#thread: bumping into a ghost

[sorcerymuses]

Spectra enjoyed chatting with Whisp. They had a lot in common. Though where Whisp liked Thrillers, Spectra always had a soft spot for a good Romance or Fairy Tale.

But the conversation was cut short. Spectra's own iCoffin went off while Whisp was checking her hexts.

"That's fine! One of the other ghosts just hit me with a spooktacular story lead!" she laughed. "We should hexchange numbers and get together some time."

Whisp converses with Spectra a bit on her take of literature. Mainly it was obvious she was a mystery and thriller type of genre. She loves a good plot when she can’t guess what comes next or anything that didn’t make the story so predictable.

Keeping your audience guessing was the thrill after all.

After a while, the former genie’s iCoffin began to buzz. Taking it out, she notes a certain hext before turning to Spectra…

       ❝ Look, not to cut this short and meeting you wasn’t as awkward as I thought it would be, but uh… being summoned and what not so… ❞

[b1eedthefreak]

Just Ride

daryl x reader

warnings: smut, face riding, lowkey sub daryl, yeah…

⸻

It all started because Eugene can’t mind his damn business.

You weren’t even in the room when it happened, which was a blessing and a curse. Because the story reached you through Tara, who was still crying laughing when she told it, and the secondhand embarrassment alone was enough to make you want to move out of Alexandria.

“Dude,” she wheezed, barely able to speak, “Eugene walked in on Rosita. On Abraham.”

You raised a brow. “On Abraham?”

“On. Like. Riding his face. Just full blown porno energy! I swear I’m not lying!”

You stared at her, horrified and already laughing.

“And the best part,” Tara said, “is Eugene trying to explain it like it’s some kind of… military maneuver. Called it a—what did he say?—a reverse frontal oral saddle maneuver. I swear to God.”

You choked. “What the hell does that even mean?”

“Means Rosita was sitting on Abraham’s face and Eugene’s whole worldview shattered,” Tara said. “He was rambling about it to me in the kitchen when Daryl walked by and heard the tail end of it. Just stopped and stared, like he saw a ghost.”

You blinked. “Daryl?”

“Oh yeah,” she nodded. “He heard the words ‘face’ and ‘saddle’ and turned bright red. Never seen that man move so fast… just turned around and booked it.”

At the time, you brushed it off. But later that night, back in your shared room, tucked into your warm little corner of post apocalyptic domestic bliss, you started to notice something… off.

Daryl was quiet. More than usual. Sitting on the edge of the bed, picking at a tear in his jeans, jaw tight like he was thinking hard.

“You okay?” you asked, brushing your hair out in the mirror.

He grunted. “Yeah.”

A beat of silence. Then came,

“Hey… you ever… sit on someone’s face before?”

You froze. Slowly turned around.

“…What?”

Daryl’s face was serious. Practically glowing. He rubbed the back of his neck and stared at the floor.

“Jus’… heard somethin’. Earlier. From Eugene. Somethin’ ‘bout Rosita. An’ Abraham. Tara said she was… y’know. On his face. Thought that was a thing women liked.”

Your jaw dropped, then you burst out laughing.

“Oh my God, Daryl—”

“I ain’t jokin’.” he huffed, crossing his arms, now fully defensive. “I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that before. Sounded kinda… I dunno. Hot.”

You bit the inside of your mouth, just to keep from grinning too hard. He was so serious. Nervous like a schoolboy. But his pupils were blown, his voice just a little breathless.

“You wanna try it?” you asked, tilting your head.

He hesitated. Then nodded.

“Yeah. Wanna see what it’s like.”

You didn’t even get to the bed.

Daryl was already sprawled out on the rug by the window, shirt off, looking like he was about to be sacrificed to the gods. His hands were clenched at his sides, nervous, lips parted like he didn’t know how to breathe right.

You stood over him slowly, watching his eyes trail up your body.

“You sure?” you asked gently.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “I’m sure. Wanna… feel you.”

You crawled up over him, your knees on either side of his head, and his breath hitched as your thighs brushed his cheeks. He looked like he’d died and gone to heaven. His hands lifted slowly, reverently, to grip your hips.

“Holy fuck,” he breathed, eyes wide. “You’re so wet already…”

“Yeah baby,” you murmured, lowering yourself inch by inch, your slick dragging along his lips. “Been wet since you asked.”

He whimpered.

The moment your cunt settled fully on his face, Daryl groaned. Loud and desperate. His tongue shot out, licking up your folds in a long, messy stroke, hands digging into your thighs like he never wanted to let go.

“That’s it,” you gasped, threading your fingers through his hair. “Just like that.”

He was eating you like a man possessed. No hesitation now, no nervousness… just pure, hungry devotion. His tongue licked and lapped, his nose bumped your clit, and every time you rocked your hips down just a little harder, he moaned. The sounds he was making sent heat rushing straight to your core.

“Good boy,” you whispered. “My good boy.”

He whimpered into you, again. You looked down, and your stomach flipped.

He was grinding into the floor. His cock flushed and hard, untouched, smearing precum on his own stomach. The desperation in his hips made your head spin.

“Baby,” you cooed, cupping his jaw, “are you that worked up already?”

He nodded under you, lips glossy and wet. “Feels so good,” he gasped. “Could stay here forever…”

“You wanna come like this?” you teased. “Just from eating me out?”

He moaned something that sounded like please.

You couldn’t help yourself. You rode his tongue harder, grinding down, your thighs shaking as the heat built and built until—

You came with a cry, clenching around nothing, thighs trapping his face while he kept going like he needed it to live. When you finally pulled off him, his face was soaked, his eyes dazed, lips swollen and shining.

“Fuck…” he breathed.

You lied down beside him. “You okay?”

He nodded. “Fuckin’ obsessed with that,” he mumbled. “Think you broke my brain.”

You smiled and kissed him.

Daryl muttered, clearer this time,

“Wanna do that again?”

⸻

a/n i wrote this really quick PLZ ignore the rushed ending and lowkey sloppy writing okay bai

[sobbingscripter]

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🪻wc. 5096🪻୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Awh, sick! It looks like the Coraline stone-thing!”

“Don’t,” You swats at Mark’s hands, “fucking spread it! You sick freak.”

“Caroline, Caroline.” Mark snickers, the edges of his lips curling as he pushes your thighs further apart, guiding them to rest on his broad, sinewy shoulders and his breath ghosts over your exposed cunt. His hands massage the softness of your legs, fingertips sinking into the plush before he presses a kiss against your sloppy folds.

Peering up at you through his lashes, seeing the way your neck does that little double chin from the way you’re propped up on your elbows, the edge of your SeaWorld T-shirt pushed up just above your navel and Mark’s brows furrow.

“We’ve never been to SeaWorld?”

“I punched a kid because he kept slapping the stingray on the back. So I took his T-shirt.” You hum quietly, lifting one of your hands to thread through Mark’s hair, watching the way obsidian strands slip from your fingers like fine grains of sand. And Mark snorts.

“That doesn’t explain why you were there?”

“I was protesting. Well, I protested for 20 minutes, and then, I went to go get a snack and like... I was escorted off the premises by security.”

“Is that why Omni-Man came home smelling like salt water?” Mark hums quietly, his chin resting on your mound, fingertips tracing idle patterns around the faint lines in your skin.

“Yeah, he came to come pick me up.” You respond with a huff of laughter, the apples of your cheeks turning rosy at the memory before you swallow, the room filling with a silence that’s just a bit too heavy for your liking. And your nails scratch at Mark’s scalp. Just to soften him up before you say something that’s... I gonna upset him.

“Mark... You can still say ‘dad’...” Your voice is soft. “He was still, you know, your dad.”

“He called my mom a pet.” Mark states, expression hardening as he meets your gaze, brows furrowing into a frown.

“Mark, me and you both know your mom walked him like a dog.” You let out a heavy breath. “The pet thing was probably just a—”

“You don’t know what it felt like.”

The room goes dead silent. Quiet enough for Mark to hear the way your breath halts in your lungs, quiet enough for him to hear the way your heart constricts the tiniest bit and you swallow.

“I didn’t mean i—”

“No, it’s okay.” You suck your teeth. “You lost your dad. It hits... Harder for you. Because like, the last thing he did to you was yell at you, and the last thing I got was a kiss on my forehead.” Your eyes begin to sting. “Like he wasn’t about to beat you to death afterwards.”

There’s the most uncomfortable pain that begins to settle in your belly, and before you know it, your thighs are moving from Mark’s shoulders, the warmth of your body eluding him and you shift.

“I— I’m sorry but I don’t think we should do anything tonight. I kinda just wanna be alone.”

Mark pushes himself up, his shirt strewn tightly across his broad chest, but right now, you can’t even properly appreciate the way his muscles flex with each of his movements. Not with the heaviness in your belly that seemed to drop onto your spirits like an anvil crushing glass, piercing shards sticking into your heart.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” You nod your head, mustering a smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Viltrumites are the bad guys. Aren’t they?” Your voice is tiny as you settle in the spot beside Nolan, your leg bumping against him just a little bit. Your hands still damp from the chilly condensation of the glass you had handed Nolan. The half empty glass that had dripped a little circle onto the varnished wood.

Nolan’s thick brows furrow, before he looks down at you. At the way you stare up at the sky with those wide eyes, flashes fluttering and chubby cheeks rosy from the slight frost in the air.

“Why do you think that?”

“Because sometimes, making things ‘better’, is like... Code for ass—as-assimil— ugh. Ass—smili—lation.” You respond quietly, sounding it out.

You’ve always been smarter than Mark. By a shameful longshot. You saw things for what they really are and right now, Nolan’s seeing firsthand.

“We’re not like that.” He hums.

“Promise?” You peer up at him with those doe eyes, innocence swirling along the flecks of light that reflect off the glossiness of your eyes and Nolan swallows.

“Promise.”

Your hands flip over the smooth ridges of the Omni-Man figurine, your lips curled into a frown, teary doe eyes focused on the painted face, that friendly smile and stupidly iconic moustache.

“I got you one of those... Boyband hoodies.” Nolan hums, tossing the thick, cotton at you, his gaze lowered to the letters in his hands as he continues to sort through the male.

“Which one?” You hum quietly, your nails tearing the thin, almost clingy plastic that protected the fabric.

“The Korean ones.”

“BTS?” Your lips curl into a wide gleam, excitement buzzing beneath your skin.

“Yeah, those ones.”

And you stare down at the hoodie in your hands.

“Mr Nolan, I think you were scammed.” Your brows furrow. “These are random Korean guy— who are these people?”

Your laughter bubbles.

“Are you sure?”

“Mr Nolan, these people aren’t even celebrities...”

Soft, choked sobs manage to escape you, mixed with teary huffs of laughter.

“Who the fuck’s that?” Mark questions, brows furrowed as he stares down at your hoodie, watching the way you remove all your stationery from your bag, setting your desk ready.

“They’re a super underground Korean group.” You hum.

“They look like BTS but not quite there.” William interjects, elbows braced on his desk.

And you gasp. “William! Not all Korean people look alike! I’d expect this from Mark but not you.”

“I’m literally half-Korean!”

You can feel the way the piercing pain in your belly gets worse and you can’t help but think of how lucky Mark is. The rug was ripped out from beneath him abruptly, paired with copious reasons as to why he can and definitely should hate Nolan.

You just… couldn’t.

Every day, the rug was pulled a little bit more and every day, it hurt more. Every day, you send the same ‘good morning’ text with the sunrise emoji, every day. You never fail to do it. Not even when you have a flu.

And every day, you can’t help but hope for that ‘morning kiddo’ at the top of your screen. But it’s never there.

He's never there.

And you have to get used to it.

“Your mom slipped Debbie a dollar, which she slipped to me so…” Nolan clears his throat, wiping those burly hands along his jean-clad thighs. Before he inhales sharply.

“When a man—”

“Mr Nolan, I know how sex works.” Your brows furrow, expression pinching into a distasteful grimace.

And Nolan gleams.

“Great. Pass the knowledge on.” And with a heavy pat on your back, Nolan pushes Mark towards you.

And you swallow. “Well. When your mom and dad—”

“NOLAN! MAKE HER STOP!”

“Yourdadplowedyourmathroughthemattress!”

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Mark, what did you do?”

Debbie folds her arms across her chest, eyes hardened into a frown, and lips twisted.

She watches the way Mark shifts underneath his covers, a ratty GDA T-shirt stretched across his broad chest, fabric tight around the curves of his biceps and he pushes himself up, covers pooling at his hips.

And his brows furrow. “I didn’t do anything?” Mark answers, although, it’s more like a question than a statement.

“That’s the 18th time ‘No One Noticed’ has played since you left there.” Debbie huffs, her slippers shuffling across the floor before she sits at the edge of his bed, the mattress dipping just a bit beneath her weight. And she places a hand on his calf, the warmth of Mark’s body tangible through the thickness of his comforter.

And Mark swallows.

“I told her she didn’t get it.” His gaze flickers down towards his lap, shame visible in his expression. “When Omni-Man—”

“Markus Sebastian Grayson.” Debbie spits his name like a slur. “If I could, I’d slap the ever-loving shit out of you.”

Debbie brings a hand up to cover her face, in what Nolan would call ‘the Korean Shame’ cover and she inhales a sharp, shaky breath.

“Mark—”

“I know, m—”

“No, you don’t know, Mark.” Debbie interrupts. “You, didn’t lose more than her. Maybe biologically, but not more. You know her parents aren’t home a lot, and when they are, it’s like, nitpick nation.”

She shifts comfortably, powdery blue robe shifting as she crosses her legs, making herself comfortable, elbows braced on her knees and she lets out a low, exhausted huff.

“Your father—”

“Omni-Man—”

“Your father,” Debbie pauses, eyes narrowing as she waits for Mark to interject once more, before continuing, “did a lot of good. Yes, it was a literal pyramid scheme but, nowhere in that pyramid scheme, did he have to be that good to her. He wanted to be good, and she knows that.”

“But he wasn’t—”

“Mark, just because he ended up the way he did, doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to miss the memories.” Debbie sighs.

“When you hit your first homerun, when you had your semi-formal, the pumpkin carving contests, trick-or-treating. When he took you to get your costume—”

“It’s a supersuit—”

“It’s gay. Your mouth and fingers are the only things sticking out. It’s a colourful gimp suit.”

“So, I’ve got notes—”

“No she doesn’t, sir. The suit’s amazing.” Mark grins at Art, before continuing to look around, examining the other suits that have yet to be coined and worn. Tracing his fingers along breastplates and gauntlets.

“What’re are the notes, girly?”

Your lips purse as you plop down in the seat beside Art, your gaze lowered to where withered fingers push fabric underneath the jittering needle of a sewing machine. Slow and controlled.

“Why’re the suits so tight?” You question.

“They’re aerodynamic, doll.” Art smiles. “Maximum movement.”

“Why don’t the suits have… prints?”

And he snorts. “Codpieces.”

“Then why does Omni-Man have a print?”

“Please stop talking about my dad’s dick, dude.” Mark interjects, his voice distant as he continues to wander around the shop, his footsteps quiet on metallic floors.

“He didn’t want a codpiece. Wanted to ‘show off’ for wife.”

And you coo, pouty lips tugged into an adoring frown. Before you glance towards Mark.

“How does your mom only have one kid?” You question. “You could not pry me—”

“Don’t finish that thought.”

You purse your lips. Letting silence settle in the air.

“—off with tongs and tweezers.”

“Ew!”

“You invalidated her feelings and her experience with mourning.” Debbie’s voice snaps Mark back from the memory, her arms folded over her chest.

“When you know she feels it just as much as you do. She’s a strong girl, Mark but she’s not….”

There’s a heavy silence, tension swelling in the room, anticipation builds with each passing seconds and Debbie lets out a quiet sigh.

“Invulnerable.”

“Invincible, mom!” Mark groans. “You’re supposed to say ‘invincible’.”

“Why? They’re basically the same word.”

“Because,” Mark motions to himself wildly, hands moving with emphatic gestures, before groaning, throwing the covers off himself before huffing.

“I’m gonna go work my jaw, before I get an ulcer in this house.”

And Debbie nods her head, before his words register, and her eyes widen.

“What.”

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Listen, I’m sorry and I know I was a dick and—”

“—Get out!”

“Are you masturbating?!” Mark’s voice is a loud guffaw, head tipping back as he lets out a bark of laughter. “You don’t even have your pants off— are— what are you even doing—!”

Mark watches as you pull your covers over your head, your body curling up and he can feel the embarrassment rolling off you in thick, shame-capped waves. And he snorts, shuffling closer to you, his hands tucked into the pockets of his sweatpants and you feel the way your mattress dips under his weight.

And you feel the steady heft of his head resting on your shoulder, his chin digging into the soft flesh and you can feel him tilt his head.

“Do you forgive me for earlier?” He questions quietly. “You didn’t lose him any less than I did.”

“No.” You scowl under the blankets, brows furrowing and annoyance burns beneath your skin. “You made me feel bad, and then proceeded to laugh at the way I masturbate.”

And Mark snickers.

“You looked like you were trying to scratch in the glove compartment from outside the car.” He buries his face in the softness of your duvet and the scent of your fabric softener wafts over him, mixed with the faint smell of your lotion.

“There shouldn’t be that much concentration to it. It should be easy.”

“Uh-huh, because you’re the expert.” You bite back, eyes still narrowed when you poke your head out from beneath your cocoon, glaring at Mark. And those dimples in his cheeks deepen.

“Actually, yeah.” He shifts, sitting up just a bit. “I’m a professional Master Bator. Ask any of my socks.”

