Another joined it. Both seemed to be coming closer.

“It wouldn’t be quite so terrible if he had something worthwhile to say, but if I have to hear ‘now, back in my own student days’ one more time, I’m jumping out the nearest window. Smoke?”

“Please. Here, have one of mine, I think you’ll enjoy it.”

They might not have stopped right outside the door, but they were certainly close enough to hear once Perry started sneezing. And Perry looked ready to start sneezing any moment. His eyes watered as he took his free hand and clamped it over his nose and mouth, looking at Serafina with mingled desperation and horror.

Outside the closet, Serafina heard a match strike. Of all the places for the two gentlemen to decide to linger. She squeezed Perry’s arm reassuringly, attempting an encouraging smile and speaking in the softest whisper.

“Slow breaths. You can do it.”

Perry shook his head urgently, fighting to keep his eyes open as an allergic tear ran down his cheek. He absolutely could not do it, and Serafina knew it all too well. Feeling his chest rise and fall with desperate breaths, she knew she had moments to act. Turning to the shelf behind, she stretched out and snatched the handkerchief from where it had fallen. She passed it to Perry, who released his hold on his nose long enough to bury it in the soft linen.

Which, Serafina realized with horror, had become quite coated in dust.

Perry must have realized it too. His eyes widened, and he froze, plainly holding his breath. Serafina felt him shudder as his lungs demanded he give in to the inevitable. She added her own hand over his, watching his eyes begin to squint shut.

“Shh, shh, Peregrine, don’t think about it… Hold your breath, look at me…”

Outside, the voices sounded again.

“Best find somewhere else. You know the chancellor hates people smoking near the paintings. ‘Dulls the patina’, supposedly.”

Perry’s eyes squeezed shut, and he shook violently with a barely stifled sneeze.

“H-CHMPH!”

It hadn’t even begun to scratch the itch, and even with his own hand and Serafina’s muffling the sound, it was still audible.

“That one could use dulling, if you ask me. I don’t care how distinguished the subject was, doesn’t make him any more pleasant to look at.”

They were right outside the door.

“KSHMPH! H-KSSHH! HM-TCH!”

“You hear that? Damned rats, they’re everywhere these days. Heard a pair of them fighting in one of the lecture theatres the other day. Just disgraceful!”

Serafina held her breath, listening to the footsteps grow further away. Perry, sweating and red in the face, shuddered again and again, scarcely able to draw a breath between each violent stifle. And all the while, his fingers were still in position beneath Serafina’s skirt, shuddering along with the rest of him. What thoughts Serafina could muster were torn between horror and wild amusement as she felt the heat and tension building within her.

“A few more moments… Just a few more moments…”

Perry loosened the hand over his nose long enough to draw in a ragged, desperate gasp.

“HhhhhCHMPH!”

He was losing control. But the voices were getting further away. Surely, if the sound were appropriately muffled…

Serafina removed her hand, and Perry managed the briefest look of alarm before the sneeze took over. His nose had been teased enough, and demanded to be satisfied. As he drew in a final, involuntary breath, filling his lungs to capacity, Serafina pulled him forward, nestling his head against her chest. She felt his nose, damp and warm, twitching against her breasts, and bit her lip as the long-suppressed sneeze was released.

“HHSHHEIFFF!”

It was audible for sure, but nowhere near what it could have been. Serafina gasped, feeling spray coat her breasts, and felt Perry’s fingers twitch against her. Just a little more…

Perry sneezed and sneezed, Serafina holding him against her chest, the muffled outbursts gradually growing weaker, until his lungs demanded a full breath once more. Breaking free of Serafina’s hold, he gasped in an urgent breath, and released it, barely having the presence of mind to turn his head.

“HHhhhhHHYIEEEESHIEW!”

Serafina gasped, unable to suppress the moan that burst from her lips as she, too, was granted satisfaction. Whether the gentlemen outside were still close enough to hear, in that moment, she barely cared. She slumped bonelessly against Perry’s chest, listening to him snuffle and pant as he recovered.

