#why does he keep knowing things he's not supposed to/

[ggukivrse]

THIRD TIME'S THE CHARM | JJK

summary. when you complain to jungkook about your lack of action in the past year, you're not really asking for a solution. but when he casually offers to help, you just can't seem to bring yourself to say no.

after all, what's the worst that could happen in hooking up just this once?

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre: friends to lovers, smut, fluff, slight angst

word count: 7.7k

warnings: swearing, they actually talk about their feelings :0, explicit sexual content, kissing, making out, hickeys, dry humping, oral (f. receiving), multiple orgasms, unprotected sex (be smarter than them pls), a bit of banter, petnames (baby), they're really fucking cute in the end it makes me sick, let me know if i missed anything!

notes: idk if this counts as my first completed series buttt... i'm gonna act like it does. thank you so so much to all the love and support you guys have given me for the past two parts, i'm genuinely so beyond grateful for it all :<< hopefully, you guys enjoy this part too!!

ps. READ PART ONE HERE & PART TWO HERE!!

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

You open his chat window again like it’s muscle memory. Like your thumb don't know how to not betray you.

It’s not even about sending something. You’ve got no intention of doing that. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. But the screen is always open, staring back at you with that last unread message you sent almost a week ago — a throwaway meme you found on your lunch break. No reply. Not even a reaction.

And it hadn’t felt like a big deal in the moment. You sent it like always, light and dumb and nothing. But then the nothing kept going. No little gray typing bubble. No 'lol.' No double text. No late night 'you up?' Just this wall of silence.

You would’ve rather gotten a dry reply. Hell, even a thumbs up. Anything to prove that he saw you.

But now it’s been long enough that sending something new would feel desperate. Like you’re chasing him. Like you’re asking for something you’re not even supposed to want.

You lock your phone and throw it face down on your bed.

Then pick it back up five seconds later.

Then toss it again, harder, as if that’ll prove something.

You wish you were mad. You think you are mad — at least a little. But it’s a tangled kind of anger. One that knots itself up with embarrassment and sharp, bitter shame. You want to scream at him, yeah. But also at yourself.

Why did you let this happen?

Why did you let him blur the lines and kiss you like that and touch you like he meant it?

You were supposed to be smarter than this.

You lie back across your bed with one arm flung over your eyes. It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid. It was just sex. Just two nights. Two insanely good, dangerously close, way-too-connected nights. But still — technically just sex.

Except it wasn’t.

Not when he remembered your favourite sauce order without asking. Not when he brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear while you ranted about work.

And especially not when he went cold the second things felt too good.

That’s what keeps twisting the knife. That shift in him. Like someone flipped a switch and rewrote the script. One minute, he was holding you like you mattered. The next, you were stepping out of his bathroom and into a stranger’s apartment.

You haven’t heard his voice since.

You bite the inside of your cheek and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to push down that lump of feeling before it rises too high.

It’s fine. You’re fine. You’re overthinking it.

Maybe he’s just going through something. Maybe he didn’t mean to shut you out. Maybe he thought you didn’t want to hear from him. Or maybe he’s just a fucking coward who got scared when the stakes changed.

But then, why didn’t you reach out?

Why didn’t you ask if he was okay, or tell him he was being weird, or demand an explanation like you’re owed one?

Because you’re afraid.

Because you don’t want the truth if the truth is that he regrets all of it.

Because deep down, you know this isn’t just a friendship anymore, and pretending it is would break you worse than silence.

Your phone buzzes once on the comforter beside you.

You freeze. Then sit up fast, breath catching halfway in your throat.

Your eyes are already scanning the screen before your brain can fully catch up.

Kook 🍜: hi

One word. Just hi. Like the last seven days didn’t happen. Like your stomach hasn’t been in knots trying to make sense of his silence. Like he didn’t vanish without warning after folding you into his sheets and leaving you to figure out what the hell it meant.

Your breath leaves you in one uneven exhale.

You blink at the message, your body locked in this strange stillness. Your thumb hovers, frozen. Part of you is tempted to stare at it until it disappears. Ignore it. Let him feel what it’s like to be the one left hanging. But your hands betray you again — just like they always do with him.

You: Radio silence for a week and all I get is a fucking hi? Wtf Jungkook

It’s not even what you really want to say, but it’s the closest thing you can manage that doesn’t sound like I missed you so much it made me sick or please don’t do this again.

Three dots appear.

Your heart squeezes like it’s caught in someone’s fist. And then the dots vanish.

Then come back.

Then vanish again.

You mutter, “Fucking say something,” to no one. It comes out too small, too desperate. You shut your eyes tight for a second like you can wring the feeling out of yourself by force.

A minute or so passes before his reply finally sends.

Kook 🍜: sorry. can i talk to you today?

You reread it so many times the text starts to lose meaning. Can I talk to you today?

You feel sick.

There’s no way you don’t know what this is. The phrasing. The tone. He wants to talk? What the fuck else could that mean, if not that he’s about to cut things off? That he’s going to hand you some polite little speech about how you’re great, but this can’t happen again. That he wants to stay friends and he doesn’t want to confuse things any more than he already has.