And you grimace. “Literally, ew.”

“I can show you.” He murmurs. “A free lesson, you know, to make up for earlier.”

And you swallow. You’re still mad but…

“Okay.”

You can be mad later.

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Over or under?”

“Over.”

Mark hums softly, shifting his body until he’s wedged between your thighs, broad shoulders forcing the supple flesh apart almost uncomfortably and he keeps his gaze focused on your panties.

A sticky gusset, a few shades darker than the rest of your panties and he brings a hand up, hooking a thick, muscular finger around your gusset, before shifting your panties, pulling them flush against your core.

“Lemme just… Pop the hood.”

He peers up at you through his lashes, a dorky grin plastered on his face, only widening at the way your eyes narrow slowly the longer your gaze is on his.

“Get it? Because—”

“Mark, I’m gonna stuff a sock in your mouth.”

“Fine.” He huffs. “No car talk.”

His pretty brown eyes lower to where your pussy is flush against the cotton, the visible outline of your velvety folds, tucked safely between plush, glossy lips has his breath stuttering in his lungs and he leans forward, pressing his lips against your clit. Feeling the puffy and already overstimulated bundle twitch against his lips.

And he swallows.

His cock twitching in his boxers, definitely leaking sticky precum and staining the front of the strained fabric, but it’s about you.

And you clear your throat.

“So, are you gonna teach me anything?” Your voice pulls him out of his pussydrunk reverie and he’s shaking his head, dragging a finger between your folds, brushing over your clit before coming to a stop at your slit, feeling the way you pulse against his digits. Slick clinging to his fingers, and he swallows. Hard.

“No.” He breathes out. “Fuck, no.”

“Then you don’t have any business down t—”

“Dude, I lost my dad.” Mark peeks at you, his cheek resting against the smooth flesh of your inner thigh, one hand cradling your thigh against his cheek and the other resting on your mound, pudgy thumb pressing against your twitchy clit through your panties.

“Bitch, I lost your dad too?” You retort.

“Exactly.” Mark breathes out. “Let’s find comfort in each other. Help me, help you.”

And the laughter falls from your lips with ease, giggles slipping free and your cheeks turn rosy. “Bitch, be so for r— shit…”

Your brain feels like it’s melting when Mark’s drags his tongue over your fabric-covered panties, the hand on your mound moving and resting against your inner thigh, a calloused index finger trailing over your slit. Pushing slightly, shallowly dipping into your cunt by barely an inch, but being pushed away by your stretchy panties.

And you swallow hard.

Feeling the way he laps at your stickiness, his brows bunching and his lashes fluttering as his eyes shit, fingertips pressing against your aching core, his tongue dragging over your pulsing clit. Pulling your folds and cotton into his mouth alike, before he frowns.

“S’not enough…”

Your panties are nearly soaked.

Pillowy thighs press against his ears, your belly dipping and twisting at the way he presses his face into your messy cunt, like he’s trying to paint his skin with the smell of your slick.

“How do you even—”

“Fingers, Mark.” You deadpan. “And like,” you let out a huff of breath, bringing up one of your hands to rake through his hair, pushing the raven strands out of the way before you sigh softly, “okay, if I take off my underwear, it defeats the purpose.”

“The purpose,” Mark hums, “is for us to heal. And to find inner peace.”

“You’re trying to find peace in my ‘inners’.” You scoff. “That’s not the purpose.”

“My dad left my mom and I. I’m being raised by a single mom.” Mark lets a heavy sigh, his forehead resting against the swell of your thigh, and he watches you from the corner of his eye.

“I’m gonna have to step up.” He swallows. “I’m the man of the house now… I’ll need to do taxes and—"

“If I take off my panties, will you stop talking?”

“Immediately.”

As soon as your panties are flung across your bedroom, Mark’s spitting at your cunt. Watching as the wad drips down between your already sticky folds, before he’s sliding his tongue between your puffy pussy lips, heat blossoming behind his flexing abs, hips shifting and twitching uncomfortably against your sheets before he’s sucking on your clit.

Needy and whiny noises leave him as he motions for one of your pillows. And with bleary eyes and fuzzy thoughts, you hand it to him with your free hand, your other buried in his hair, fisting obsidian strands and he mumbles out a muffled ‘thank you’.

As he wedges the cushioning between his thighs, and under his hips.

Mark laps at your cunt needily, hands braced on your inner thighs, keeping your legs spread as he drags his tongue along your puffy folds.

His chin and lips are smeared with slick, eyes hazy and pupils blown wide as he watches your cunt twitch, hole clenching around nothing and the sight makes his brain so fuzzy.

“Your pussy’s so perfect.” He breathes out, tongue outstretching before he’s ping the wet muscle into your spasming channel, moaning at the way your thighs tense and quiver beneath his warm palms. And Mark tonguefucks you like he gets paid to do it.

Like it’s on his vision board. Like he had it on his T-shirt for career day.

Your orgasm is rapidly approaching. That burning feeling in your belly, the way your tummy clenches each time his nose bumps clumsily against your clit, the way the edge of his tongue rubs against those sensitive, gooey walls.

“…fuck,” you gasp, “m’gonna come…”

You fist at his hair, your hips bucking and twitching against his mouth, and Mark feels like he’s drowning. You’re all he’s breathing in, you’re all he feels, his hips rutting against the pillow beneath him as he continues lapping at you.

And when you’re coming, he’s coming.

He’s creaming in his boxers while slobbering over your sloppy cunt, licking up every droplet of your cum, his hips rolling and when Mark pulls away, he looks like he’s walked through Narnia.

Dazed, confused and satisfied with how things ended.

“Did you do something different?” Mark smacks his lips just a bit and your brows furrow.

“What do you mean?”

“No, it just tastes different.”

And there’s a silence.

“Mark, why the fuck would you say that!” You fling a pillow at his face, and his nose scrunches, eyes shutting as it collides and he grins.

“M’just kidding.” He reassures. “It tastes good.”

And his hands bracket your hips as he leans forward, his chest brushing against yours, his lips ghosting over your jaw.

“You… taste good.”

Mark’s hips slot between your thighs, his still hard cock pressing against your core and he rolls his hips lazily, lips pressed against your thrumming pulse.

“Please, let me fuck you.” He breathes out, pressing sweet and soft kisses against the supple skin at the side of your neck, his hips rutting against you with no rhythm, hands pawing at your hips and waist.

“Uh… no.”

And Mark’s whole body freezes, before he’s pulling away, gaze flickering over your expression before he nods, sitting back on his haunches and he takes his fingers through his hair.

Pushing the strands back.

“I respect your decision to… not take it further. Do you wanna cud—”

“Mark, I wanna blow you.” You deadpan. “You can hit afterwards.”

Those big brown eyes widen as he stares at you for a moment, his brain rewiring and his heart pounding in his chest, before he holds up a finger.

“Give me like, a minute.” And he’s pushing himself from your bed, moving into your bathroom. “Don’t change your mind!” And you hear the sink running.

“What are you even doing?” You sit up, reclining on your elbows as you look towards the shut door of your attached bathroom.

“Washing… Something.” Mark calls back, his voice a bit lazy and its very, very clear that he’s preoccupied with something else and you let out a huff. “Don’t dip your dick in my basin.”

“You want these balls clean or not?”

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Are you ready?” You hum quietly, lips pursed in contemplation as you sink to your knees, the soft tufts of your carpet tickle the skin of your knees and shins. And you’re chewing on your bottom lip, rubbing your hand over the bulge in his sweatpants, and Mark nods. Swallowing hard.

“Yeah, I’m ready.” His hands twitch nervously at his sides, fingers flexing as they twist and clench the bedding, fabric crinkling under his grip as he stares down at your hand. The way you palm him through his sweats, his ruined boxers discarded into your laundry bin.

And he swallows again, lifting his hips just enough for you to peel the waistband away, lowering it just enough and his cock springs, sticky precum glossing his tip and running down his shaft in little beads.

His breaths stutter when you wrap your hand around his base, your thumb tracing over a vein before you stroke him. One, tantalizingly slow stroke, and he feels the way your grip tightens, forcing out another droplet of pre and he whines.

“Mm—fuck, you’re gonna make me come.”

“Already?”

“I’m sensitive!” Mark argues, and he gasps when he feels your thumb trace along his sensitive and nerve-packed frenulum, and his head tips back, his throat bobbing. Before he swallows, shaking his head and his hand moves to grasp your wrist, his palm’s sweaty and hot against your skin.

“I don’t—”

He’s in the middle of his sentence when he sees the way you’re looking up at him through your lashes. Your cheeks warm and reddened, big doe eyes focused on him and your lips are so, so fucking soft when you press a kiss against his tip.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty.”

Mark’s tapping the head of his cock against your bottom lip, his brain going fuzzu when you make those sloppy spit bubbles, lathering his cock in saliva, before your lips are parting, wrapping around his flushed and leaky tip. And his eyes roll back his head.

“Holy— shit... Your mouth feels so good…”

Mark goes boneless when your cheeks hollow, a hand moving to cover his mouth but it’s pointless when it comes to muffling those moans, he whimpers like you’re touching his soul’s prostate. Your tongue dragging along the underside of his cock, tracing along the veins, your eyes focused on Mark’s expression, watching the way his brows furrow.

Watching the way his lips part and the way his chest heaves, deep, ragged breaths leaving him breathless.

“Fuck— I can’t— your teeth—”

You always wondered if Mark’s invincibility extended to his dick. And now you know it does. Because every time your teeth scrape him by accident, he whines. Lashes fluttering and hips twitching, pushing his cock just a bit deeper into your mouth.

And you inhale through your nose, before you lower yourself. Your throat bulging just a bit, your eyes watering and your lungs stuttering when you hear that pitchy whine Mark lets out.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck— ‘m coming.” He pants, a hand fisting your hair as he comes, hot spurts of pearly cum painting the inside of your mouth and throat. Hips twitching, fucking into your mouth and your nails dig into your sheets, gripping for dear life and you honestly think you’re about to pass out before Mark’s pulling out of your mouth.

Cock slick and glossy, coated with cum and spittle, and he swallows hard, looking down at you with bleary eyes.

“How… lon—”

“Five minutes.” You hum quietly, wiping the mess away from your chin before you rest back on your haunches. “I’m not gonna lie, I lost a little respect for you. Quickshot.”

Mark scowls. “Fuck you.”

And he pants, wiping away the drool from his own chin before he lets out a sigh.

“Can I hit?”

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

If Mark had told his younger self that he’d be watching your ass bounce off his carved hips, your face tucked into your pillow and your whines filling his ears, his younger self would say….

‘What ass?’

Mark’s hands grip your hips, pulling you back to meet each brutal thrust that has your nails digging into your pillow, your back arched like a ski slope and your bottom lip wedged between your teeth.

You’re basically a puddle beneath him, panted mewls and breathy praises fall from your lips with ease, your voice so sickeningly sweet while your cunt clamps down on Mark like a vice. Forcing him to push out sticky beads of precum, and one of his hands move to the small of your back, putting you a deeper arch and you moan.

“Holy shit—” You gasp, “—you’re s’fucking deep. Oh my God—!”

Your TV plays some stupid movie that neither of you’ve bothered to look at what it is, and Mark’s lips are parting, ready to spew some nasty bullshit before a moan echoes from your TV screen.

His hips halt just a bit, and you’re pushing yourself up to glance towards the TV, and you both forget what you’re doing.

“What? What— what is he touching?” Mark’s brows in confusion, one hand grasping your hip while the other rests on your spine and you look towards the screen.

“Haven’t you seen this? Okay, wait— So, this guy’s like, in another guy’s dick. He’s a Supe.”

“What’s a Su— Oh, holy fuck!” Mark’s fingers dig into your hips, his eyes wide and expression pulling into a disgruntled and disgusted grimace as he stares at the blood-clad man on your screen. “What the fuck is this?”

“It’s The Boys.” You answer, looking at Mark over your shoulder. “You’ve never it before?”

“I think I’d remember seeing the inside of a dick.” Mark grimaces, before sucking his teeth. “Is it good?”

“Literally, so good. It’s so fucked up but like, it’s so good.”

And there’s a quiet, almost contemplative silence that fill your room, the flickering of your TV and the soft humming of your fan and Mark’s expression twists with thought.

“Raincheck on the sex?” He questions.

“If you can keep your boner, we can keep fucking.”

“I can keep it.” Mark reassures. “Let’s spoon.”

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Aren’t— mm— aren’t you gonna watch?” Mark’s hips grind into yours, his elbow hiking up one of your legs, hooked under your knee while he fucks into you. Big brown eyes focused on your TV, moans bitten back into quiet groans and you shake your head.

Your face tucked into your pillow, biting down on your bottom lip to keep quiet.

“I’ve watched until like, season 4, I think.” You respond breathily, your eyes rolling back in your head as you’re pushed towards your fourth orgasm and you whine.

Mark’s fucking you lazily.

His attention entirely on the TV screen because once again, that nerd in him wins. And it’s as refreshing as it is frustrating. You’re rendered to a cockdrunk mess, drooling into your pillows and creaming like a whore, while Mark’s focusing on men in capes and heroic escapades.

All while stuffing you full of his cock.

“Black Noir’s supposed to be like, their Batman, right?” He whispers in your ear and you shake your head.

“N-no…” you breathe out. “Their Batman’s this —mm.. fuck— this other guy and he’s a fucking w-weirdo…”

You’re gushing, so much that you don’t know if or if you’re still coming. You’re so sensitive, and each twitch of Mark’s cock has your brain pouring out of your ears, feeling the way he grinds against that spongy spot, making your lips part to let out saccharine moans.

And Mark glances down at you.

You’re so weak against him. Curled up, face burning and drool soaking into your pillow, teary eyes and puffy lips, raw bitten and shiny with spit. And he swallows hard, bringing his free hand down. Calloused fingertips circling your clit and your brows pinch as you moan.

“Shhhh. Focus on the TV.” He instructs quietly, his head dipping to press a kiss against your tear-stained cheek.

You’re so dizzy. You’re so close to passing out and your heart’s beating like you did 4 lines of coke. And Mark’s lips are brushing against the shell of your ear, tugging at your lobe playfully before he’s whispering to you. So sweetly.

“You look so pretty.” He’s circling your clit like he’s got all the time in the world. Fucking you into another dimension and he inhales sharply when he feels you clench around him, rhythmic spasms milking his cock and he whines, his face tucked against your neck.

Hs heart’s pounding and he thinks that right now’s the time to ask you. When you’re barely coherent and you’re greedily sucking his cock into you.

Now.

It’s perfect. And Mark inhales sharply, lifting his head and angling it so those big brown eyes are focused on yours.

“Can I be your boyfriend?” He whispers quietly. “Please?”

T🪻A🪻G🪻L🪻I🪻S🪻T

@lucky-beheaded ; @queen-of-gotham ; @coldvirginbitch ; @wittyjasontodd ; @a-n-a-n-a1 ; @dearlyya ; @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha ; @jasontoddswhitestreak ; @daydreams-and-peace ; @misstyy12 ; @fruticake ; @httpstes ; @waterflowersblog ; @glowinthedarkjellyfish ; @vm4879bb-blog ; @monaekelis ; @radlovesfics ; @allycat4458 ; @bigbodycity ; @feral010 ; @anesthesia-4rizzle ; @princesstrunkz ; @blackfox774 ; @sh1d0uryus31 ; @your-lovely-rose26 ; @slugstarzz ; @ripcolel0l ; @strawbiemilk420 ; @verysynical ; @kikiiguess ; @missam ; @luvvfromme ; @luvvcharxo ; @alma-ru3 ; @mxvoid26 ; @urfriendlyfrog ; @the-good-kooshe ; @troublesome-nara ; @secretaccountlol ; @syubseokie; @atanukileaf ; @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere ; @i-love-frensh-fries ; @lov3vivian ; @boyofroyo1 ; @tamaranblaze ; @supersecretxreadersideblog ; @etphonehome0623 ; @markgraysonlover ; @icanmeltanigloo ; @itzmeme ; @buckturd ;

[bi-writes]

ghost is off limits. not just emotionally or romantically, but physically. you have seen the aftermath of when someone so much as bumps into him or brushes past his arm in a tight hallway. they learn very quickly that lieutenant riley isn't to be touched, not even a little, not at all. (18+)

ohhhh but not for the medic. your touch is clinical. necessary. ordered. ghost glares, but he does not tell you to go away when you make your way into captain price's office. it's late; they just touched down not even ten minutes ago, exhausted and burdened by an op that took a few weeks of their absence.

he smells like sweat, like grime, and you can taste the sand in the air when you take a seat next to him. even seated, he is taller than you. he takes up a ridiculous amount of space, dwarfing the office chair he sits in. you set your kit down on your captain's desk, turning to face your lieutenant.

"uhm...could you show it to me?"

he huffs in annoyance before he pulls his tactical vest over his head, tossing it onto the floor. you swallow, blinking, focusing, as he unzips the jacket he wears and lets it fall at his feet. your lips part a little as he reveals the strength of his arms, tight muscles straining against the shirt he wears and showing off the sleeve of ugly military tattoos that are sunburnt along one arm.

gorgeous, giant man, but then your eyes take interest on the nasty gash along one arm, a jagged wound that stretches nearly from shoulder to elbow. it looks angry and irritated, much like the look in his eyes.

when you put your hands on him for the first time, he flinches. not because he is in pain, but the feeling of skin against skin is so foreign, like a wound of its own. you blink up at him, soft and sweet, and you show him your hands, what you're doing with them.