“Well… What did we learn about being a tease?”

Perry gave a breathless chuckle, interrupted by a bout of sniffling.

“I was a little distracted, I’m afraid. You might need to repeat the lesson.”

“And miss more of your chancellor’s delightful stories?”

“Tragic, I know. But I’m sure we’ll survive.”

“Give me a minute to recover, and I’ll go and make our excuses. You seem to have a terrible case of the sneezes, after all. And you’re dreadfully flushed. That fellow’s cold must be very contagious indeed. We’d best get you home to bed.”

[the-peak-legend-of-first-gen]

Sunny skies, clear water, and stress-free days. Jake was the one who came up with the idea of a beach date, but, of course, the kids were listening. Lua and Lineman always had the final say, so now the entire Big Deal was involved. You didn’t mind, everyone had been through a lot recently, from brutal fights to arrest warrants. It was better to leave all that behind and start fresh with everyone.

Dongmak Beach was famous for its sunsets, and Jake knew how much you loved them. Ever since childhood, when you used to drag both Jerry and him to watch the sunset in the park, to now, when you beamed at the mention of the location, your love for them has never changed.

Everyone was enjoying themselves. Jerry was surfing—wait, what? He was using Lineman as his surfboard. Meanwhile, Brad and Jason had just thrown Lua into the water. The rest of the boys seemed awkward as if they had never seen women in swimwear before. Jake, however, prided himself on being a little more composed—after all, he was the leader of the group.

Yeonhui was a goddess. She went shopping with you and encouraged you to wear whatever made you comfortable. Initially, you were reluctant, but in the end, you picked something cute yet comfortable. And when Jake turned around and saw you in that ruffled skirt bikini, his jaw dropped. He scanned you from head to toe, frozen in place.

"What is this? OMGGGGGG, what should I say? Am I even allowed to look?!" Jake.exe had officially stopped working.

Sinu, ever the savior, slapped Jake on the back. "You shouldn’t keep your lady waiting, you know." That finally snapped him out of it, but he was still standing there, staring at you like a fool.

Fed up, you tried to shove him into the water, but this 6’4” giant was too much for you. He only laughed when you tried.

"Eager, are we?" he teased, only to get another smack.

Jerry, excited as ever, pulled you away to build a sandcastle with him. He had that baby-like concentration, his brows furrowed as he focused on finishing his masterpiece. When you were both done, he grinned and added, "This is where you and Boss Jake will live after marriage. And please visit Big Deal Street from time to time!"

You blushed hard. And it certainly didn’t help your case when your eyes wandered to Jake, who was playing beach volleyball with the rest of the crew. The sunlight made him glow, but more than that, it was the glow of genuine happiness. Everyone was happy. Jerry and the rest of the crew looked carefree for the first time in a long while. Sinu and Yeonhui were basking in each other’s company.

Lost in thought, you were startled when Jake suddenly broke your train of thought. There was a certain guilt in his eyes, but before he could say anything, you cut him off.

"No, don’t worry. I don’t mind that everyone tagged along. It makes me happy to see them happy."

Hearing that, he suddenly pulled you by the waist, and before you could react, he scooped you up in a bridal carry and threw you into the water.

What is with everyone’s obsession with throwing people into the water?! Why can’t they just politely ask you to join them?!, you thought.

If that wasn’t enough, he even started splashing water at you. But this time, you were quick to retaliate, splashing him right back. Laughter and giggles echoed across the shore, and in that moment, you wished this feeling would never end.

Amid your playful fight, you hadn’t realized how close you had gotten—your torsos were touching. Jake’s fond expression made you avert your gaze, but he leaned in and whispered,

"Next time, it’ll be just you and me."

And with the golden-red hues of the sunset painting the sky, you leaned in and kissed this silly boy.