Or worse — he thinks you guys are better off cutting contact all together.

You bite down hard on your thumb, suddenly on the verge of tears and furious at yourself for it. You should’ve never let it get here. You should’ve drawn the line before the second time. Before the car. Before the party.

You should’ve been more careful with your heart.

But you’re here now. So far past the line you can’t even see it anymore.

You open your keyboard, then close it again. You want to ask what he wants to talk about. You want to demand answers over text so you don’t have to see his face when he says the words. But you know you won’t get anything that way.

You: Where?

Kook 🍜: i can come to yours

You sit there for a second, just breathing. You feel like you’re bracing for a crash that’s already midair.

You: What time?

Kook 🍜: i can be there in an hour?

You don’t answer. Not right away. You’re too busy staring at your reflection in the dark screen, wondering why your face looks so calm when your body feels like it’s trying to collapse in on itself.

You: Okay

You put the phone down carefully, like it might go off again, or explode, and turn your gaze to the ceiling. Every minute after this is going to stretch like it’s mocking you.

You don’t know if you’re getting closure or clarity. You don’t even know which one would hurt more.

But you know you won't cancel.

Because if this is going to end — if he’s going to say it — it has to be to your face. You need to see it.

You need to know for sure.

Jungkook is fucked.

Like, actually, cosmically, irreversibly fucked.

He stares at the elevator doors like they’re the gates to hell, and his own reflection in the brushed metal does him no favours. He looks tense. Jaw tight, shoulders hunched up high like he’s trying to fold himself into a more manageable version. Someone chill. Someone who isn’t about to shit himself over the thought of seeing you.

He rolls his shoulders back, shakes out his hands. Useless. He’s already sweating through his hoodie.

Every nerve in his body feels like it’s tuned an octave too high. Like if someone so much as breathes in his direction right now, he’ll either snap or confess something humiliating.

He wipes his palms on his jeans again. That’s the fourth time since the lobby.

The worst part is, he knows how he got here. He knows exactly when it happened, too — the moment the line moved.

It was your laugh. The tired kind, all cracked at the edges after that hellish Friday you had. You were curled up in his passenger seat, half out of it, feet tucked under you, and you’d looked over at him with that soft, worn-down smile.

And it just… hit him.

The weight of it. Of you.

He wanted to reach over and touch your face. Not to tease. Not to start something. Just to feel your skin under his fingers like it was allowed now.

And the second that thought formed — clear and blinding and way too tender — it was over. Game fucking over.

Because it wasn’t supposed to feel like that.

You’re his best friend. Have been for years. He knows how you take your coffee, how you organise your playlists by mood, how you chew on the inside of your cheek when you're anxious. You’re not just some girl he hooked up with at a party. You’re you.

And now, he’s standing in an elevator on the way to your apartment, trying not to think about how badly he messed it all up.

He hadn’t meant to ghost you. Not really. It was just — after that night, after the way you looked at him, all warm and trusting — he panicked. Full-body, brain-scrambling, total system failure. He couldn’t even look at you without feeling like he was seconds from saying something stupid like "Don’t sleep with anyone else, please," or "I think I’m in love with you."

So instead, he shut down. Did the one thing he always swore he wouldn’t do with you — he pulled away. Got weird. Avoided it. Avoided you.

And now you’re pissed.

Rightfully so.

He deserved that text you sent. Probably worse. You could’ve ignored him completely and he wouldn’t have blamed you. But you didn’t. You texted back and he’s clinging onto that like a lifeline. Because it means there’s still time. Still a chance to fix it — if he doesn’t blow it again.

He presses the heel of his hand to his chest like that might steady the erratic rhythm of his heart.

What the fuck is he even going to say?

Sorry for being an emotionally constipated idiot?

Sorry I ghosted you because I realised I’m in love with you and it short-circuited my whole fucking personality?

Sorry I thought I could fuck you and still keep pretending like you don’t mean more to me than anyone else?

The elevator dings.

Jungkook flinches like it slapped him, then scrubs a hand through his hair, lets out a tight breath, and steps through the doors before he can change his mind.

He’s here.

Fuck. He’s actually here.

Jungkook looks like he didn’t sleep last night. Hair messy, clothes a little wrinkled, eyes flicking up to meet yours for a second before they dart away again. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his jacket like he’s afraid of what they’ll do if left unsupervised.

You tell yourself not to feel relieved. Not to let it show. He didn’t cancel. He showed up. That shouldn’t mean as much as it does. It really, really shouldn’t.

But still — there’s something in your chest that unclenches when you see him standing there, real and present. Even if he does look like he’s about to apologise for burning down your house or something.

“Hey,” he says, voice quiet.

You step back from the door to let him in. Dry. Wordless. The move is automatic, but your body feels stiff with it, like your own muscles are annoyed on your behalf.

He hesitates before stepping inside, like he thinks the floor might swallow him up. You don't offer a smile. Don't even look at him once the door’s closed behind him.

You cross your arms and lean back against the edge of the kitchen counter, watching him with a blank expression that’s only half-real. The other half is tightly coiled under your skin — anger, sure, but under that, all the feelings you’ve been pretending not to have.