"just going to clean it out and stitch you up, lieutenant. promise i won't take too long."

but he likes it. the way your soft palm cups his scarred forearm, running a cloth over the lines of blood that trace along the length to his wrist and drip onto the floor. the warm drag of your fingers pushing his skin together so you can hook the needle through and stitch him up solid and effectively. those easy, gentle strokes, threading through skin as you would hem a skirt, a pattern that you have not forgotten that is now being weaved onto his very body.

he'll wear your stitch pattern like a patch he has so dutifully earned. and you will wear his marks just the same, yes she will, the good girl that she is.

when you finish, he grunts, flexing his fist to gauge the tautness of his skin and the way the wound burns as he stretches his arm. he tilts his head to the side, glaring. your hands rest easy there, still pressed up against him, and he nods at you expectantly.

"open y'r mouth, sergeant."

and you do. because he's your lieutenant, and he has given you an order. he hikes his mask up, revealing a disgusting grin and the sharp edge of a torn lip, a face mangled beyond recognition. when he spits in your mouth, he tastes just as you expected--like sand and smoke.

"now swallow."

and you do, but not because he's your lieutenant, it's something else, something more. not afraid, but intrigued, somehow not put off, but needing sustenance.

when he crowds you in the infirmary later that night, you don't understand. you don't understand the sudden need to touch, the way he grips your ass, the nasty way he bites at your jaw and pushes your pants down your thighs and puts his cock between your thighs.

he promises he won't fuck you, promises he'll be nice this time, but it's hard to discern between reality and heaven when he lets the tip catch on your clit with every frantic stroke. you squeak with every rough thrust, pressing your ass against his pelvis as you arch your back, wanting to see his face, wanting to kiss him, wanting to make this tender and soft and a little romantic, but that isn't ghost.

ghost is mean. ghost isn't a giver, he's a taker. ghost is made of sharp edges only, broken glass on all sides, it's such a shame his cock is so nice and so big and so good, lieutenant, please, i need it--

"need more," is what you beg, even though you know he can't give it to you. you know, but he does it anyway, he slips a big hand between your thighs and opens you up, and you cry when he finally sinks deep, hoisting you up, your back tight against his chest as he learns how quiet the voices in his head are when he's so deep in your pretty, pretty pussy.

he slips another hand around your throat, baring it, giving himself room so he can bite at your neck and lick over the salt and brand you with the evidence of the reprieve he refuses to give, but you don't care, all you can do is smile.

you know his secrets now, the things he would never tell, the things he can't say out loud.

it's almost frightening that you don't really care if he has to kill you to keep you quiet.

[jamiewrites-stuff]

Hypnotic

[001]

I know the movie literally just came out, but I'm desperate for more fics about these Beauties, so I made my own💅

This is an X reader fanfic, I'll try to keep her appearance vague but please note that Y/n is her own character in this. She just has your name, and yes it is a Fem reader (Sorry Fellas and Non binary pals).

WARNING: This Fic is kinda spicy, I tried to keep the characters as accurate as possible, but I mainly base the rest of the Saja boys on headcannon (They deserved more Scenes fr😞)

so MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, SCROLL AWAY🤺🤺

✧ ▬▭▬ ▬▭▬ ✦✧✦ ▬▭▬ ▬▭▬ ✧

A thick, endless fog curled low across the dead earth like a suffocating breath that refused to exhale. The air was cold, not biting like winter

But hollow.

Empty.

Even the damned didn’t dare walk this path.

The trees stood like petrified skeletons in a graveyard of gods. blackened trunks stripped of bark, their branches crooked like the outstretched claws of something long-dead and still begging.

No leaves rustled.

No wind whispered. The soil was dry and cracked beneath rotting roots, yet slick with something ancient and black, clinging to boots like tarred memory.

Each step echoed louder than it should’ve in the nothingness.

The figure moved through the fog with measured caution.

A man, tall, composed, cloaked in silence but threaded with purpose.

His hair was the color of shadows soaked in moonlight. deep, pitch-black, yet strangely reflective.

Beneath the wide brim of his Gat, a pair of piercing yellow eyes gleamed like twin embers.

Purple demonic sigils crawled up the side of his throat, across his neck, arms, and beneath the folds of his robe like ancient tattoos.

He wore a pristine black Jeogori, its sleeves trailing just past his wrists, paired with traditional Baji that ghosted around his ankles with every step.

The silence here was thick, wrong. It pressed against the eardrums like a warning

Leave.

Turn back.

Don’t wake her.

Yet he pressed on.

Every demon in Hell knew this place.

They whispered of it.

Feared it.

Avoided it like the plague.

A dead forest at the edge of damnation, a realm untouched even by the Ten Kings. No souls were punished here. No screams echoed from the trees.

Because this place didn’t punish.

It waited.

The fog curled tighter the deeper he walked, brushing against his clothes like fingers made of smoke.

The light -what little there was- seemed to bend unnaturally around the trees, filtering in a colorless gray that made it hard to tell how far the forest stretched.

He felt shivers go down his spine as he continued to walk, only hearing his footsteps.

He felt something bump into his leg, he looked down, seeing the purple Tiger that had been following him around.

It's yellow eyes looking up at him curiously, a familiar crow landed on top of his shoulder, eyes looking at him from the side.

As if it was silently judging its master.

"Don't look at me like that"

Jinu muttered, looking straight ahead.

"If this plan is going to work, we need her help"

He said, talking silently, as if afraid he'll wake up whatever creature that was hidden in this fog.

He had already made it this far, recruiting demons like him that he thinks fits the job. They weren't perfect, none of them were.

But that's why he was here, he needed all the help that he could get.

The memories

The voices

He couldn't take it anymore, he needed them gone.

He reached deeper into the dead forest, not being more aware of his surroundings as he accidentally stepped on a twig.

He winced, hearing the sound echo through the fog.

The air grew heavier, colder, and eerie.

He felt it, the presence.

He couldn't see them, but he knew that she was here, he had woken her.

"Tell me the name..of the one who dares..step into my domain.."

A voice rang through the forest, it was silent, soothing, nearly sweet. But he knew it was just a facade, a Trap set for anyone foolish enough to fall for it.

"It's Jinu, My lady"

He introduced, staying strong despite the fear that was crawling up inside him, he forced himself to bow. As a sign of respect for the Forgotten entity.

"Jinu."

The voice repeated, testing the name for herself before letting out a hum of disapproval.

"And what is the purpose for your visit, Jinu?"

She questioned, her voice soft like a Lullaby.

He lets out a shaky breath, before standing up straight, face blank yet eyes fiercely determined.

"It's the Hunters, they only grow stronger after each day."

He explained, looking up at the sky. Even in an isolated area, anyone could still see the lines of blue strings, decorating across the sky.

"It's only a matter of time before the Honmoon turns gold"

He said, feeling the Fog growing thicker as it surrounds him, The crown on his shoulder Tensed up, sensing that something was wrong, but Jinu didn't notice.

"I have a plan in order to stop them, but I need your help"

He said, eyes looking up as he scanned around him.

He couldn't see anything, the Fog was keeping everything hidden as it seemingly grew.

A sudden chill ran down his spine at the silence.

"Why should I help you?"

She questioned, her voice no longer holding the soft and eerily sweet tone as before.

He took a step back, a drop of sweat trialing down his cheek as he refused to get intimidated by her.

"If the Hanmoon turns gold, it'll be the end for all of us"

He reasoned yet that only made the voice scoff in displeasure.

"Perhaps, but I don't see it as a bad thing. Not entirely"

He clenched his hand into a fist, running out of ideas on how he could convince her, as the Tiger looked up at him with concern.

"The Demon king, once powerful and feared by all. Now being beaten by a group of mortal hunters"

She said in a mocking tone, holding hidden disgust in her voice when she referred to the ruler of this realm.

"It's amusing isn't it?"

She muttered, sounding deep in thought, he couldn't see her, he couldn't feel her presence but she was close enough that it felt like she was whispering in his ear.

He needed to say something.

Anything in order to convince her.

He had come this far, he couldn't simply give up now.

Not when an eternity of hearing those voices were awaiting him.

After a moment of silence.

The fog retracted, giving him some room to finally breathe.

"Very well."

His eyes widened, head snapping up at the empty space in front of him.

"What?"

He muttered, not knowing if she was playing a trick on him.

"I will help you, Jinu. You seem quite useful"

She whispered, as more parts of the forest slowly but surely started to reveal itself.

He didn't let his guard down, not when he was around her.

He heard rumors about her

The Lonely maiden forgotten and cast away by her followers.

Now forever trapped here, like the rest of the fallen souls.

He shouldn't trust her, but he was a desperate man, seeking for some ounce of freedom from Gwi-ma's clutches.

"But in return.."

The Fog that surrounded him suddenly stirred, not by the wind, but with intention. As if it were alive.

He took a step back, breath caught up in his throat, the Tiger moving in front of his Master, growling slightly at the empty space.

A column of fog pulled itself upward, slow and elegant.

Tendrils unfurled, stretching like fingers flexing after a long slumber.

The air grew colder.

Heavier. And though no eyes could be seen, he felt her watching.

The shifting mist twisted delicately, almost lazily, shaping the vague outline of legs, then hips, the gentle curve of a waist.

Each movement was smooth, practiced, like the fog had done this before.

The upper half began to form a torso, arms, long hair that flowed and drifted as though underwater, trailing behind the forming silhouette.

Then her face began to take shape. Not all at once but in fragments.

A hollow curve of cheek. The graceful slope of a jaw. Lips sculpted from mist.

And finally

her eyes opened.

Two faintly glowing embers, pale and cold, not meant for mortal gaze.

The fog hissed and fell away from her form like veils being peeled back, revealing smooth skin like marble caught in moonlight.

Her limbs moved slowly, elegantly, with the weightless grace of something half-forgotten by time.

She stood there now. Silent. Serene. Real.

No footsteps. No sound.

Just her presence terrifying, and beautiful.

A soft smile appeared on her lips, her head tilting slightly to the side, as she could finally look at him closely.

"Your soul will belong to me."

✧ ▬▭▬ ▬▭▬ ✦✧✦ ▬▭▬ ▬▭▬ ✧

That's it for now! Hope it peaked your interest at least, I don't have a schedule set, but I'm hoping I'll be updating more frequently.

I already have so much planned for this story, so please wait for it!

[furiouszealot]

UPDATE: As of 25/04/2025, 4chan is back up and running again. This post and its addendum will be kept as is, and will no longer be updated unless it goes back down again. If you were on /ghost/, it was a pleasure shitposting with you.

All right, I know no one gives a shit, but let me give you a recounting of the fall of 4chan from the perspective of someone who was there and has been lurking both 4chan and tumblr for a few years now.

I'll try to provide as much context as I can, but a lot of images were either lost or im too lazy to look for them in the +5000 reply thread in soyjak party.

Anyways, info below:

So, necessary context: a few years back, 4chan had a board called /qa/, which if you know little about the page, you may think every board is like /b/ or /pol/, which means a containment cess pool of grifters, (you) baiters, incels, and other deranged individuals. The thing is, /qa/ was somehow worse. The entire board was plagued and infested with soyjack edits, board culture was a nuclear disaster, anons were incredibly hostile in there, you know the drill, the big bad 4chan, but this time its actually true.

One day, moderation deleted /qa/, anons that posted there got mad, tried to raid other boards, failed, and then moved on to an altchan called soyjack party, which entire purpose you can guess from its name alone.

Apparently, the boards that allow pdf uploads (paper and origami, for example) didn't check if the uploaded file was actually a pdf file, so postscript files could be used to get access. This is as far as my understanding of web backend goes, sorry.

The hacker claims to have been working on this since 2021, and that he had access since about a year ago, but was recopilating data.

Now, what actually happened when the hack ocurred? Well, a banner of miku dancing with a song that played automatically was placed on top of every board, with the text "/QA/ IS BACK", this was possible because apparently no board was ever deleted, they were just hidden from the public.

A thread was then made on soyjack party, claiming authorship over the hack, and shit went south from there. Anons went en masse to talk there, a lot of weird discussion happened, the thread got the bump limit removed and got pinned, more than 5k posts were amassed on the first night alone. Keep in mind this happened at about 8 pm and most of the stuff went on through midnight.

So, the hacker leaked some things, first of all, the html files for the entirety of /j/ and the email address for every moderation member (important note: the pressence of .gov mails was disproven by the hacker themselves, so i guess there were never any feds), what is /j/? the board exclusive for jannies and moderators to discuss actions taken on the website regarding spam, ban evaders, threads spiraling out of control, etc. Among other things, some of the inner workings of 4chan got revealed, such as the web extension for jannies that allows them to do their job easily, how reports are handled, and other stuff. (Anecdotically, some guy got permabanned for calling anons jews or n-words over a 100 times in the same few threads)

Then, the source code got leaked. Important to say, the hacker removed the part of the source code related to the captcha, as to not facilitate bot attacks on the future, and all information related to email verification or 4chan pass users information also got removed, so all in all users are safe.

What was found on the sourcecode? That it was old, mostly. Most boards used code that hasn't been updated since about 2016, and /flash/ used the exact same code from when it was created back on 2011.

From there, desuarchive, a site that archives threads that die from bump limit, opened a dragon ball general on ghost mode, and thus began what later got called /ghost/, a solely text based thread with well over 20k replies as of right now, where a fraction of the 4chan population took refuge and is currently discussing random things with no particular topic. Kinda hard to read, but its comfy.

What does this mean for other sites? Not a lot, really. A lot of anons already crossposted in 4chan and tumblr already, and the ones that din't most likely wont come here. Some of the bigger/most dedicated groups, like /vt/, migrated to other boards. Various altchans are trying/tried to catch some of the flock of users that got lost, but i doubt it will get anywhere, since soyjak party for example was struggling with just the influx of users that came for the hack thread given its poor infrastructure. Kiwifarms saw a surge of new accounts apparently, but a lot of anons kinda loathe the idea of having to register, so theres that.

Smaller communities, such as generals that didn't get a lot of traffic, or boards on the slower end (say, /ic/, /lit/, etc) will probably vanish or disseminate until (or if) 4chan comes back up. I'd say give it a month, don't get your hopes up whether you want it to stay dead or want it to come back.

Given how many anons are staying on places like /ghost/ or other similar archives with the same ghost posting feature, i doubt it will be as bad as people are making it sound. Besides, the communities that are most likely to migrate to places like tumblr are either /co/, /vg/ or /lgbt/ refugees, which aren't THAT bad. Not every board was like the main cesspools (/b/, /r9k/, /pol/).

From now on, either 4chan comes back up in a few weeks (somewhere between 2 weeks to a month is expected), altchans capture the migrating anons, or a brand new imageboard rises from the ashes to become the new go-to site for old 4chan posters.

In conclusion, nothing ever happens, but also don't worry, chances are this won't affect tumblr in the slightest. If it does, you can cash in your "you were wrong" ticket whenever you want, i'll take the L.

As a footnote, keep in mind: NO users were compromised, if you ever posted there and are worried for your safety, physical or digital, you are safe.

Edit: Forgot to add, if you are a 4chan refugee, im BEGGING you to dm me and tell what board you were from and where are you migrating, if at all.

[dippindaz]

Hiiii, I love your hc, could you do some Eddie x reader where Wayne (Eddie’s uncle) meets the reader for the first time???

Thank you!! I had a bit of a challenge with this one, but I hope you enjoy, Anon! :)

Warnings: Lots of nerves and awkwardness, Wayne is a tad abrasive,

The gravel crunched beneath your shoes as you followed Eddie up the path to the trailer, your heart hammering louder than the sound of your steps. You could see the flicker of a TV through the curtained window, and your grip on the Tupperware of cookies was starting to leave little indents in the plastic.

“You okay?” Eddie asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“Mhm,” you hummed.

He stopped walking.

You didn’t, not in time—nearly bumped into his back. He turned and looked at you with a crooked smile and that look—the one that said he knew you way too well to buy the act.

“You’re freaking out,” he said softly.

“I mean, a little, yeah,” you admitted, exhaling hard. “I just—what if he hates me?”

Eddie blinked. “Wayne? Hate you? Babe, you’d have to, like… kick over his coffee or insult Merle Haggard to make that happen.”

“That’s oddly specific.”

“He’s a man of simple rules.”

You gave him a flat look, and he softened immediately. His teasing grin faltered into something smaller, gentler. He reached for your free hand, threading his fingers through yours.

“Hey,” he said, voice dipping low in that way that made your stomach flip, “He's gonna like you. You’re smart, you’re sweet, you’re way too good for me—and you bake cookies. That’s like four out of five .”

“What’s the fifth?”

Eddie smirked. “Tolerating my shit.”

"So, I'm five for five," You laughed, and even though the nerves were still curling in your gut, it helped. He helped. Eddie always made things feel lighter. Tolerable.

“I just… I want him to think I’m good enough,” you mumbled after a beat.

Eddie tugged your hand until you were a little closer, resting your forehead against his. “You already are,” he said quietly.

For a moment, you stayed like that. His hand in yours, foreheads resting against each other, and his arm around your waist. The world felt quieter like this—like the cicadas had lowered their volume just for you, like even the looming front door didn’t matter as much.

His thumb brushed slowly over the back of your hand, grounding you, and you let your eyes flutter shut, focusing only on the warm press of his body against yours and the way his breath ghosted over your cheek.

“C’mon. Let’s go face the beast.” He said, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“You mean your very tired, overworked, probably-watching-M*A*S*H uncle?”

“That's the one.”

