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chuckychangmin · 2 months ago

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abracadabra THIS IS SO GOD WWTH AJDBJAJAJA , I FCKIN LOVE THIS😩😩

𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠. – 𝐣.𝐣𝐡, 𝐥.𝐣𝐧

summary. you’d realized fairly early on that there’s something very slightly different about jeno and jaehyun; not bad, just…nothing you’ve ever known before. you do your best not to think about it and not to think about them, but it’s getting harder and harder to keep your mind off of the two most coveted frat boys on campus, especially as they make it clearer and clearer that you’re the only one they want… and that they always get what they want. between jeno’s pointed teasing and jaehyun’s gentler goading, it’s obvious that they’ve put self-serving targets on your back. jeong jaehyun and lee jeno are nothing if not notorious for their aim. (creds to @gohyuck aka raya my beloved for this incredible summary)

pairing. lee jeno x reader x jeong jaehyun

genre. smut, mild humor

word count. 27.1k (one day….i will atone for my sins)

contents & warnings. explicit smut (somewhat soft dom!jaehyun, somewhat hard dom!jeno, sub!reader, public groping, fingering, oral (receiving), overstimulation, unprotected sex, daddy kink, breeding kink, praise kink, nipple/breast play (receiving), lots of dirty talking), brief mentions of drugs and alcohol, and there’s, like, one creep who objectifies the reader

author’s note. just a note that, because jeno and jaehyun are incubi, their seduction techniques may come across as mildly predatory at times. there are elements of dubcon in this story, so please take note of this if you plan to read! (the dubcon scene in question is mild and becomes actual consent quickly, if that’s any consolation!!) i hope you enjoy, and please, please, please, let me know if you liked it!

“I’m jus’ sayin’–” Donghyuck starts, his voice garbled due to his mouthful of food, and you cringe in disgust, frowning and wrinkling your nose in distaste as you slap his arm lightly.

“Stop talking with your mouth full.” You admonish him, and he glowers at you before chewing his fries and swallowing them.

“They both clearly want you, you’re clearly into both of them; just bite the bullet and hook up with at least one of them.”

“I don’t know…they make me kinda nervous. They give me strange vibes.” You mutter, peering across the cafeteria. The targets of your stare are busy laughing it up with the rest of their fraternity brothers, painting the picture-perfect candid shot for all their adoring fans. At the dreamy sigh that leaves Lucy’s lips, you’re guessing she disagrees.

“A man shows anything more than platonic interest in you and he gives you strange vibes.” Donghyuck points out, and you glare at him, snatching a fry from his plate. He gasps in horror, his mouth opening and closing repeatedly as he splutters indignantly. “What the-?! What you’ve just done…is unforgivable.”

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#jeno smut #tw dubcon #dang #bye #im dead #i love this

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dralbum · 1 year ago

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HIM WEARING THE WWTH SHIRT ☹️❤️

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jolalibrary · 3 years ago

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Can You Be Quiet?

Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader Prompts: 6 - “Stop yelling and listen for a second.” 16 - “This is all your fault.” for @fluffyprettykitty - hope this is ok, darling <3 [prompts are from this] word count: 2.4k

“This is all your fault.”

Of course it is. That’s what he wants to say. But he doesn’t.

Because while he’s sure this rests on both your shoulders, he can feel your fear. It’s vibrating off of you; it’s sitting in your chest, making it harder for you to breathe. You don't do this, you'd told him when you'd come to his office. But he did.

You'd said as much without using your words.

Your fingers flexing by your side as you stood in his office, asking him for help. Him, who'd you once told, you'd rather watch burn than try and put out.

He supposes that's his fault to.

For sleeping with you, when he knew he couldn't offer anything more. When he continuously slept with you, before not calling, before not responding, only for you to find him with your friend.

The friend being Elektra. The friend being the only other person on the planet who makes you feel small.

Something you'd told him when you'd called him drunk, words slurring, hiccups punctuating parts of your sentence. It's something he rather hates whenever his mind lingers on the thought for too long. Especially when you were kind-hearted, overall a good person, even if a little impatient, a little condescending and sharp-tongued.

He quite liked all the qualities others didn't, but then, he never really slept with the right people. Never really fell for people who didn't have enough scars to compete with his own.