With one last breath, you nodded, and he gave your hand a reassuring squeeze before leading you up the steps to the front door. The metal creaked under your feet, and the familiar click of the knob turning sounded louder than it should have. Eddie pushed the door open with his usual easy swagger, but you could feel the tension in the way his fingers held yours just a little tighter.

The scent of coffee, old wood, and faint cigarette smoke met you first. The living room was dimly lit by the glow of the TV in the corner, casting shifting patterns across the cluttered furniture. And there, in his usual spot in the worn recliner, sat Wayne Munson.

Wayne wasn’t exactly the easiest man to read. His face carried a permanent expression of quiet exhaustion—the kind born from long nights, loud radios, and too much coffee—but Eddie swore that was just his neutral setting.

Still, as you stepped into the small trailer, clutching a plastic Tupperware full of homemade cookies like it was a shield, you couldn’t help but feel like you were under some kind of silent interrogation.

“Wayne, this is… uh—this is her,” Eddie said, scratching at the back of his neck. His voice had that usual edge of casual bravado, but there was something a little off.

You’d heard that tone before—half-joking, half-deflecting, like he was trying to disguise nerves as charm. But it was the way his fingers twitched near his thigh, like they wanted to drum against something but didn’t, that gave him away.

You looked back at Wayne, stepping forward with a tight smile, extending the cookies like a peace offering. “Hi, Mr. Munson. I, um… I brought these. For you. If you like chocolate chip. If not, I can—"

Wayne took the Tupperware from your hands with a slow, unbothered nod. “Chocolate chip’s fine.” He looked at you, not unkindly, just measuring. “And call me Wayne. You can sit, if you want. No need to stand like you’re waitin’ for a bus.”

You moved toward the couch, but not before catching the way Eddie mouthed you’re doing great behind Wayne’s back. Your heart was still pounding, though. Meeting your boyfriend’s family—even just one person—felt like walking a tightrope blindfolded.

Wayne sat down across from you with a creak of the old recliner, popping open the cookie container without ceremony. “So,” he said, cookie halfway to his mouth, “you the one who convinced my boy here to stop sneakin' beer into his guitar case?”

Eddie choked on air. “Dude—!”

You looked between them, unsure if this was a joke or some kind of test. “I, uh… I didn’t know he did that.”

Wayne just smirked, finally taking a bite. “Well. Someone got him to clean up, at least. Hasn’t smelled like a Metallica concert in two weeks.”

Eddie ran a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ, Wayne—"

“Language.”

“You’re literally a war vet—!”

Wayne gave him a look, and Eddie shut his mouth like a switch had been flipped. You bit back a laugh, nerves giving way to something warm and strange in your chest.

There was a pause. Not really awkward. Just a moment of Wayne watching you, eyes a little softer now.

“He talks about you a lot,” Wayne said suddenly. “Thought he was makin’ you up at first. Like Bigfoot.”

You flushed. “Oh.”

Eddie groaned. “Uncle Wayne—"

Wayne kept talking. “But you’re real. Nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin’ chairs, but real.”

“I’m just… I didn’t wanna make a bad impression,” you admitted, hands fidgeting in your lap.

Wayne leaned back in his recliner, folding his arms. “You showed up with cookies. You call me ‘sir’ and you didn’t run screaming when you saw the mess this place is in.” A beat. “You’re alright.”

Eddie let out a quiet sigh of relief next to you, and you reached over to squeeze his hand under the table. Wayne saw it. Didn’t comment. Just helped himself to another cookie and turned on the tiny TV in the corner.

“Dinner’s in the fridge if you two want somethin’. Fried chicken. Leftovers from last night.”

You nodded. “Thank you.”

Wayne didn’t look over, just muttered, “Don’t mention it.”

And somehow, that made you feel like you’d passed whatever unspoken test had been laid out in that tiny, cluttered trailer.

Taglist: @ajokeformur-ray @Cardinarose @ali-r3n @cowboylikemunson @mayo-nouns-blog @hiimjulie @joemamahehepoopoo @invadergir45 @quinny921 @ironmusictrash @highest-elf @syriouslysyri @luv444lay @spooneyes @liils-lu @clockworkvelvet-blog @princesssunderworld @lemonysweetheart @fi-chanwrites @vikki729255 @cassiecasluciluce @universallyneckhoagieshark @tiinkerbell @DeeSparticus @avengersz-biotch

[connorsui]

I really like the thought of touch starved sukuna ...especially when he refuses to admit it

Sukuna isn’t helpless. Far from it. But there’s something about the way your fingers ghost over his skin that makes him play the part to almost ….perfection? It starts innocently enough, a habit born from your gentle nature and his begrudging acceptance of your presence in his space. He doesn’t ask for it, of course. Sukuna would never ask. Instead, he makes it your responsibility, leaving you to deal with the mess he’s too “tired” to handle himself.

It’s the tattoos that always draw you in first. Thick black lines etched into his skin, weaving intricate patterns over muscles that ripple beneath your touch. He’ll sprawl out on the couch or the bed, or even the floor with his face resting on his folded arms, and mumble something about his back or his shoulders just loud enough for you to hear.

At first, you don’t even realize he’s doing it on purpose. You’ve always been tactile, absentmindedly brushing your fingers over his broad shoulders as you sit beside him or tracing the ink on his arms while you think. But the more you do it, the more he seems to... expect it.

And when you don’t?

“What. are. you doing?”

The words come in that deep, cutting tone, his head turning just enough for you to see the unamused look in his crimson eyes. You roll your eyes, but your fingers return to their task, smoothing over his skin with the care he’d never admit he craves.

It’s not long before he takes full advantage of your weakness for him. He’ll knot his robe just a little too tight or feign exhaustion, draping himself across the nearest surface with a dramatic sigh.

“Fix it,” he’ll grumble, his voice muffled by the fabric of his sleeve.

“You’re more than capable of doing it yourself,” you shoot back, though you’re already reaching for him.

“Wouldn’t ask if I could.”

You huff, your fingers working at the stubborn knot while he smirks to himself, knowing exactly how easily you’ll give in. He’s spoiled, and he knows it.

The worst, though, is when he’s on the bed, lying on his stomach with his face turned to the side of his nightstand.. You’ll be sitting right beside him, minding your own business, when he shifts closer—just enough for his shoulder to bump against your leg.

It’s subtle at first, a silent request you could easily ignore. But then he makes it obvious, his fingers drumming against the mattress or his voice cutting through the silence.

“You’ve been sitting there for a while,” he’ll say, not bothering to look at you.

“And?”

“You’re neglecting your duties.”

You snort, but your hand moves anyway, brushing over his back in slow, deliberate strokes. He sighs, the sound so soft and content you almost miss it. Almost.

Sukuna’s obsession with your touch doesn’t stop there. If anything, it grows worse with time. He starts leaning into you more, his shoulder brushing yours as you sit together, or his head resting in your lap while you thread your fingers through his hair. He never asks for these things outright, he’s too proud for that. But the way he nudges closer, the way his eyes soften when you indulge him, tells you everything you need to know.

And when you tease him about it?

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he’ll scoff, though the faint flush on his cheeks betrays him.

But you know the truth. Sukuna, for all his power and pride, is hopelessly addicted to the warmth of your hands on his skin. And you? You’ve long since accepted that you’re just as hopeless when it comes to him.

[hyckstarz]

drabble · on the vanity ୨୧ l.mk

pairing. idol!mark lee x afab reader

word count. 0.8k

genre. smut

synopsis. mark couldn't keep his hands off of you even with the risks of being walked in on and, what better place to be knuckles deep in you than right here on the vanity?

warnings. 18+ minors do not interact, fingering, voyeurism (getting caught), pet name (baby)

"Mark, what are you doing?" She gasped as her boyfriend's hand trailed along the waistband of her plaid skirt, the pads of his calloused fingers ghosting over her supple skin.

"Relax, baby, no one will come in," he trailed open-mouthed kisses down her neck, lifting her up onto the vanity and slotting between her legs, dropping a few makeup brushes on the floor in the process.

She swallowed hard, eyes flickering to the door where music boomed, counting down to the next stage. He had already performed the first set as part of their award show and had to go back on in twenty minutes. There was no way no one would come in.

Hesitantly, she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him in closer as his sweaty forehead pressed against hers. Despite her inhibitions, the mix of his vanilla and smokey amber cologne was enough to send her into a daze, "You sure?" she asked meekly, her anxiousness clear.

He chuckles, planting a tender kiss to her rosy cheeks, "I'm sure."

With that, his hand slid lower, dragging along her clothed folds, "For someone so nervous, you're enjoying this a little too much," the corner of Mark's lips twitches into a smirk at the feel of her soaked panties.

She smiles shyly, but it's cut short when he pushes her underwear aside and slips two fingers into her without warning, earning a sharp gasp from her which only strokes her boyfriend's ego, "Fuck..."

Her back arches against his fingers as he pumps them into her, curling into that sweet spot that earns him even sweeter sounds. Her head nestles into the crook of his neck as her warm, minty breath fans against his skin, motivating him further to drive her towards the brink.

She feels like she's going insane. His palm rubs against her clit and she can feel the cool rings on his fingers and the bump of his knuckles as they push into her, her walls clenching around them. Her mouth is agape as soft sounds escape her lips before his own crash into hers, parting his lips against her glossy ones while his tongue traces the plush, pink skin. He swallows her breathy moans, teeth grazing and nipping at her. It's messy, needy and passionate.

"Mark.. I'm close-" Just then, the door swung open, causing the couples head to snap towards a wide-eyed, flustered man. He suddenly sends the two a smug smile after realising Mark was knuckles deep into his girlfriend. Startled, she shyly turns away, pulling Mark closer to her in embarrassment - leg riding up his side in a futile attempt to block Haechan's view.

"Whoops, I'll knock next time," Haechan chuckles, shutting the door behind him as he leaves. They could hear his snickering echoing through the corridor, which leads Mark to let out an annoyed huff before continuing his ministrations more eagerly, frustrated at being interrupted.

She grapples at his hand, trying to still his movements as they turn increasingly eager and rough. It didn't help that his restless movements caused more lewd, squelching sounds to echo in the makeup room, her cheeks flushing, "M-Mark, we can't... risk anyone else... seeing us..." the words come out weak and breathy, barely able to get the words out as she felt herself reaching close to her orgasm again.

Mark shook his head, pulling her flush against him as her breasts pressed into his chest. His hand roamed her back, fingers clenching her shirt before threading through her hair, tugging at the brown, wavy locks, "If you don't want anyone to see, come on my fingers now, baby. I won't stop until you do, please."

Mark wasn't one to beg, especially when it wasn't for his own release. Butterflies fluttered in the pit of her stomach, her walls clenching around his fingers at the cute whiny lilt of his voice. She had found herself nodding, rocking her hips against his waiting fingers, wanting to satisfy her boyfriend and finally reach her high after denying and being denied - thanks to the earlier interruption.

His free hand moves from her hair to knead her clothed breast, groaning at how the soft mounds fit perfectly in his hand. It's too much for her; hands grasping at the table for something, anything, to maintain some semblance of sanity. Her frantic movements causes items to topple over, palettes to slide off of the desk and glasses to clink against each other before she finally grabs the edge of the vanity - knuckles turning white.

She bites down on his shoulder, stifling her moans as she comes undone on his fingers. She feels weak against him and Mark continues to hold her close, cooing at her as he helps her ride out her orgasm - a string of praises leaving his mouth that she can't even comprehend.

Once she came down from her high, the only thing she could think of was that Haechan would never let the activity they engaged in on the vanity go.

© hyckstarz

[ethe-realfantasy]

How Simon Ghost Riley falls in love with a civilian visitor… Part III

(Slow burn, pure fluff, Simon is STILL a big, burly, brooding awkward mess, but with a little something… he slowly gets the hang of it!!!)

‿︵୨♡୧‿︵୨♡୧‿︵୨♡୧‿ ︵୨♡୧‿ ︵ ୨♡୧‿

The kettle whistles softly in the background. Riley’s paws click across the floor as she circles her bowl, tail wagging like she already knows what’s coming.

Simon crouches beside the low cupboard, scooping her food into the bowl without much focus. He sets it down gently.

“Easy now,” he mutters, even though she’s already digging in.

He stands, stretching out a shoulder, letting the morning silence settle around him.

Except it isn’t really silent. Not in his head.

You’re not what I expected. In a good way.

Your words had landed deeper than you probably meant them to. He hadn’t responded. He knew it was late and he didn’t want to come on too strong. But now it’s morning and your message still lingers at the top of his screen, unread since the night before.

He picks up his phone, thumb brushing the lock screen. He doesn’t open the message thread, he just stares at your name.

Just thinking it sends a tight warmth through his chest.

You hadn’t pushed, hadn’t tried too hard. You simply left him something honest and light, like a ribbon floating in the air for him to catch.

And now… Now he wants to see you again. Properly. Not just outside the base, not just bumping into each other.

He pours his tea, forgets the sugar, and leans back against the counter. Riley looks up briefly, tail thumping.

“Yeah, I know.”

He scrolls to your number and stares at the blinking cursor in the message field.

He starts typing:

Morning.

Would you maybe be up for round two?

Then he deletes it. Way too casual, way too soon.

And he tries again:

Had a thought.

If you’re free sometime this week, I’d like to see you again. Maybe dinner? Something quieter this time.

He stares at it. Is it still too much?

Then he rubs the back of his neck and sighs, but he doesn’t delete it this time.

Sent.

The phone makes a soft sound as the message goes through. Riley bumps her nose against his leg, like she knows something’s changed. He reaches down, scratches behind her ears.

“Let’s see if she says yes.“

—————

The office hums with quiet urgency, fingers on keyboards, coffee brewing somewhere in the background, printers whirring like they’re running out of breath.

You sit at your desk, reading over a contract, red pen in hand, but none of the words are sticking. Your phone is face-down next to your laptop. You haven‘t checked it in over an hour, on purpose.

You told yourself not to obsess, not to stare.

Not to hope.

You take a slow sip of your now lukewarm coffee. For a second you think about heating it up, but instead you flip your phone over… just to check the time.

Your screen lights up.

1 new message.

Simon.

Your heart skips a beat. You don’t even breathe, you just stare at his name for a second like it’s a secret no one else is allowed to know.

Thumb hesitating, you unlock it.

Had a thought.

If you’re free sometime this week, I’d like to see you again. Maybe dinner? Something quieter this time.

Your lips part slightly at the thought of him.

And then-

“y/n, meeting’s in two.”

You blink up, startled. It’s your coworker Emma, already half out the door.

“Right,” you say, voice a little too high. “Yeah. I’m coming.”

Emma pauses and looks back. “You okay?”

You nod, sliding your phone under a folder and smoothing your blouse like that’ll calm you down. “I’m good. It’s just … the coffee’s really hitting.”

Emma raises an eyebrow. “Right.” Then she leaves.

You breathe out slowly and allow yourself one last glance at his message.

You don’t answer yet. Not yet. You want to savor this quiet, private moment, the knowledge that he wants to see you again. That it wasn’t just your heart that fluttered.

And maybe, if the meeting isn’t too long, you’ll reply during lunch. Something just as gentle, something honest.

—————

You slip out of the glass-walled conference room, legal pad in hand, polite smile still fixed in place. But as you round the corner and dip into the quieter hallway near the break room, your fingers are already reaching for your phone.

Simon.

You press your back against the cold wall and type with a thumb that’s a little too eager, a little too careful.

I’d like that.

Dinner sounds nice.

Though now the pressure’s on… I don’t know if round two can live up to round one.

You consider it, then you add:

But I’m willing to find out.

Just enough warmth, just enough lightness. You send it before you can second-guess.

Buzz.

He’s replied.

Already?

Your breath catches.

Good.

I was hoping you’d say yes.

I’ll make sure it’s worth your time.

Then another message blinks in.

How’s Thursday night?

You smile down at your phone, your pulse is a little quicker now. Before you can answer, another voice calls from the end of the hallway:

“y/n? We need you in with Peterson.”

“Coming!” you call back, slipping your phone into your blazer pocket, but you walk back into the fray with anticipation buzzing under your skin.

—————

The doors of the law firm close behind you with a quiet hiss, and you exhale as though you’ve been holding your breath since noon.

It’s warm out, the golden kind of warm that comes just before sunset, the sky painted in soft pastels that make the city feel almost kind.

You lean against the railing outside, slip your phone out of your bag, and scroll through the usual clutter of messages and notifications.

Then you see it again.

How’s Thursday night?

Six hours ago.

Six.

Your stomach flips when you run a hand through your hair, cheeks warm.

God, he probably thinks I ghosted him.

…No pun intended.

You open the message and hesitate at first. Then you type:

Hey, I’m so sorry for the late reply. Today ran away from me. Just saw your message. Thursday sounds perfect. I’d really like that.

Then you pause and watch the blinking cursor.

You softly add:

And I was hoping you’d still want to see me.

Sent.

You tuck your phone against your chest for a moment.

Please let him not have changed his mind.

—————

He drops his gym bag with a quiet thud by the door, the smell of iron and chalk still clinging faintly to his skin. The flat is dim, curtains drawn, Riley curled on her bed, tail giving a slow, lazy wag at his arrival.

He moves to the kitchen, by instinct, by routine, but he doesn’t get further than the counter when his phone buzzes.

He almost doesn’t check it, but then... your name pops up.

His heart gives a solid thud behind his ribs. He wipes his hand on the towel and unlocks the screen.

Hey, I’m so sorry for the late reply. Today ran away from me. Just saw your message. Thursday sounds perfect. I’d really like that.

And I was hoping you’d still want to see me.

He doesn’t move for a second. He just stares at the message, his eyes scanning those last few words again and again.

I was hoping you’d still want to see me.

His lips pull into something that might not quite be a smile, but close. His reaction is quiet.

He starts typing:

Wasn’t sure you’d still want to see me, either. Guess we’re both lucky, then.

Then, after a second, he adds:

Thursday it is.

He hesitates, but he can’t help it:

And I’m glad you messaged. I’ve been thinking about you all day.

He locks the screen and exhales deeply. His flat is still quiet… but now, it’s a different kind of quiet. It's hopeful.

—————

You kick off your shoes by the door with a little sigh, the floor cool beneath your bare feet. The air in your apartment smells like lavender from the candle you forgot you lit this morning. Everything is quiet, soft.

You toss your bag on the couch and head toward the kitchen, hair falling loose from the knot you'd kept it in all day. Just as you open the fridge...

Buzz.

Your heart jumps. You turn, walk back to your phone with slow steps, like maybe if you take your time, you won’t seem so eager. Even to yourself.

His name pops up.

Your breath hitches, eyes sweeping across his first reply:

Wasn’t sure you’d still want to see me, either. Guess we’re both lucky, then.

Your lips curl slowly, something delicate and glowing blooming in your chest.

Thursday it is.

And I’m glad you messaged. I’ve been thinking about you all day.

You just stand there for a moment, blinking. Of all things, you hadn’t expected that.

Not from him. Not something so warm and open.

Your thumb hovers, but you don’t respond right away. Not because you're unsure, but because you're smiling. Really smiling. The kind that lingers even after the screen goes dark again.

You bring the phone to your chest, heart fluttering like you're sixteen again.

You whisper, half-laughing to yourself:

“Okay, Riley. Maybe you're not so cold after all."

Then you walk toward the bedroom, already wondering what you'll wear on Thursday.

—————

The next day is just as hectic. When you finally come home from thr firm, the afternoon sun throws a golden light across your bedroom floor. It spills in through gauzy curtains and catches the soft sway of fabric as you turn in front of the mirror, again.

Outfit number four.

Maybe five.

You smooth the dress down your sides. It’s simple, a soft blush that catches the light just right when you move. Fitted at the waist, fluttering slightly at the hem. Feminine, quiet. Like you. Like how you want to feel with him.

You tilt your head. It's not too much, nothing too loud, but something he’d notice.

Your phone buzzes on your nightstand.

You survive the day?

You bite back a smile as you pad over barefoot, still in the dress. You type back, leaning against the edge of your bed:

Barely. But now I’m thinking about tomorrow so I’m recovering fast.

A moment later your phone buzzes again:

Good. Can’t lie. I’ve been looking forward to it all day.

Your breath catches. It’s casual, but also not?? The way he said it. I’ve been looking forward to it.

No games. No overthinking. Just him.

You quickly type back, smiling:

Me too. A lot more than I probably should.

Sent.

You glance at yourself in the mirror again. The dress still fits the way you hoped it would. Your hair’s a little undone from all the try-ons, but it kind of works. You reach up to tug at a curl, imagining how it’ll fall tomorrow.

You want to see him.

Not just go on a date. You want to be next to him. See if his hand accidentally brushes yours again. Hear the way his voice softens when he says your name... even though he barely uses it.

You want that quiet pull back. That thing between you that neither has spoken aloud.

You lift your phone one more time and just as the sunlight shifts, you type:

I'm already smiling just thinking about it.

—————

His flat is dim, still. The kind of quiet that usually settles him, but not tonight.

Simon stands at his bathroom sink, water dripping down his forearms, a towel slung low around his hips. The mirror is fogged at the corners, but clear enough to show his face as he runs a hand through his damp hair. He looks tired. Restless.

He reaches for his phone on the counter.

One notification… your name on his screen.

He unlocks it and reads your message.

I'm already smiling just thinking about it.

He just stares. Something behind his ribs tightens... hard.

He presses his tongue to his cheek and exhales through his nose, slowly, controlled, but it doesn’t help. Because all he can see is you.. smiling…because of him.

Fuck.

He pushes a hand through his hair again, leans on the sink with both hands now, staring at himself. The rough stubble. The scars near his collarbone. The shadows under his eyes.

You saw all that, or at least some version of it, and you still smiled. Still want to see him again.

And you're so… Christ. You're beautiful. Not the kind that flaunts it. The kind that walks into a room and makes everything quieter, softer. The kind he never saw coming and now can’t stop thinking about.

He texts back:

Not sure how I’m supposed to sleep now, sweetheart. That smile of yours is stuck in my head.

He hits send. Then he sets the phone down and watches his reflection again.

Tomorrow.

—————

Your apartment is bathed in a low amber glow, your bedside lamp the only thing left on. You lay back against the pillows, freshly showered, hair still damp at the ends, scrolling idly through your phone. You're pretending not to wait for his reply.

But when the screen lights up, you sit bolt upright.

Simon.

You quickly open the message.

Not sure how I’m supposed to sleep now, sweetheart. That smile of yours is stuck in my head.

Your breath catches so fast it turns into a tiny, stunned laugh.

Immediately, your hand flies up to your mouth.

Sweetheart?

You read it again. And again.

Simon Riley just called me sweetheart.

A warmth spreads across your entire chest, it's fast, dizzying. Your heart is hammering, but not from nerves. It’s that high-wire thrill that comes with being wanted, really wanted, by someone who never says much… but means every single word.

You fumble to your feet, practically fly to the wardrobe. You fling it open with breathless purpose.

The dress.

That dress.

You've only worn it once. A soft, almost silken deep plum, the kind that hugs you just enough to make you feel beautiful, without saying too much. Off the shoulder. The kind of dress you wear for something you’ll remember.

You pull it out, hold it against your body in front of the mirror. The hem sways slightly as you tilt. The neckline curves over your collarbones just right.

“Oh god,” you murmur to yourself, trying not to grin like an idiot. “If he doesn’t kiss me tomorrow… I might actually combust.”

You're not even joking.

Slowly you lower the dress gently over the back of your chair, like it’s sacred now.

Then you crawl back into bed, phone still in your hand, heart still doing backflips. You don’t reply to his message. You can’t.

Not because you don’t want to, but because anything you say might give too much away.

Instead, you turn off the lamp, pull the blanket close, and close your eyes with a whisper of a smile.

Tomorrow can’t come fast enough.

—————

The clock reads 18:07 when he closes the locker. His gear is stripped, boots traded for black boots with a shine. He stands still for a moment, shoulders tight, jaw ticking. Not from tension. but from anticipation.

He’s done raids with less nerves.

Simon catches his reflection in the mirror across the hall. Clean shave. White t-shirt under a dark, well-fitted button-up. Sleeves rolled. Nothing flashy, but it’s… presentable. Something about it makes him feel like a version of himself he hasn’t seen in a while, the man, not the mask.

Riley barks from the flat, tail thudding behind the door when he steps in.

“Not tonight, girl,” he murmurs, scratching behind her ears with one hand while tugging his jacket from the back of the chair with the other. “You’ll have to guard the place without me.”

She gives a soft huff, almost sulking. He smiles, just a little.

His phone buzzes and I t's you.

Just heading out now. Can’t believe I’m nervous. See you soon.

His heart kicks up like it used to before deployments, but this is different. He types back, quickly.

Don’t be nervous. Just me.

But nothing about this feels just anything.

He grabs his keys, throws a final glance at the mirror, then heads out.

—————

The restaurant isn’t crowded, but it hums, low conversations, the clink of cutlery, the occasional flicker of laughter. The table he picked is in the corner. Quiet and private.

Simon’s already there. His jacket‘s off, his sleeves still rolled. His fingers are tracing the rim of his glass, untouched. He’s checked the door at least six times in the last three minutes.

Then the air shifts just enough to make him forget how to breathe for half a second. You step in and you're wearing a dress that nearly brings him to his knees.

That color, deep, velvety plum, it clings to your frame like it was made to. Off-the-shoulder. Flowing at the hem. The kind of elegant that punches the air from his lungs. You don’t even look around right away. You're calm and composed. The light catches in the soft waves of your hair as you speak briefly to the hostess.

He swears under his breath. Then wipes his palm discreetly on his thigh.

You barely hear the hostess say “right this way.” Your heels click softly against the hardwood floor, each step measured, not too fast, not too hesitant. Your fingers instinctively brush the fabric at your waist once more, smoothing the dress that has suddenly become… very real.

You turn and your eyes meet.

And it hits him. Not just the beauty of you, but that you wore this... for him.

He straightens without realizing it. Shoulders square, jaw flexing, heart absolutely losing its rhythm.

You smile softly. A quiet, knowing smile that does something dangerous to him.

Simon stands by the table, tall, calm, unbelievably attractive in a dark button-up that fits him like it was made for him. He tries to keep his voice level as you approach, but it comes out a little rough around the edges.

“Evenin’.”

His eyes travel from your shoes to your eyes again and he exhales, almost like he has to say it.

“You’re…” He clears his throat softly, eyes flicking away just for a second before locking back on you. “You look bloody stunning.”

It slips out like he didn’t mean to say it aloud. But what undoes you is his eyes. The way they land on you and don’t move.

Something unspoken flickers across his face. Not just approval, not even awe. More like… disbelief. Like he genuinely didn’t expect this.

Your stomach flips and your cheeks flush, but you don't look away. Instead, your voice is soft when it comes.

“You don’t look so bad yourself.”

A corner of his mouth twitches. Then, surprisingly, he steps around the table and pulls out your chair. There’s a tiny awkward second where he seems unsure if he’s doing it right, or too much, but he’s trying and that alone makes you smile even more.

“Thank you,” you say gently as you sit, smoothing the hem of your dress.

He settles across from you, forearms resting on the table, and for just a second, you look at each other, no words.

You're just... there.

—————

Amidst your conversation, Simon leans back slightly, studying you with an easy calm.

“So,” his voice is low but steady, “what’s something you do when you’re not fighting through law books and paperwork?”

You smile, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Honestly? I keep thinking about volunteering at the daycare on base a lot.”

Simon’s expression softens. “That’s… good. Important, too. Not everyone thinks about that.”

You shrug modestly. “It just feels like the right thing to do. Maybe even better than arguing in court all day. It keeps calling me.”

He nods approvingly. “Sounds like you’ve got a good heart.”

Your smile deepens, eyes meeting his. “And what about you? When you’re not out on missions?”

Simon smirks slightly. “Mostly just trying to keep my dog from eating my boots.”

You chuckle, warmth spreading in your chest. “That’s one way to keep life interesting.”

He grins, then lowers his voice just a touch, teasing, “You’d be surprised how dangerous boots can be.”

You laugh outright this time, the sound light and genuine. “I think I’m safe from your dog’s wrath.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you just like living on the edge.”

You quirk a brow. “Is that your way of saying I’m trouble?”

Simon’s eyes glint with mischief. “Maybe. But trouble suits you.”

Your breath catches, but you cover it with a playful grin. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He leans forward slightly, voice dropping into a quieter, almost vulnerable tone. “Good. Because I think you’re the kind of trouble I wouldn’t mind getting into.”

Your pulse quickens. The air between you hums with something unspoken.. attraction, curiosity, a tension the both of you are keenly aware of but neither rushes to name.

You brush a finger lightly along the rim of your glass, meeting his gaze steadily. “Careful, Lieutenant. You don't know what you're getting yourself into."

Simon’s smile deepens, eyes darkening just enough to thrill you. “I’ve been known to take risks.”

You bite your lip at that, feeling the heat of the moment settle deep inside you. “So have I.”

The conversation slows, but the electricity lingers, a silent promise waiting just beneath the surface.

You rest your chin on one hand, watching him for a moment. “So,” you say, easing into the space between you two, “what does a man like you even do on a day off? I can’t imagine you baking banana bread or doing yoga in the park.”

Simon huffs out a low laugh. “God, no. I think I’d tear a hamstring just lookin’ at a yoga mat.”

You grin, eyes twinkling. “So, what then? Tell me something surprising.”

He leans back slightly, looking down as if considering whether to share. “I take my dog for long walks. Sometimes talk to her like she understands.”

You tilt your head. “That’s not surprising. That’s… sweet.”

Simon scoffs, feigning offense. “Sweet? That’s what you’re going with?”

You laugh quietly. “Okay, maybe it's not the word you’d pick. But it’s nice. Makes you seem… human.”

He gives you a sidelong glance. His voice isn't harsh, but it's not gentle either. “What, you thought I was a machine?”

“Not quite,” you say with a soft smile. “But I wasn’t sure what to expect. You’re kind of hard to read.”

He shrugs, breaking the eye contact. “That’s on purpose.”

You lean in just a little. “And yet… here you are. Letting me read a little.”

He meets your gaze again. The noise around you fades just a little as something soft and silent passes between you: curiosity? admiration? Something warm growing slowly.

“Guess you caught me on a rare day,” he says quietly.

Your voice is playful, but there’s a flicker of sincerity in your tone. “Well, I’m glad I did.”

Your eyes lock for a moment longer than necessary. And then, like a flicker of heat beneath the surface, Simon’s mouth quirks up.

“Still not doing yoga though.”

You laugh, light and full. “Yeah, no. I’d pay money to see that.”

He grins. “Careful. You’re startin’ to sound like you wanna see me in stretch pants.”

You let out an incredulous laugh, cheeks warming. “Simon!”

He raises both brows, mock-innocent. “What? You said it.”

“You implied it!”

“I’m just followin’ your lead, sweetheart”, he says chuckling.

Your stomach flips, the word sweetheart landing with a weight that catches your breath for half a second. You cover it with a smile and your water glass.

“You’re trouble,” you murmur.

Simon leans in slightly, eyes still on you. “So I’ve heard.”

And just like that, the mood shifts again, playful, flirty, but undercut with something quieter, realer. That slow pull neither of you wants to admit yet.

You set your glass down, still smiling from Simon’s last remark. “I have to admit,” you say, teasing, “you’re a lot funnier than I expected.”

Simon looks intrigued. “What did you expect?”

You shrug. “Something more… gruff. Intimidating. Maybe one-word answers.”

He smirks. “I can do one-word answers. Want a demonstration?”

You lean forward slightly, resting your elbows on the table, playing along. “Sure. What’s your idea of a perfect evening?”

Simon doesn’t hesitate. “This.”

Your smile falters just for a second, not because she’s thrown off, but because that one word, said so simply, hits you somewhere you didn’t expect. You swallow.

“Well,” you say, recovering with a slow grin, “that’s cheating.”

He shrugs again, his tone casual, but his eyes are very much focused on you. “Didn’t say I played fair.”

You roll your eyes, pretending to groan. “You are trouble.”

“I warned you.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t realise it came with a dry wit and British charm.”

He gives you a smug look. “Dangerous combination.”

“Deadly", you say, not breaking the eye-contact.

Your food arrives, giving you a brief pause from your conversation. You thank the server, then look down at your plate, your smile still playing at the corners of your lips.

“So,” you say after a beat, “any other hidden talents I should know about?”

Simon doesn’t even look up from his plate. “Wouldn’t be hidden if I told you.”

You snort. “You’re impossible.”

He finally looks at you, mouth quirking. “I’ll give you a hint, though, I’m very good with my hands.”

You freeze with your fork halfway to your mouth. Your eyes dart up to meet his, and you swear he’s fighting a grin, deadpan and entirely unbothered by the very suggestive implication.

You lower your fork slowly. “That was shameless.”

Simon feigns innocence. “You said you wanted to know.”

You shake your head, laughing, cheeks warming. “God, do you say things like that to everyone?”

“No,” he says simply. “Only you.”

That quiet honesty makes the air between you still again, not uncomfortable, just thick. You know he’s not playing around now. There’s still humor in his voice, sure, but also that intense, quiet focus he gets when he’s completely in the moment.

You lift your glass again, trying to calm your nerves and your blush. “You’re dangerous,” you say once more, but this softer time.

Simon’s gaze lingers on you a second longer. Then, almost too casually, he murmurs, “You have no idea.”

Your stomach flips.

And then just as quickly, he breaks the tension by reaching for the pepper. “Want some?”

You laugh out loud, shaking your head. “God help me.”

“Too late,” he mutters, seasoning his food. “You’re in it now."

—————

The restaurant lights are low, soft amber spilling across the table between you. Outside, the sky has deepened to a velvet navy, stars barely visible above the city lights. Your plates are mostly picked over now, conversation slowing into something less playful and more… thoughtful.

Simon leans back in his chair, one arm draped loosely over the backrest, fingers idly grazing the wood. He watches you with that same unreadable intensity he always carries, except now, something in it has softened. His gaze lingers longer, like he’s not quite ready for the night to end.

You rest your chin in your hand again, eyes on him as you trace the edge of your glass with one finger. “You know…” you say slowly, “I don’t usually do this. Dinner with someone I barely know. Let alone someone who’s… intimidating in every possible way.”

Simon tilts his head slightly. “Intimidating?”

You give him a small, sheepish smile. “A little.”

He stills, then says quietly, “Do I still scare you?”

You shake your head, your voice gentler now. “No. You don’t scare me. You just… sometimes get under my skin.”

Simon breathes out a faint laugh through his nose, like that answer caught him off guard. But he doesn’t mock you, doesn’t tease. He just sits with it for a second.

“I could say the same,” he murmurs genuinely.

You look down, just for a moment, suddenly shy. “Even when I called you out on the ‘good with your hands’ line?”

That earns you a real grin. “Especially then.”