But still, he feels the current predicament rests heavily on both of your shoulders. Even if you continue to be difficult. Even if you continue to annoy him with pointing out how this is his fault, how his plan had been foolish. As if you'd had a better one.

He wants to tell you it’s worked before. But that would mean sharing that the person it worked with was Elektra. And while he can be idiotic—he’s not that idiotic. He can't handle the force of your anger and hurt in such a small space, even it would silent you; even if it meant he could listen to the people trying to find them, rather than how your body keeps screaming at him to soothe you.

So he swallows it. Moving closer, wanting and needing to pull you closer. Knowing at any moment the men patrolling the hallway will reach this closet—will turn the handle and find they cannot open it.

And he’ll need to throw a punch; he’ll need to fight to get you out of here. Even if you keep whispering you don’t need him; even if you keep whispering that this is his fault.

He feels your breath dance along his face when he turns his head to you. He smells the scent of vanilla, amber and musk all twisting up into his nostrils, pulling him under.

"We need to get out of here." He hears you, but doesn't respond quick enough, you shoving him, and he barely moves. Jaw tightening, inhaling deeper as he swallows. "You listening to me, Murdock?"

"Stop yelling, and listen for a second."

"I'm hardly yelling," you snarl. "I'm whispering. Because there are men outside. With guns. Ready to turn me into Swiss cheese."

He can't help it. He places his hands on your shoulders, feeling the noticeable tremble—the one also in your voice, as much as you keep pretending it’s not there.

Then he hears you drag the tip of your tongue over your dry, bottom lip. His own throat going dry, trying to banish thoughts of his fingers digging into the skin on your back; the way your hips rolled as he filled you.

He lets his hands fall from your shoulders back to his side, trying to focus, to not kiss your stupidly, full lips.

"Well? I'm listening," you say in a hushed whisper, voice still shaky, but that tone. The tone you always have, the one he enjoys fucking out of you, is back. "Or, do you just like saying statements to make it appear like you know what you're doing."

And he smirks.

Because you're pushing him purposefully.

And then men outside begin to surrender, mumbling they're heading back to the main club room where the music reverbs through the walls. Leaving them alone, just the two of them in the smallest cupboard he's ever been in.

But you don't know that.

You don't know that danger has retreated, and he decides, for a moment at least, he'll keep that to himself.

Let you sweat. Let you worry.

If only so he can be the one to assure you when you've gone too far.

"Makes a change, Sweetheart. You listening to anyone."

"Oh, you don't get to call me 'Sweetheart' when I'm locked in a cupboard with you, Murdock."

He smirks more, teeth almost baring. "Why's that? Because you like it too much, and you've got nowhere to run?"

You laugh, soft, breathy. It's so light anyone else may miss it. "Because I can ram my knee between your legs so quickly you'd don't even consider muffling your groan. And then, you'll raise suspicion this cupboard has more in it than mops. And, because you operate by a code, which means if they even grazed me with a bullet, you'd never come back from it. Even if you hate me."

He shakes his head, finding himself needing to bite down on the inside of his cheek. Fighting how attractive you are, how much he wants to take your hands and pin them above your head; ignoring the instinct to wrap his fingers around your throat, just how he knows you like it, and squeeze ever so slightly as he snaps the thin fabric from between your legs.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he sighs as he smirks. Moving his forearm above your head so he's leaning closer, hearing you half-snarl in your throat.

"When are you going to realise, I don't hate you?"

Your silence, the way you freeze, tense and swallow. It makes him smile, almost grin. He runs a finger down your cheek, the small cupboard suddenly warming around the two of you.

He knows he shouldn't be grinning. But, the corners of his lips are already twisting up, because he knows why you're rattled.

It's not because of being caught, not because of the drive tucked in your bra being lost again. But because you're trapped with him. Because there's no space in the cupboard, only hatred sitting between the two of you.

But he doesn't hate you. He never really has.

It was just easier to pretend to hate you. To be mad at you by extension because he'd met you through Elektra. To be angry that she betrayed him again, and you always remained.

So he moves his hips closer to yours, dropping his mouth close to your ear, pretending in his mind it's so he can whisper his instructions, but really, it's so he can feel you. So he can be closer to your heartbeat as it increases, rather than just hearing it. He moves closer so he can feel the heat from your body spread against him, knowing how telling silk can really be.