You hide your smile behind your hand, trying to stay composed, but there’s no hiding the flush in your cheeks or the way your eyes keep finding his, again and again.

There’s a moment of silence, a moment neither of you fills with words and then you glance toward the window. “We should probably go,” you say softly. “They’ll start stacking chairs soon.”

Simon nods but doesn’t move right away. “Yeah,” he says. Then, a little rougher, he adds, “I’ll walk you to your car.”

He stands, stepping around the table, and, just like before, he pulls your chair out. This time it’s smoother, less awkward. He offers his hand without thinking and you take it immediately.

His palm is warm and rough, yours is soft and small in his grip.

You walk out into the evening together, side by side. The air has cooled, but neither of you notices, not really. Not with the electricity humming between your shoulders.

At your car, you stop and for a long second, neither of you speaks.

Simon turns to face you, hands in his pockets now, his eyes flickering between yours. His voice is quieter than before, almost hesitant. “Tonight was… more than I expected.”

You nod shyly. “Yeah. Me too.”

He doesn’t make a mov, doesn’t lean in. And yet, the space between you pulses with something unspoken.

You look up at him, tilting your head just slightly. Irresistible. “Are you going to text me tomorrow?” you ask, half a whisper.

Simon’s lips twitch into the barest smile. “I was hopin’ you’d beat me to it.”

You let out a quiet laugh, and before you can say anything else, he adds, sincere now, low and direct:

“I’d like to see you again.”

Your chest tightens, but in a good way. You nod once, warm and certain. “I’d like that too.”

And then, not rushed, you step forward and gently rise on your toes to press a kiss to his cheek. Just there, just enough.

Simon doesn’t move. His eyes close for a heartbeat, without you noticing.

“Goodnight, Simon,” you whisper.

“’Night, y/n.”

You get into your car, still smiling and as you pull away, he watches you, heart unsteady in his chest.

[Part IV]

[tojisun]

um your ghostgaz blurb but also ghost letting gaz tip his head back onto his shoulder and squeezing at his base when he’s inside you so you can have a break from gaz humping your cunt until you both go dumb (and so simon can hear him keen out that ‘ah, right there, rightthere-‘ again)

AHHHHHHHHHHH YEA YEA !!! holy shit this is some good fuckin soup!!

“shh, pretty, ‘ve got you,” simon grunts in kyle’s ear, his words rumbling deeply.

it is a shared moment between the two of them, one that you’re once again a spectator of, but you don’t mind. not when you get a glimpse of kyle’s demeanour breaking for a quiet splintering in the hands of simon.

kyle bucks in his hold, trying to fuck into the tight fist of simon or into the warm press of your cunt, you don’t know, but it has simon tutting before forcing kyle to stop again. kyle keens, desperate for his orgasm, but god are you thankful for the break.

they had you for hours, either taking turns or taking you at the same time, and it has your body aching, pussy all sore and legs a trembling mush. simon massages at your thigh in placation, choosing to relay his affection through touch because this is still a scene—the one that the three of you easily fall into; the one where you are made to be used, often as a vessel to reflecr the guys’ love for each other, like you exist only for their mutual pleasure and not your own.

(objectification kink, the engine search bar had put out as a result of your question from when you were first included into their fold.

there were social media threads and official bdsm websites that expounded on the matter but you understood enough. it was pretty self explanatory, you thought, and, in the silence of your room, you trembled in excitement.

anticipation coursed through you in pinching waves, uncontainable as you waited for the weekend to come.)

so you lay there, watching with hunger as simon pressed his murmured kisses on kyle’s neck, his voice too quiet for you to pick up. but whatever simon is saying has kyle writhing, his body trembling, until he’s collapsing into simon’s chest, head tipped up for a breathy keen. you gasp out at the sound, your pussy squeezing at his cock for a moment, and kyle begins to weep.

simon rumbles a pleasured grunt, snarling something close to, “s’good f’me,” then his fist begins moving, bumping against your sore folds, then back up to the remaining shaft of kyle’s cock.

you blink, feeling saliva pool underneath your tongue as your desire peaks, bloating at the image they make—kyle, writhing and moaning, and simon jerking your lover so he can finally cum—

in you.

“almost—si—!” kyle screams, gasping at his heightening euphoria.

“good,” simon murmurs, slow and sensual, and his face all flushed. “cum f’me, baby. go on.”

you see the moment kyle’s orgasm razes him. his body locks up, his eyes are blown wide, and his jaw drops for a soundless moan. god, you know the feeling—that explosion of ecstasy that almost feels too surreal; like you’ve been ripped from your body and thrusted up into nirvana.

then, something warm trickles into you, spurting on the cushions of your walls. you cry, your exhausted body protesting at being pumped full again—they haven’t even let you squeeze out simon’s spill—and you swear you feel your stomach bulging. making room for kyle’s release.

it—

it shouldn’t turn you on but it does, and simon snaps his eyes back to you like he knows just what exactly is running in your head.

he grins, something that is a little too mean, and you realize that while kyle is done, simon has yet to get his fill.

fuck.

[thatnonameuser]

A Wonderland Of Yanderes

Intro, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 here

There is no safe place here.

No home to return to, and the path back is just so far out of reach, that it's practically nonexistent.

Ramshackle is nice enough. It's a roof over your head. Walls to protect you from the chill and weather. A bed for you to sleep in at night. But it's not safe.

Rusty old hinges hang on my tiny threads of metal.

Locks on doors and windows are old and can't close properly.

Windows with cracks and holes the hands can fit through and open them with ease.

You chose your bedroom because it had the least holes in the walls and windows, had a bathroom you could use without accidentally bumping into the ghosts, and door that wasn't splintering at the touch of a hand.

But besides that, in the case of an obsessed stalker ready to take you home and away from your life for good, you might as well be sleeping outside.

Your door doesn't lock properly, and the locks on the windows are so weak they might as well not exist. A warm welcome to someone creeping on you in the night, wanting to come in and do whatever creepy or sick things they please.

You covered the holes in the walls and windows with old sheets and furniture, but what's stopping someone from peering through to watch you sleep at night.

It's no sanctuary or safe hiding spot, but where else is there to go?

Asking to room with Ace and Deuce could be a disaster if they decide to cross some very important boundaries as you sleep.

The old dorm is all Crowley could have offered, and after you're meeting today, you doubt he'd be very helpful. Or even concerned.

"Hey Grim, do you wanna stay in my bed tonight?" You don't want to sleep alone tonight, with what you discovered today still fresh in your mind.

"The Great Grim deserves his own bed, Why would he share one with his Henchman!" This coming from someone who sleeps in a basket with an old comforter pilled into it, if the day had been kinder you would've laughed. Would have.

You sigh, "I'll give you your own pillow and half the bed. I just don't want to sleep alone tonight."

Grim grumbles wordlessly for a few seconds before answering with a reluctant "....ok."

You smile, hugging him, "You're the best, Grim."

Grim squirms against your embrace, trying to escape, "Of course I'm the best Henchman! Now lemme go!"

Grimm jumps onto the bed to find your most comfortable pillow as you prop one of the old chairs against the door handle. A makeshift lock, just until you can get some thaumarks together to get a new lock for the door.

Your library escapade had yielded some fruit. You found a book about all the nations laws, so you at least knew were to run if you're being chased. Not helpful for now, but possibly in future, for emergencies.

More importantly, you saw a list of the different types of crazy, separated by dorm. With that it mind, and some helpful books about darling manipulation, capture and possession, you can plan around whatever you face.

Hopefully.

From what you researched each of the seven the dorms were dedicated to were yanderes, whose treatment of their respective darlings matched that of the students.

Ace and Deuce's dorm was your first priority, with their growing fondness for you. Heartslaybul had a reputation for housing the most controlling of yanderes. All obsessed with keeping their darlings under their control and rule. Based on the strictness of the Queen of Hearts, it makes sense that controlling behaviour was the thing that separated them from the rest. You pitied the poor King of Hearts, her darling, a man too afraid of his wife's rules out of fear of being beheaded. It was so hard to believe that Ace and Deuce in the few days you'd known them, and the near death experience you shared together, were anywhere close to that level of a relationship control freak but from what you saw in the hall this afternoon, over a slightly too tight grip or what you wanted to do that afternoon, made you wonder what you hadn't seen before. Who else was like that? What was the extent of their control? How much freedom would they take from you to make themselves happy?

Next was Savanaclaw, a dorm nearly packed to the brim with beastmen, was a dorm full of possessive yanderes. All more than willing to fight their rivals to the death to get their darlings all to themselves. Based on the persistence of the King of Beasts, they will stop at nothing to get their darlings. No crime, not even murder is off the table. King of Beasts' sister-in-law was his darling, whom he killed her husband, his brother, for. If the rest of the dorm is like him, that means they'd willingly kill their own families to get you for themselves. And if that other book was right, they'd get away with it too. You made a mental note to carry a knife if you ever have to go to that dorm.

Octavinelle, similarly is also full of possessive yanderes, though they tend to come from the sea rather than the land. Even if they're similar to the yanderes in Savanaclaw, they're more sneaky than outright violent. The Sea Witch's benevolence mirrors the other students' preferred traps, as she tricked her darling into a deal that ended them in her garden, a mollusk until they stayed 'willingly'. Their preference is catch them, break their spirit and then, obviously, 'profit'. You made a silent promise to yourself then, never ever make a deal, or an arrangement with anyone in that dorm. No matter the offer or the cost.

Scarabia's next. A dorm based on the Sorcerer of the Sands and his mindfulness. In this case, mindfulness is another word for him being manipulative. Mind control was that man's specialty, and the woman who would have been his darling just barely escaped it, if it wasn't for her quick thinking. If the students in that dorm are anything like that, then you need to never speak with them. You might not be able to think that fast on your feet.

Pomefiore, a dorm about tenacity, determination, meant to match that of the Fairest Queen's. The poison that rots within its students are of the obsessive variety, as all of them have one thing in common, and that's their practically worship-level devotion to something about their darlings, that boils over into everything else. That dorm scares you especially, as the book had told you many horrible things. The Pomefiore Dorm Head has a spell book holding all the spells a yandere would ever need. Love potions, lethal poisons, even a spell to lock a darling inside a mirror, just as the Fairest Queen did with her lover, where they'll be forced only to look at whoever trapped them there forever until that person lets them out.

Ignihyde, a dorm of technology has enough history to date back centuries, founded based on the diligence of the King of the Underworld. The story about his darling is eerily familiar to a myth from your world. His wife was stalked for months to years, before being kidnapped and trapped in the dark and lonely underworld till she was tricked into staying forever. It makes perfect sense that dorm is full of stalkers. Devoting all their efforts into learning everything about their lives, before abducting them, and trapping them into the darkness to never see the sunshine again. A rumor recorded in the book said something about the Shroud family, said to have descended straight from the King, who have a very special fruit that has been used from the beginning to bind their darlings to them for the rest of their lives, and the afterlife that follows. That note makes you want to check every nook and cranny in Ramshackle for any cameras hidden from view.

And finally there's Diasomnia, the enigma. Based of the nobility of the Thorn Fae's spirit. That chapter was practically empty. Not one source could be found that had any information about her darling. They could have been the king who stole her wings, the princess she'd cursed or saved, the raven she taught to be human, or someone not mentioned in her tale. They could have been the prize jewel of the dragon's hoard but there was no evidence on how the Fae caught them, what happened to them after the Fae's death. The yanderes in Diasomnia were just as enigmatic. Some were devoted, sadistic, obsessive, but there was never a pattern to follow. No trick consistently used. Nothing. It's probably safest to avoid them at all costs. You don't know what they're capable of, after all.

But now, you can only prepare for the present. And you weren't really prepared, all you had was the sturdiest wooden chair from the dining room and a freshly sharpened knife from the kitchen, for emergencies.

Still, you promised Ace and Deuce you would hang out with them tomorrow, might as well, get some rest before you make yourself sick with worry.

You toss on one of your few pyjamas, the longest ones you own to prevent anyone from peeping in and seeing you in a compromising state of undress while you slept. Crawling into bed, Grim firmly cements his sleeping spot of choice to be right in the middle of where you curled up in bed. You laugh, but it ends in yawn. Exhaustion fills you and your eyes start to fall heavy.

It's only just before you drift off, that the mirror you have on the wall starts to glow.

[emacrow]

Welcome to the Starlight Toy Galore! Temporary close for the day!

Danny could only blush heavily in his ghost form. His brightened green eyes watched Jazz pick out an outfit for his date. Ellen looked at the deep blue colored scarf before throwing it to the aside to the pile of rejected other colored scarfs.

"Now you have the braille menu that Tucker sent you of the restaurant, right? Remember to take your black bandana if your eyes get irritated again. Sam, you missed a chibi toy on the right side of his hair." Jazz spoke as she was judging two different colored turtleneck with narrowed eyes.

To Danny's eyes, the bright colors felt normal in his ghost form compared to the black abyss in his human form beside the luminous foggy shapes of ghosts, spirits, souls, demons and faes in his sights.

He can still remember the horrifying shock in mom's and dad's eyes was the last thing he ever saw as the pure excruciating pain sizzle in his eyes as they were showing the Fenton Ghost On Sight double Blaster that will reveal any ghosts hiding invisible to the human eyes and unfortunately locked onto him once again and blasted directly into his eyes.

Waking up in a hospital bed only to see nothing at all was pure panicked, being touched by something or someone hugging him was worse, especially when he couldn't see a god damn thing, only to see ember's head appears was when he realized something immediately.

He couldn't see anything at all except Ghosts. It didn't stop there as he saw a dashing tiny being with wings stealing a cube of sugar, a red parasite bug whispering to some junkie that he pummeled into paste the wall, and a wild spirit messing around from the very black shape form of a person that he couldn't see before sneaking back in their form.

Jazz told him about her telling Mom and Dad the truth about him while he was in a privates hospital room thanks to Sam, Dad actually broken down and Mom couldn't stop staring down at her hands as she had been the one to do the example on the double blaster.

Two month of him still unconscious after that event, and thanks to Frostbite being brought to heal him, Along side teaching mom and dad his needs as it seem he can see in his ghost form, but not in his alive human form.

He couldn't see the damage of his eyes in his ghost form. Only his eyes were much green with much paler pupil, but apparently, what Tucker descriptive of his eyes were his pupil went brighter then a rainbow pearl that cause his iris to go from deep blue to a much paler icy blue.

The struggle was intensely real after he left the hospital, especially now handicapped and kept bumping into everything and every wall, Cujo thankfully helping him along with his new blind cane. Kitty and Johnny 13 actually helped him out, considering Kitty had a cousin who was born blind.

He couldn't be the astronaut that he wanted to be, especially when now he was blind. He was so down in his own depression state upon realizing that It took Jazz, Sam, Tucker, Ellen, and shocking, Dash dragged him, caving himself into his room after 5 months in. His hair was the length of his waist after that, but he didn't cut it since he didn't trust his dad or Jazz to cut his hair again.

They brought him to a great museum with an audio speakers for blind people like him, wandering the halls with glimpses of soul spirits embezzling in their masterpiece, even some in old toys on display, and accidentally finding himself into a kid's crafts their art room upon hearing the sounds of a crying child.

He couldn't see what they were crying, but he could see the well loved toy that was a Raggedy Andy doll so bright with a joyous old soul spirit of a elderly lady with plush separated arm on the floor.

Danny helped clumsily tie the doll's arm back in place with the help of that soul spirit whispering in his ear about which thread is tied where and tighten up.

He wouldn't know it but feeling the warmth glowing off a child's inner joyful spirit playfully peaking out the shell that was a human.

Danny felt a new dream born before his sightless eyes. He ended up fixing beloved toys here and there in Amity Park, then word got out after he made a beautiful music box that has a dancing ballerina in her box for a sweet grandma who was a retired Principal Dancer due to her torn achilles tendon after Danny saw how down her spirit mumbling how she wished to dance in the opera once last time.

A fix here, donated parts, threads, fabrics, buttons, cotton full of lonely spirits there, rebuild a lost dream of spirits all around all for 1 tiny trade each. He didn't know that the people he helped have been collectively anonymous a goFundme in Amity parks for him after he spoke about wanting to make a space theme toy shop and repair.

Danny would be 26 year old before he decided to invest in a building after going through a gigantic tsunami of customer wanting him to fix their old toys, plushy or antiques.

Danny had to change his last name due to the fact that nobody wouldn't let him rent a building nearly as far as new Jersey, much less a shop after hearing his last name being Fenton. Getting a cozy shop in a gotham full of saturated Ectoplasm was a wise choice.

It would be 3 months later meeting a lady with a soul spirit more wild peaking out of her body in a wheelchair who made his heart skip several slow beats after doing that Ashidon motion against the parenting section bookshelf even though her real body is still at the public library's counter.

7 months in of being befriended and compliments Babs Gordon, while her dominating spirit is nearly crossing the line. obviously flirting to him alongside whispering about how she loves to pull his silky hair again to hear him make that cute whine. If only people and ghosts could see the patient and restrain he had on himself, he would've probably already passed out again from the blood rushing to his head that day.

He learned many things about Babs, even though her wild spirit is dancing, showing off martial art techniques seductively, and talking the many many ways she can take him out that made Danny feel his heart about to stop.

Ellen, his sweet clone daughter, apparently was the first to say something about his most obvious crush on Babs and helped him practice, even though he failed miserable at the result. He got a date tonight.

Hopefully, everything goes well..

Part 2 link <-

[mastermindmiko]

Dancing

Pairing: George weasley + Reader

Summary: The Yule Ball with George as your boyfriend

Warnings: none, I believe

Word count: 700

“I think that was the best night of my life.” 