"Murdock..."

But his name dies in the air as soon as you breathe it out, his fingers coming down your bare shoulders to your forearms. He notices the hitch in your throat, the one you try to swallow and smother.

One which you can't begin to cover when he slots his knee between your thighs, and he hears the gasp which makes his smirk only grow wider.

"If you can stay quiet..." He whispers darkly, dropping the hand from your cheek down, the tip of his nail brushing the space between your breasts before it runs past silk again.

It descends and descends, until fingers begin pulling up silk until he finds the hem. His fingers sliding under it as the fabric dances down his arm, his finger grazing lace, sliding under the band as you gasp, brushing skin before he hears you trying not to show how much you want him to touch you.

He could torture you.

Leave his fingers just there, above where you want them.

But he wants to hear the noise. The soft mew you always do at the first touch; the way you call him Matthew when he slides his fingers between you, filling you.

And then you still. So impossibly so he doesn't move, your back arching off the wall ever so slightly, as you laugh before pulling his hand from your underwear.

A move he didn't expect.

One which almost throws him, not that he'll admit it.

He'd rather be set on fire than admit it, than give you any semblance of power over him.

"If I'm going to let you fuck me, Murdock. It won't be here," you say, louder than you've been talking, and he must look confused. "You're not the only one who knows when we're alone. Even if I don't have hearing similar to a bat."

He must glare, because you laugh.

"Oh," you say, twisting from him, unlocking the door. "I really thought you didn't like me quiet, Murdock?"

Then you smirk. He knows you do, opening the door as you step out.

And he groans.

The air is cool on your skin.

The stars shimmering above, the moon hanging so proudly in the sky you're sure it's been watching the two of you with a smirk.

You try to enjoy the way you cool down, a reward for being able to fight letting him fuck you in a cleaning cupboard. Something you shouldn't have even been close to doing.

Because even in the grand scheme of things, it's a low. Not as low as falling for Matthew Murdock to begin with, but still down there somewhere.

And now he's rattled.

Annoyed. Likely frustrated, both with you and because of you.

Something which shouldn't make you smile, but it does.

Because his simmering, silent anger is amusing. Something you've come to expect when he's around you.

Ever since Ell came back and left again, he's been like this. All angry at you, her and anyone else who knows either of you by association.

If you could, you'd explain that you hadn't known who he was when you first went home with him. By the time you did, you'd already become one another's stress release. And more importantly, you never knew her plan.

Because Elektra was as illusive with you as she was with him.

Not that it would do any good.

It never does. He doesn't care to listen, and you're still surprised he listened to you when you came to his office.

Matt pulls you back to the present when he places his dinner jacket on your shoulders, your fingers pulling it around you without thought.

"You still got the drive?"

You nod, not able to form words until you whisper a yeah.

He nods in response, the awkwardness building, having full reign to spread around you in the open space. It can grow as large as it wants, can become as beastly as it needs too, smothering the two of you until you both realise you need the other to breathe.

"If you fancy..." you begin, his head turning to you with a frown. "I'm sure there's a conference table, somewhere..."

It's low.

But, you smile as his head tilts. A line forming between his brows as you hold in a laugh.

You think it's cute to think he didn't think Ell wouldn't have come and bragged to you. Because she knew, she could see it all over your features whenever he walks into a room, even if he doesn't.

"She was quite braggy, our mutual friend. But, you know that better than anyone," you say, staring at him, watching him, studying him.

He's easier to read than her.

"Is that what we're calling her?"

You snort. "Could call her our third-wheel, but I worry it'll force her to appear to rectify it, and surprisingly, my life seems to go smoother without her around."

"Except tonight."

"Well, tonight is on you," you smile, hating how nice the aftershave on his lapel smells. How it'll likely linger on your skin even after a shower, roaming around your apartment teasing and taunting you. "If you'd let me flirt with the man, we wouldn't have gotten ourselves stuck in a cupboard."

He shakes his head, either in annoyance or disappointment, you can't be sure. Not that you want to know.

You don't need a lecture from a man who wears leather and runs around at night. And you know there's a good chance of both.

"Goodnight, Matthew."

It seems unnatural to call him that, when you've been calling him his surname all night. But it rolls from your tongue easier, dances through the air to him more kinder, more grateful. Because you were both.