“I think that you’re over exaggerating.” I say, and bump his shoulder playfully. George swings our intertwined hands faster and higher, and there’s a bounce in his step. I would’ve been as joyful walking if these heels weren't a massive pain. George says, “It really was. I spent the night with my friends, dancing and we had fun…” 

He trails off and turns to grasp at my chin, he tilts my head higher. He presses a sweet peck on my lips that leaves me smiling like a maniac. He continues, “And, I got to spend most of it with the love of my life.” 

We reach the common room, and the fat lady is asleep. George knocks on the side of her portrait and she jolts awake. She’s shaken and grumbles, “What are you two doing disturbing me and being out so late?” 

“We would’ve stayed out longer if Flitwick hadn’t kicked us out of the great hall.” George states, chuckling. It was past midnight anyway, the night was supposed to end at ten, but we, and many other couples, couldn’t get enough of the Yule Ball even after the band had left. George opens his mouth to say the password, but the fat lady waves him off. 

“No need for a password, it’s too late for this kind of nonsense.” She yawns, and opens towards the common room. It’s warm, a great contrast against the snow that was falling during the ball. I sigh at the warmth and George grabs my waist. 

“I don’t want this night to end.” He grumbles, placing his face on my shoulder, pressing soft kissing to the crook of my neck. I grin, and thread my fingers through his hair. He stands up straight, and says, “Keep dancing with me.” 

“There’s no music.” 

“There’s no need for music, you can just think of any song you like.” George says, and he’s already placing his hand on my waist and raising my palm to his shoulder. I smile, “I really don’t think I can take another step in these heels.” 

“Take them off then.” George says, he goes down on his knees, and raises his hand for me to hold on to. He takes off both heels for me, and it feels amazing to have my feet back on the ground. His hands move up and down my legs over my stockings. 

He stands back up, and resumes back to dancing position. I think we’ve danced so much tonight, that I’ll still be dancing in my dreams. He starts to move the way we learned for the waltz, and my feet move instinctively. He’s much more silly this time, twirling me around more often, sneaking kisses whenever I’m close enough. 

I place my head on his chest, and we move slowly, barely taking any steps at all. I enjoy the pace of his heart. I lift my head up to look up at him. I say, “We should do this every month.” 

“The yule ball?” George asks, confused, amused, and not in any way opposed. I chuckle, “No, like a dancing-sort of date…maybe next time with actual music.” 

“That’s a brilliant idea, darling.” George says, and presses a kiss to my head, before I lean back on his chest. A few footsteps coming down from the boy’s dormitories interrupts us. Fred says, “Mate! I thought she kidnapped you and I was hearing the sound of your ghost coming to haunt me!” 

I laugh, and George smiles. I say, “I’m pretty sure if anyone’s kidnapping anyone then it’ll be George kidnapping me, not the other way around.” 

“It’s three in the morning.” Fred states after a laugh. And despite not wanting to, and enjoying George’s body heat way too much, I had to pull away and say, “He’s right, it’s pretty late.” 

I grab my heels from where I left them on the ground, and start going up the stairs. George follows closely behind, and when it’s time to turn left to head towards the girls’ dormitories, George grabs my hand. He presses a kiss on my hand and says, “I’ll dream of you tonight.” 

a/n: Hey! if you think this didn't completely suck, feel free to check out my masterlist, and I hope you enjoyed this fic

[rainylana]

“Well, damn.”

Eddie Munson x female reader

summary: eddie finds you in the bath.

warnings: smut in the bath, language?

This was what you needed after a long day. Relaxation. The water was hot and full of bubbles, candles were lit and the lights were off. Your eyes were closed in pure bliss, the smell of your mint bubble bath wafting through your nostrils. You smirked when you heard Eddie’s can pull in, hearing the crank of the wheel and squeak of the tires, his metal music booming through your speaker, interrupting your peace.

You lifted your arm out of the tub to rest on the linoleum, white plastic, sighing as the cool air raised bumps on your skin.

“Baby cakes!” Eddie sang, slamming the door on his way in.

“In here, Ed!” You called back, chuckling to yourself at the endearment. You closed your eyes again, settling back into the water, rising up to your neckline.

“Well, damn.” You heard his voice, the creak of the door coming to a halt. “This is what I like to see after a long day.”

You opened your eyes and smiled when you found him. Black jeans, black tee, black, wild and curly hair and covered in jewelry. He had a goofy smile on his face that you matched.

“Hi, baby.” You you wiggled your fingers out to him. “Kiss me.”

He hurriedly fell to his knees and placed a loud muaw of a kiss on your lips, sitting cross cross on the bath mat in front of the tub. “Got any room in there for me?” He wiggled his brows, adjusting himself on the floor.

“No.” You gave him a pointed look. “You always climb in during my bath time. I’m trying to relax! Take a bath on your own time.”

He pursed his lips, faking annoyance. “I don’t like baths.”

“Yes, you do!” You chuckled. “You always take them with me.”

“Honey, it’s not the bath I like it’s the wet naked lady in there with me.” He flicked water at your face, making you flinch.

He flicked water at you a few more times before going in for another kiss, placing a hand on your glistening, wet breast and squeezing it. He massaged it as he kissed you, your wet tongues dancing together and slobbering up each other’s mouths. He let his hand slide down your stomach until it was underwater, a familiar heat between your legs starting to spark like a singular match.

His slender, ringed fingers ghosted and teased over your pussy’s entrance, sucking on your mouth and making you moan into him. “Still- want me t-to leave?” He said in between kisses.

“Huh?” He grabbed your hair and lifted your head back. “Answer me, baby.”

“No.” You batted your lashes. “Stay with me.”

“Uh huh, and what is it you want me to do?” He placed a sweet kiss below your ear, his tongue licking the warm skin.

“Touch me.” You breathed out, the warmth of the water and his teasing making you lightheaded. “Please, Eddie.”

He groaned at his name and lifted your lips back out to his, shoving his fingers inside tour pussy it made the water splash. He barely gave you time to adjust, fingering you roughly in the tub. You broke apart from the kiss, gasping and laying your head on his chest to lean against, your wet hair dampening his t shirt.

“Oh, God!” You cried.

“Try again.” He smirked, his fingers flexing inside your gummy walls. “Say my name again, sweetheart.”

You chorused his name in song, mewling and writhing in the water it splashed out the sides and soaked up the bath mad and his jeans.

His thumb found your clit, massaging in circles that sparked white hot threads of pleasure up into your body. He dipped his head and took your breast in his mouth, sucking on it and biting your nipple, the ends of his hair becoming wet. You coiled over, leaning against his body as you whimpered deeply, crying out for him as your body began to shake. “I’m gonna cum, Eddie!” Your voice shook, tears burning your eyes as you began to see stars.

His thumb pressed on your clit like a button, adding pressure that made your coiled stomach snap. You let out a sob, and he continued fingering you in the water until your body was slack.

[chaosandcandies]

UNPLUGGED

CHAPTER XVII: Merry Christmas?

trope: fem!9th skz member warnings: angst, drama, insecure oc, cyber bullying, slow burn pairings: hyunjinxfem!oc prev|next

WHEN ISEUL WAS ADDED TO the Stray Kids group chat, it didn’t take long for her to gather that it was quite useless. And it took even lesser time to mute the group.

It wasn’t a big deal, she was only missing out on Han’s cursed memes, Felix’s bizarre TikToks, and the group’s constant arguments over the tiniest things. Besides, Chan or her manager always DM’d her the important stuff anyway.

Except they didn’t today.

Even words couldn’t describe her surprise when she walked into the dorm overflowing with people after a particularly exhausting vocal practice. And not just any people, but members of GOT7, TWICE, and ITZY, the very idols she had looked up to back when she was a trainee.

At first, she thought she was hallucinating. Maybe she had finally lost it, cracked under the pressure of the debut. Because why the hell would Jackson, Yugyeom and Jinyoung be sprawled in the living room, chatting with others as if it’s the most normal thing to do while Momo and Jihyo were cooing over Jeongin like he was a baby chick?

And why else would Yeji, Ryunjin and Hyunjin be mocking dance choreographies in the most hilariously stupid way?

And was that Bambam, Chan and Sana playing beer pong on the kitchen table?

It wasn’t until Changbin had pointed at her, laughing loudly at her expression, that she realised they were very much real.

“Oh my god,” he wheezed. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

No, Iseul wanted to say. A ghost wouldn’t give me a jump scare like this. But her mouth refused to cooperate, caught somewhere between gaping and grimacing as her eyes darted from idol to idol in disbelief.

Everyone was here.

And not in the casual, ‘Oh, we bumped into each other in the hallway’ kind of way—but in the ‘we’ve-been-here-awhile, made-ourselves-comfortable, and-might-never-leave’ kind of way.

And then, as if choreographed, they all turned to look at her.

She froze. Her tote bag slipped from her shoulder, dangling by a thread, but she didn’t even notice. Every nerve in her body screamed in slow motion as she made eye contact with Jinyoung—who offered her a polite smile so powerful it might’ve stopped time.

She blinked. Okay. Stay calm. Be normal. Just act normal.

Somehow, her body remembered what to do before her brain did.

She bowed stiffly. “Annyeonghaseyo, sunbaenim.”

A chorus of voices responded all at once—some telling her to drop the formalities, others laughing and calling her cute. But only one voice truly landed.

Tzuyu gave her a soft, almost shy smile and said, “Merry Christmas, Iseul-ah.”

In that moment, if someone had shot her in the heart, Iseul would’ve accepted it gladly.

And then it hit her.

Christmas?

Her eyes flicked around the dorm again, this time taking in the fairy lights tangled between cabinets, the paper snowflakes taped haphazardly to the windows, the faint instrumental of Mariah Carey playing from someone’s phone. There was even a tiny, plastic tree standing proudly on top of the coffee table, decorated with ramen packet wrappers and a single sock.

Was she so exhausted that she forgot about Christmas?

She swallowed hard.

God, her parents were going to kill her.

She also noticed something else—her clothes. She was overwhelmingly underdressed in her plain hoodie and sweatpants, a stark contrast to the festive energy buzzing through the room. Everyone else was dressed up, some in bright reds and greens, others in cozy holiday sweaters, while she looked like she’d just rolled out of bed.

A flush crept up her neck.

Then, Chan squinted at her, a playful crease forming between his brows. “Wait, why does she look like that? Did no one tell her about the early Christmas party?”

There was a beat of silence.

And as if it was all planned, her members at once turned and pointed at Han.

Han looked up from his cup, blinking innocently. “What? I did tell her. I messaged her three days ago in the group—”

Minho, who was lounging on the floor with a cup of cider and absolutely no patience, didn’t even look up as he muttered, “She has muted the group chat, you dumbass.”

Han gawked, scandalized. “She what?”

“Can you blame her?” Seungmin chimed in dryly from the armrest beside him. “Half the time it’s just you sending memes of screaming frogs at 3AM.”

“They’re art, you uncultured swine,” Han pointed. “Plus, she sent a thumbs-up.”

“That was a reaction to Felix’s TikTok,” she snapped.

Felix looked like he was going to cry, “Who reacts to a TikTok with a thumbs-up?”

“It was the only acceptable reaction I could think of that wasn’t going to hurt your feelings.”

The room erupted into laughter. Even Ryujin, mid-mocking dance move, paused to clap.

Iseul blinked, her heart still pounding from the sudden influx of laughter and warmth filling the room. “Wait. So… it’s not actually Christmas?”

“Of course not,” Jeongin piped up from between Momo and Jihyo. “It’s an early Christmas party. We leave for year-end schedules soon, remember?”

And just like that, the knot in her chest unravelled. Her knees nearly buckled with the wave of relief that hit her. She hadn’t missed Christmas. Her parents weren’t going to disown her. She still had time to buy presents. And maybe sleep. Eventually.

“God,” she muttered, dragging a hand down her face. “I thought I’d actually time-travelled or something.”

Minho, still lounging with his cider, smirked. “What you need right now is a good, hot shower. Go freshen up quick before you pass out.”

Iseul nodded as she toed off her shoes, grateful for the no-nonsense vibe he always brought and shuffled towards her room muttering greetings, sorry-es, and I’ll be back soon to idols she had never imagined interacting with.

Gosh, she will never live this day down.

Iseul stepped out of her room feeling a bit more confident. The soft, oversized sweater she now wore was the same one she and Jeongin had picked out on their recent shopping trip—a cozy shade of cream with tiny embroidered stars that made her smile every time she caught a glimpse of it. She’d put on just a touch of makeup—nothing heavy, just enough to brighten her complexion and make her feel presentable.

Just as she was about to head into the living room, two familiar figures appeared in her path. Jeongin, somehow managing to wriggle free from the grip of Jihyo and Momo, grabbed her hand. Seungmin followed close behind, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“We’ve got snack duty,” Jeongin announced, tugging her toward the kitchen. “And you’re gonna do the work with us.”

Iseul barely hesitated—anything to delay mingling with the visiting idols was welcome. She let herself be led into the kitchen, grateful for the brief reprieve.

She busied herself by pouring chips into a bowl, the crinkle of the bag loud in the otherwise quiet space. Jeongin glanced down and pointed at her sweater. “Hey—that’s the one we bought together, right?”

Iseul nodded, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

Seungmin squinted at her face, then leaned in with a teasing grin. “And you’re actually wearing makeup.”

Her cheeks flushed instantly. “God forbid a girl tries to look good,” she shot back, a defensive edge to her voice. “Now, will you two stop your conspiracy theories and take out the drinks?”

They obeyed, but Jeongin remained suspicious. “You never act like this around us. It’s weird.”

Iseul rolled her eyes, “Oh, don’t be ridiculo-”

“-Don’t you get it Innie?” Seungmin cut her off and Iseul could practically feel the smirk in his tone, “Iseul here has a crush on Jackson hyung. Didn’t you see her making heart eyes at him earlier?”

Iseul froze mid-pour, the chip bag suspended in her hand.

Slowly, she turned to glare at Seungmin, scandalized. “I did not make heart eyes.”

“You did,” Seungmin insisted, unfazed and far too smug for someone who was about to get decked. “You literally smiled so wide, your cheeks nearly ate your eyes. I thought you were gonna cry when he said hi to you.”

Jeongin gasped dramatically. “Hyung, she only smiles at me like that when I bring her yogurt.”

Which was, ironically, the exact moment Iseul noticed the unmistakable sound of a yogurt lid being peeled open.

It shouldn’t have mattered.

She was trying to cut down anyway. Less sugar, less dairy, less everything if she wanted to maintain her weight. But something about the way Seungmin looked so casual—lounging against the counter like he hadn’t just obliterated the last bit of comfort food she’d been saving for herself—sent her blood pressure spiking.

“You’re dead to me,” she whispered, horror dawning on her face.

Seungmin just raised an eyebrow and had the audacity to take another spoonful. “Relax,” he said around a mouthful of yogurt, “you can buy a new one tomorrow.”

Why couldn’t this menace of a man understand that she was already on edge? Exhausted from her vocal coach’s endless nitpicking, ambushed by surprise guests, emotionally wrung out—and all she wanted was one tiny cup of yogurt to make the world feel manageable again.

“I can’t just buy a new one, Seungmin,” she seethed. “This was the strawberry Greek yogurt. The one with the bits. The one with the actual crunch on top. It’s a rare species.”

Seungmin blinked. “I thought it was peach.”

“It was not peach!”

“Honestly? Tasted like peach.”

“YOU DON’T EVEN APPRECIATE IT—!”

At that, Jeongin wisely ducked behind the fridge door like a shield. Iseul flung the empty chip bag at Seungmin’s head, which he dodged with an infuriatingly smug laugh.

“I’m serious!” she cried. “Do you know what today was like for me?! Do you know how many times I got told to open my throat and lift my soft palate and find my fucking resonance zone? Do you know how many Jackson Wang eye contacts I’ve survived?! I earned that yogurt!”

Seungmin was still spooning the last creamy swirls from the cup. “You’re really making a scene.”

“Oh, I will make a crime scene.”

Jeongin, half-panicked and half-thrilled, burst out from behind the fridge and ran back to the living room. “CHAN-HYUNG! EMERGENCY!”

“Tell him I died doing what I loved!” Seungmin shouted after him, holding the yogurt up like a trophy.

Iseul saw red.

With an unholy screech, she launched herself at him. He barely had time to react before she tackled him sideways into the cabinets, sending a half-empty pack of paper cups flying through the air.

“MY KNEE!” he yelled dramatically.

“MY YOGURT!”

They collapsed onto the floor in a tangle of limbs, her trying to wrestle the spoon out of his hand, him laughing so hard he could barely defend himself.

“Give it back!” she shrieked, as though he hadn’t already eaten half of it.

“You can’t un-eat yogurt!” Seungmin laughed, somehow managing to twist out of her grip.

“Oh, you better!”

Iseul and Seungmin were already rolling around on the floor like deranged five-year-olds. She had him in a headlock, one hand trying to grab the yogurt cup while he flailed, still managing to shovel in another spoonful with a triumphant grin.

“You demon!” she shouted.

“You gremlin!” he countered, howling with laughter.

That was exactly the scene the rest of the party walked in on—Stray Kids, TWICE, GOT7 and ITZY alike, crowding the kitchen doorway in stunned silence.

Chan’s voice was hoarse, halfway between disbelief and fatherly resignation. “You were supposed to bring snacks. Not ruin them.”

Minho, entirely unbothered, sipped his cider. “Let them fight it out.”

“Are they… biting?” Yunah asked, half-laughing, half-horrified.