You move, feet carrying you, eyes scanning for a taxi when you hear your name. Pretending for a moment it's a trick of the air, eyes landing on something yellow, before a hand is on your forearm, pulling you to face him.

He's handsome.

Matthew Murdock is stupidly handsome. More so like this.

And then you remember his jacket. The one on your shoulders.

"Oh, sorry, your jacket..."

Your fingers moving, sliding it from your skin, but then your cheeks are in his hands, his lips on yours. And it's natural, how yours move against his, how your tongue slides passed his lips, how the jacket becomes forgotten about.

How everything becomes forgotten about.

Clutching him close, him doing the same.

Your hatred-not-hatred swirling with his, turning and shifting, becoming something else. Becoming something bigger, greater, and more intoxicating.

And then he stops, and your eyes are wild and wide.

"I know somewhere with a conference table."

It's all he says, and it's enough for heat to spread through you. Your thighs clamping together, suddenly needing to swallow. His fingers stroking your cheek in that soft, kind way he does, like he's not a man who wraps a hand around your throat when he fucks you or gets down on his knees as he undoes you with his tongue.

Out here, not behind closed doors, he appears innocent.

"Unless, you have a better idea?" he asks, all cocky. Wide smirk as he brings you out of your thoughts, of your memories. "Because, I have a thousand."

And you want to fight him. To dress him down. To tell him you're not as easy to win over. That he can't just fuck you with a click of your fingers.

But you want him too.

Fuck you want him to.

So you take the hand from your cheek in yours, and then you're guiding him to a cab.

And his fingers tighten in your hand, but you really want them between your thighs. He must sense it, crashing into your spine when you stop at the cab, warm breath on your neck.

"They'll be between them soon enough."

And your legs almost turn to jelly.

#matt murdock #matt murdock smut #matt murdock x reader smut #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x you #matt murdock x female reader #matt murdock x y/n #matt murdock x fem!reader #daredevil #daredevil x you #daredevil x reader #daredevil x y/n #wwth

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sundere1181 · 3 years ago

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Chapter 1: Texan Born

1752, March, El Paso Texas

Austin stepped out of the wooden office building, spurs jangling lightly as his foot came down onto the dust. He tilted his hat down, the sun shining brightly in contrast to the dim lighting of the building.

20 years old, and he finally got his first cattle drive job.

A small group of cowboys; five, including him. A small head of cattle, at around 500 or so. It was all small. Small, small, small.

That was his doing. It was hard to find such a small drive, but he wanted to start small, as most people do.

Lost in his thoughts, Austin nearly got run over by a stagecoach. He swore and backed up quickly.

He knew he should be happy and celebrating, but all he felt was anxiety. He shook his head, trying to expel it. There’s nothing to be anxious about, is what his mother always told him. He turned and started out towards the meeting place; the cowboys would meet there, get to know each other, camp out and stay the night, then head off to pick up the cattle and horses in the morning.

Maybe he was anxious because it was his first time leaving Texas. Or his hometown, for that matter. It sounds lame, but for 20 years he really never had a reason to leave. It was all the same; Ride horses, rope, help Ma and Pa with farming, Church on Sundays. He needed a change. Something new.

Austin crashes into a tree-or maybe a pole- and bashes his nose painfully. The tree made an oomph sound.

Oh.

That isn’t a tree.

Austin looked down to find a wide-eyed boy, around his age, sitting on the ground where he fell. He was wearing a black Stetson over short brunette hair, along with a dark red-brown cowboy shirt and, of course, jeans and cowboy boots.

“Oh my God,” Austin exclaimed, “I am so sorry! I was so lost in my thoughts I literally didn’t see you!”

Austin reached down a hand to help the other man up while he rambled. The brunette blinked owlishly at him for a few seconds before smiling. Austin stopped immediately. He had an adorable smile.

Austin’s face heated up, and he looked at the ground. He looked up, however, upon hearing a laugh.

“No, no, it’s okay! If anything, it was my fault! I’m Casey.” Casey thrust out his hand to Austin, that incredibly charming smile still on his face.

Austin stared at the hand for a few seconds before timidly taking it and shaking. “…Austin.”

Casey’s face lit up even more, if that’s possible. “Oh, you’re the last guy in the cattle drive! Come on, I can introduce you to the other guys!”

Austin was dragged to the meeting place with little argument. It was nice to have someone to introduce him; even if he just met him.

Plus, he was cute. Austin looked down at their intertwined hands, Casey’s pale skin a bright contrast to his dark.

#what i have so far for chapter 1 #its still just a first draft so.#i almost want to turn it into a novella and publish it #but at the same time #i feel obligated to post it on Ao3 for the three mutuals who have been interacting with my ramble posts #WWTH

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draingang-agora · 1 year ago

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"Could one imagine a stone’s having consciousness? And if someone can a why should that not prove merely that such image-mongery is of no interest to us?" Philosophical Investigations (37)

I talk about Wittgenstein a lot but the broader analysis of the Private Language Argument is that internal experience, sense impressions, are impossible to describe or meaningfully talk about, and what we think we're talking about when we do talk about them is their manifestation in social context. To address points 1 and 3. "unobservable" might be the wrong word to use here, because it isn't a matter of knowing or observing, you just *are* conscious. It's nonsensical to say you know that you are in pain, it's simply that you are in pain. Other people know you are in pain because you say "yowch!" and writhe. to qualify this being-in-a-state with knowing that one's self is in a state is kind of like trying to see your own eyeballs. I think for the most part, We don't want to deny internal experience! it's just that the term "internal experience" doesn't give us the right idea to understand many of the things we talk about as internal experiences because we're actually referring to observable practices and grammars. wWth the pain comparison, what we'd say isn't that pain doesn't exist, but that the word "Pain" is it's manifestations more so than it is a mental state we talk about. Pain, like internal experience in general isn't meaningless, it's just that we talk about it *in context* not as an intangible interior state. Likewise for anything else characteristic of internal experience. Maybe some day we will be able to talk about it with advances in empirical observation, who knows. But the argument, afaict is more so that we often mistake concepts which are used to refer to different uses of language and actions as referring to intangible inner states. Internal experience is its manifestation in a language game, *that* is what we all keep referring to. We don't actually need to refer to mental accompaniments to talk about these things.

Baffled by claims to the effect of "consciousness (in the sense of internal experience) doesn't matter/isn't real/might as well not be real because we can't measure it". True, we can't measure or detect it in an objective and repeatable way, as we'd very much like to be able to, but

That doesn't mean it's unobservable. I can observe it in myself. In fact I'm pretty sure I observe my own consciousness, very directly, every single waking moment. You'd be hard pressed to convince me it isn't there, about like how you'd be hard pressed to convince me my hands don't exist. It's right there!

Just because we can't measure internal experience objectively and repeatably right now doesn't mean we'll never be able to. Science abounds with things we couldn't measure until we could. Sure, maybe we'll just never be able to detect it in a way everybody can agree on... but maybe we will. It's a pretty strong claim to say with certainty that we won't.

This is probably the weakest objection of the three, but if consciousness is, you know, as good as bullshit... what is it that everyone keeps referring to when they talk about consciousness? And saying that they have? Uh like why, from the point of view that this consciousness stuff is Not Meaningful, does everyone keep going "I'm conscious"? Like what is the thing they are actually experiencing, if consciousness is a load of hooey?

I guess I just don't understand this position. It seems like denying what is plainly in front of your face. It seems, well, fiercely anti-empirical, to a degree even the big-daddy rationalist Descartes couldn't countenance.

To be super duper uncharitable, it sometimes seems to me like an ill-thought-through ingroup signal? Like "consciousness is a humanities thing, philosophy is a humanities thing, but I'm a Science Guy and we use measurement. Since I can't measure consciousness it is bullshit". And this ingroup signal leads one, as I said, to deny the basic empirical observation in front of them. Like, yeah, there is no objective and repeatable metric for pain either, but I think even the most hardcore Scientist would yowch and tell me to stop if I hit him with a big stick. I don't think he would say the concept of pain is meaningless because we can't (yet) quantify it objectively. And if he did claim that, I don't think he would live by it.

But, I don't know. Like I said, that is a massively uncharitable take. Maybe I'm misunderstanding the position. Or maybe I'm using the word "consciousness" differently. As I said, the thing I mean by this is internal experience, internality, the fact of there being some thing it feels like to be you.

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