“I think she’s going for his kneecaps,” Jaebeom observed, eyes wide.

“Should we… do something?” Jihyo offered, already stepping forward to intervene.

But Changbin had doubled over, laughing into Hyunjin’s shoulder as Han was practically crying in the background. “This is the best party we’ve ever thrown.”

Felix clapped his hands, positively beaming. “We should livestream this!”

Meanwhile, Iseul had finally managed to wrestle the yogurt cup out of Seungmin’s hand—only to realize it was almost empty.

“You monster,” she hissed.

“You were cutting down on dairy anyway,” he wheezed, his hoodie half off his shoulder, hair sticking out in every direction. “I’m helping you!”

Iseul looked ready to commit murder.

But fortunately (or unfortunately), Chan finally stepped forward, exhaling a long breath as he knelt down and grabbed both Iseul and Seungmin by their shoulders, pulling them apart with surprising strength.

“Alright, enough!” His voice was firm but tired. “What the fuck is wrong with you two?”

Iseul and Seungmin sat back on their knees, faces flushed and breathing hard. The sudden awareness of the crowd of idols packed into the kitchen hit them like a wave. Their eyes met, a mixture of embarrassment and stubborn defiance flickering between them.

Neither of them said a word.

“Are you going to explain or keep acting like children?” Chan asked, his voice losing patience.

Iseul opened her mouth, but Seungmin shook his head.

“Nope,” he said flatly.

“Yeah,” Iseul echoed. “It’s stupid.”

There was a beat. Then Hyunjin and Changbin exchanged amused glances, suppressing chuckles.

Minho stepped forward with a smirk. “Fine. Then I guess we’re going for the weakest link.”

He turned to Jeongin, who looked like he’d rather disappear into the floor.

“Jeongin, I swear to god, if you snitch—” Iseul began, narrowing her eyes.

“Innie, you don’t want everyone to see your browser history, now do you?” Minho interrupted smoothly, his grin turning mischievous.

Poor Jeongin crumpled under the combined threat and blackmail, voice trembling but resigned.

“Alright, alright. It all started earlier, when Iseul was—uh—apparently ‘making heart eyes’ at Jackson hyung during the performance.”

“Heart eyes?” Yugyeom asked, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah,” Jeongin continued, cheeks reddening. “And then Seungmin started teasing her, saying she had a crush on Jackson hyung.”

“That’s not even the worst part,” Jeongin added, eyes wide as he recalled. “She got so mad she threw a bowl of chips at Seungmin.”

“A bowl of chips?” Chaeryeong echoed in disbelief.

“And then they started wrestling over the last yogurt,” Jeongin finished, voice low, “because Seungmin ate it.”

Everyone blinked, and then the room exploded with laughter and teasing, the ridiculousness finally breaking the tension.

Chan just shook his head, muttering, “I swear, this dorm is a circus.”

Iseul and Seungmin exchanged an exasperated glance, their truce unspoken but understood— at least until they got their revenge on Jeongin.

They eventually settled down—mostly.

The kitchen was behind them now, though its echoes hadn’t entirely left. The teasing was still bubbling, scattered like embers in a fire that had calmed but refused to die out. Seungmin was still catching side-eyes from Iseul, who kept muttering dire yogurt-related threats under her breath like an angry prayer. Jeongin and Tzuyu were trying to pile exactly nine blankets on top of Chan as some sort of bizarre inside joke, and Han had stolen the whiteboard meant for scorekeeping to draw progressively cursed caricatures of the entire room.

But the chaos had softened. The lights were low. Music buzzed faintly under the chatter—something jazzy and festive, blending into the background like snow.

Hyunjin leaned back on his palms, legs stretched out, shoulder brushing Changbin’s. It was warm. Lived-in. This wasn’t some high-stakes industry function, no cameras or stylists—just idols half out of their performance polish, tangled together in the loose knot of something that almost felt like a makeshift family.

Then, Bambam decided to ruin it all.

“Y’know Lee Know here had something very interesting to say,” he started, his grin devilish, eyes glittering with mischief as he nodded toward Minho—who immediately froze, mid-sip of yet another cider.

“Oh no,” Minho muttered, sensing betrayal a heartbeat too late.

“Something,” Bambam continued grandly, “about a secret Ahgase among us.”

A beat of silence followed. The kind of silence that hangs thick in the air before a storm breaks.

Minho sighed the sigh of a man who had made one grave mistake in confidence and was now reaping what he sowed but Bambam paid no heed to it. Instead, with with an overdramatic theatrical flair, Bambam pointed at Iseul, “It’s none other than Zhao Iseul!”

A gasp rippled through the room—some fake, some far too delighted to be fake. Iseul’s entire soul visibly left her body.

Iseul’s entire soul visibly left her body.

 “What? No way! That’s— that’s not true! I’m not an Ahgase,” she protested, cheeks coloring with a mix of embarrassment and indignation. “I mean, I respect all groups, but I don’t st— ”

“I saw the photocards you had hidden under your bed.” Felix said calmly, like he was just stating the weather.

Iseul’s eyes widened; mouth snapping shut as all eyes turned toward her like the spotlight had found its mark. The room held its breath for a second, waiting for her reaction, then erupted into a mixture of laughter and teasing jeers.

Unexpectedly, it was Jinyoung who asked the next question.

“Who was your bias then?”

The room collectively leaned forward, every idol and trainee suddenly far too invested. Even Jeongin paused in mid-blanket placement, mouth slightly open like he was watching a drama unfold live.

Iseul looked around wildly, as though an escape route might materialize between the coffee table and Tzuyu’s socked feet.

“No one!” she blurted out. “I didn’t have a bias. I was an OT7 fan. I loved everyone equally. Equally! Equality is important!”

“Lies,” said Jaebeom from somewhere behind the couch.

Iseul opened her mouth, maybe to protest again, maybe to implode on the spot—but she didn’t get the chance.

Because Changbin, sweet, traitorous Changbin, chose that exact moment to clear his throat loudly.

“I mean,” he said, hands raised in mock innocence, “if we’re being honest—wasn’t there that one time in the dorm when she tried to roast me by saying I’d never be as cool as ‘her real idol’?”

Iseul whipped her head toward him so fast the sound of her neck turning was practically audible.

Chaeyeong let out a snort, “Damn Iseul-ah, that's brutal.”

“No, no, it was taken out of context!” Iseul yelped, lunging for a throw pillow to hide her face. “He was being annoying! And I didn’t mean idol like idol—I meant, like, inspirational figure! Like, symbolically! Like—like a metaphor!”

“Oh yeah?” Changbin grinned, utterly unrepentant. “Was it a metaphor when you said, and I quote, ‘Jackson could do a backflip while singing and still have a better rhythm than you’?”

Dead silence. Then:

Jackson stood up.

He didn’t say anything. He just stood; arms spread slightly like a smug Greek statue brought to life.

And Hyunjin—well, Hyunjin forgot how to breathe for a second.

Not because of Jackson. Though the man did look insufferably majestic, bathed in the soft gold glow of the overhead lights, a smirk carved across his face like he’d just been declared king of the dorm. No, it wasn’t that.

It was Iseul.

Or rather, the way she looked like she wanted the couch to swallow her whole. Eyes wild. Hands gripping a throw pillow like a shield. Ears red. Lips parted in stunned horror.

She was so mortified it somehow looped back around to endearing.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Because Hyunjin had been trying really, really hard not to think about how endearing she could be when flustered. Not to notice the little things. Like the way she tugged her sleeves over her fingers when she was overwhelmed, or how her voice pitched up when she lied—like now, when she’d practically declared herself an ambassador for equality just to dodge the bias question. She was terrible at lying. It was kind of adorable.

Jackson turned slightly, hand over his chest like he was accepting an award. “Iseul-ah. I had no idea I was your standard of excellence.”

“You’re not!” she practically screamed, launching a decorative cushion at him. “I was fifteen! It was a phase!”

“Clearly not one of your best moments,” Jinyoung added.

Hyunjin pressed the heel of his palm to his mouth, trying to stop the giggles spilling out of him. It wasn’t working. Not even a little. Across the floor, Minho was cackling. Jeongin had fully collapsed against Tzuyu, giggling. Even Chan—buried under nine blankets like a human lasagna—was wheezing.

But all Hyunjin could focus on was Iseul, who looked like she was both about to cry and spontaneously combust.

He probably should’ve helped. Said something to defuse it. Reached out, maybe, changed the subject, taken pity on her like a decent person would.

But he didn’t.

Because part of him—deep, hidden, terrible—liked seeing her like this. Not humiliated. Just… cracked open. Human. Real. Not the careful, poised version of herself she carried into rehearsals. Not the quiet girl who kept half her thoughts to herself. This Iseul—the one who yelled at Jackson and threatened Seungmin over yogurt and accidentally exposed herself as a lowkey GOT7 fangirl—was messy and warm and kind of ridiculous.

And Hyunjin was in so much trouble.

Jackson, meanwhile, was fully soaking it up. “So, just to confirm—you did say I had better rhythm than Changbin?”

“Metaphor!” she wailed.

“I’m honoured.”

“I’ll cancel you online.”

Felix, now crying from laughter, wiped his eyes. “Hyung, please. Spare her. She’s never going to emotionally recover.”

“Why should he?” Chaeryeong chimed in, grinning. “She set herself up!”

“I didn’t set anything up!” Iseul groaned. “This is character assassination!”

Hyunjin didn’t mean to laugh.

But he did. It slipped out—low and unguarded—and Iseul turned toward the sound instantly. Her eyes narrowed. She pointed at him, accusingly.

“You! You’re enjoying this!”

His lips twitched. “I’m merely observing.”

“Asshole!”

The room roared with laughter, but beneath it, a surprising ripple ran through the group. The casual, sharp edge in Iseul’s voice—the unexpected curse—made Hyunjin’s pulse skip in a way he wasn’t quite ready to admit. He shifted slightly, trying not to stare as that sudden spark of boldness seemed to light her up differently, something fierce and real beneath the teasing.

Then Sana cut in smoothly, “Tell me, Iseul-ah, what’s the most embarrassing thing one of the boys has done?”

Instant groans echoed around the room. Jeongin immediately started protesting, while Minho looked like he might pull out his air fryer in defence. Yet, beneath the teasing resistance, a tangible anticipation hung in the air. Even the usually rowdy GOT7 had quieted, eager to catch every juicy detail from the Stray Kids’ camp.

“Well…” Iseul began, casting a glance around the room, “there was this one-time Changbin oppa tried to impress me by cooking dinner and somehow managed to set off the smoke alarm twice in one night.” She grinned, shaking her head. “Safe to say, the fire department almost became our uninvited guests.”

The room burst into laughter again, Changbin’s face twisting between embarrassment and pride. “Hey! At least I tried!” he defended, raising a mock salute.

The questions came fast after that.

“So, Iseul-ah,” Yeji leaned in with a cat-like grin, “be honest—who has the weirdest sleeping habit?”

Iseul blinked, trying to mentally flip through her list of traumas. “Channie oppa sleep-talks in different accents,” she said finally. “Last week he told someone to ‘cease fire’ in what I think was a Scottish pirate voice.”

The room erupted.

“No way,” Dahyun wheezed, nearly falling off the arm of the couch. “That’s oddly specific!”

“I do not—!” Chan started, only for Jeongin to cut in gleefully.

“You also once called me ‘Private Yang’ in your sleep and told me to secure the perimeter.”

Everyone lost it.

“I’m a man of many layers,” Chan muttered into his hands.

Seungmin deadpanned, “And apparently, military trauma.”

“Next question,” Ryujin grinned, eyes gleaming. “Who takes the longest to get ready in the morning?”

Iseul didn’t hesitate. “Hwang.”

Hyunjin’s head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t ‘excuse me’ me,” Iseul said, pointing at him with a mock glare. “You once spent fifteen minutes trying to decide if your earrings clashed with your vibe.”

“They did clash!” Hyunjin insisted, scandalized. “I was going for tortured-artist-meets-accidental-angel, not streetwear disaster.”

“Tell that to the breakfast you skipped because you couldn’t pick between two beanies,” Iseul added, crossing her arms.

“You’re just mad because I looked better in both,” he shot back, but his ears were already turning red.

“They both were black!” She cried, with the tone of someone who had known true despair. “Same beanie. Different labels.”

That did it. Jeongin slid off the couch entirely, dissolving into a heap on the floor. Minho actually wheezed, shoulders shaking. Even Jinyoung cracked a rare grin.

Hyunjin threw his hands in the air. “You people don’t understand vision.”

The room howled.

“Next question,” Jihyo said, biting back a grin. “Iseul-ah, who’s the loudest in the dorm?”

Iseul didn’t even blink. “You would have expected it to be Changbin oppa but it’s actually Han.”

“WHAT?” Han shouted from the floor, exactly proving her point. “That’s slander!”

“You hum movie soundtracks at 3 a.m.”

“It’s ambiance!”

“You recite your own raps in the shower.”

“That’s rehearsal!”

“You narrated your cereal-making process yesterday. Out loud.”

Han looked around for support. “You guys like it, right?”

“I felt like I was in a cooking show hosted by a sleep-deprived squirrel,” Seungmin muttered.

“And yet,” Han said proudly, “the cereal slapped.”

Everyone groaned.

“No more holding back,” Bambam declared, kicking his legs over the arm of the couch like a judge delivering a sentence. “We want scandal, Iseul-ah. Gimme dorm dirt. Real exposé type stuff.”

“Dirt?” Iseul blinked, already wary.

“Scandalous dorm confessions,” Lia chimed in, eyes gleaming. “We want secrets.”

Iseul side-eyed Chan, who just buried his face in a cushion with a groan. “I regret inviting all of you.”

“No, you don’t,” Jinyoung said mildly. “Let her speak.”

“Okay,” Yuna leaned in with a grin. “Who walks around the dorm with the least clothes on?”

Iseul’s jaw dropped. “What kind of question—?!”

“Answer the question, Your Honor,” Ryujin added, smacking the armrest for dramatic flair.

Iseul sighed, giving in. “Chan oppa. No hesitation. Shirtless at all hours. Even when it’s snowing. I think he has a personal vendetta against sweaters.”

The room exploded with laughter again, Chan’s muffled protests lost beneath the noise. “I do not have a vendetta!” he shouted, glaring but smiling. “I’m just… liberated.”

Bambam grinned. “Liberated, huh? That’s one way to put it. Next question — who’s the biggest neat freak? The one who actually makes the bed and doesn’t let a sock lie around?”

Iseul smirked, tapping her chin like a seasoned detective. “That would be Minho oppa, no contest. He’ll rearrange the fridge just to make sure the yogurt faces the right way.”

Minho nodded proudly. “Order is peace.”

“Iseul-ah,” Ryujin said, her eyes narrowing like a cat ready to pounce. “Last one. You must answer. No dodging. If you had to share a room with one member for a whole year... no switching, no breaks... who would you choose?”

Hyunjin suddenly looked up, way too casual.

Iseul scanned the room, clearly weighing her choices like it was life or death.

“Seungmin,” she said finally.

“WHAT?” Han cried.

“Not even me?” Chan gasped dramatically.

“I do the dishes!” Changbin pouted.

Hyunjin’s eyes flickered sharply toward Iseul, a flash of something unspoken—hurt? surprise?—hidden behind his calm façade while Seungmin had a smug expression on his face.

“Why him?” Sana demanded.

Seungmin retaliated, “If not me then who?”

“Because,” Iseul said, “he has noise-cancelling headphones, doesn’t snore, and is emotionally stable.”

“I am emotionally stable!” Felix said, clearly offended.

“You almost cried over a broken eyeliner pencil,” Iseul reminded him.

“It was limited edition!”

Tzuyu tossed a blanket over both their heads to shut them up.

For a beat, the room slipped into a lazy hum again—laughter dying down into chuckles, limbs tangled comfortably into cushions and carpet. Someone (probably Lia) was humming off-key. The jazzy playlist had turned into some lo-fi holiday remix that made the windows feel frosted even though they weren’t.

Iseul pulled the blanket off her head eventually, hair slightly static, and caught Hyunjin looking.

He didn’t look away this time.

And to his surprise, she didn’t either.

Not immediately.

Instead, she gave him a look that was equal parts I hate you and you’re lucky I’m too tired to fight. Then she rolled her eyes—dramatic, slow—and leaned back into the couch with the kind of exaggerated sigh that meant she wasn’t really mad.

Hyunjin’s smile, when it came, was small but stupidly fond.

Yep.

He was absolutely screwed.

TAGLIST: @leewritesstuff, @athens-09xx, @allenajade-ite, @idjdndjzbsdm, @idjdndjzbsdm, @hyuneskkam, @geni-627, @valkirymin, @miminbin, @tillaboo, @dreamerwasfound, @youthsquaredd, @skzstannie, @nchhuhi, @rtyuy1346, @necrozica, @aemondsrhaenyra, @skzfangirl143

STORY HINT: Later when they all left, Jackson went on Twitter to upload a selfie of the hangout with caption “Just found out I’ve been someone’s high school crush this whole time. Should’ve worn nicer shoes.” It’s safe to say it broke the internet.

HEY YALL lol i was sittin on this chapter for so long but I waited cause i wanted to upload it on my bday LMFAO Yea yer girl is one year closer to her death so cheers to that bahahhaa Anywhoo, I genuinely never thought that this series will get sm love, like it was so unexpected but am i complaining? NAUR. I js wanna thank yall for showing sm love and waiting patiently and encouraging me to write yet another chapter. I really really love yall <3 Stay safe! ~candy