He does a slow, uncertain glance around your apartment like something might’ve changed since the last time he was here. But it hasn’t. It’s still your place. Same plants, same overhead light humming softly, same faint scent of laundry detergent that clings to the air.

He stands there awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. It’s like he doesn’t know where to put his body.

You’ve never seen him like this before. Not around you. Jungkook’s always been comfortable here. The kind of comfortable that leaves shoes by the door without asking. The kind that opens your fridge like he owns a shelf. But right now, he looks like a stranger in someone else’s house.

You let the silence stretch out. You’re waiting for him to just speak, but he doesn’t

He doesn’t even try.

Eventually, your voice cuts through the air, a little too sharp. “Jungkook, you said you wanted to talk.”

His head snaps up like he forgot that was part of the deal. Like the fact that he came here at all already cost him everything he had in reserve.

“Yeah,” he says. His throat moves when he swallows. “I do.”

You raise your eyebrows, waiting.

He opens his mouth like he’s about to start, then closes it again. Shifts his stance. Rubs the back of his neck with one hand. You catch the way his eyes flick to the floor, then back to you, then away again.

You narrow your eyes. “Well?”

He breathes out a weak, almost bitter laugh and runs both hands down his thighs, like he’s physically trying to ground himself. “I don’t know how to do this,” he mutters.

You frown, arms still crossed tight across your chest. “What? Talk?”

You hate being like this towards him — you feel like a bitch. But it’s the only way that you can stop yourself from just spilling all of your thoughts and feelings to him.

“No, I—” He breaks off, jaw flexing. “No. I mean… say the right thing. Say any of it without sounding like an idiot.”

You blink, unimpressed. “So you came here without knowing what you were gonna say.”

He looks at you then. Fully. And for the first time since he walked in, you see the real wreckage behind his eyes. There’s nothing cool or casual about it. He’s unravelling in slow motion. Everything about him is quiet desperation wrapped in someone trying really hard not to fall apart.

“I didn’t know what to say because I didn’t know what I wanted,” he says finally. “And then I figured it out, and that somehow made it worse.”

You stay silent.

He shifts closer, not by much — just a few inches. “I fucked up,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “I know I did. I know I disappeared. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I didn’t care. I was just—” he stops, jaw tightening again. “I got scared.”

You scoff under your breath and look away.

“I’m serious,” he says, softer now. “It freaked me out. How fast it happened. How much it changed.”

You look back at him, jaw set. “What changed?”

He swallows again. Stiff. His voice cracks a little when he speaks next.

“You,” he says again. “How I feel about you. That changed.”

Your chest tightens.

You don’t react, not visibly. You keep your face still, unreadable, even though your brain is suddenly scrambling. You’ve been yanked in too many directions this past week. You’re not going to lean into hope just because he finally decided to speak.

So you say nothing. You just hold his gaze and wait.

Jungkook takes a breath, his shoulders rising with it, then falling in a slow, deliberate exhale. The nervousness is still there — but it’s settled into something quieter now.

“I kept trying to tell myself it didn’t mean anything,” he says. “That it was just— whatever. Two friends, getting carried away. We were drunk the first time, right? It was easy to lie to myself about that. Easy to say it didn’t have to go anywhere.”

His voice is calm, but there's tension underneath it.

“But the second time?” He pauses, tongue running along the inside of his cheek, eyes still locked on yours. “That wasn’t drunk. That wasn’t casual. That was me driving us across town just to make you feel better, because I can’t stand it when you’re not okay.”

You flinch — barely — but he sees it. You know he does.

“And then it was me kissing you like I’d lose my mind if I didn’t. You think I didn’t notice how different that felt? I’ve never kissed you like that before. And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.”

The weight of his words hangs in the air between you.

You’re still standing by the counter, arms crossed, but now your grip has loosened. You hate how much this is getting to you, how badly you want to give in, how your chest aches just hearing him say the things you’d only let yourself think when the lights were off and your phone screen was dark.

Jungkook takes another step toward you.

“When I brought you back to mine that night… when you came out of the shower, and I saw you just standing there in my space, looking at me like I was safe…” His voice catches, but not in a way that makes him crumble — just enough to show the truth of it. “I freaked the fuck out.”

You blink at him, finally speaking. “Yeah. I noticed.”

He huffs out a breath that's almost a laugh, but not quite. “I didn’t mean to shut down. I didn’t even know what I was doing in the moment. I just— everything in me wanted to pull you close, and that’s when I realised I couldn’t keep doing this the way we were doing it. Not without losing my shit every time you left.”

Your throat feels tight, but you still ask, “So you decided to ghost me instead?”

That lands. His jaw flexes, and he nods once. “Yeah. I did. I thought if I gave it space, I could go back to being normal. Go back to just being your friend. But I couldn’t. I can’t.

“I don’t want to be just your friend anymore. Not because of the sex, not because it was good— which it was, but that’s not the point. It’s you. It’s always been you. I didn’t realise how much until I almost lost it completely.”

You swallow hard. Your arms are uncrossed now. Not folded in, not defensive — just hanging at your sides like you’re too stunned to remember what to do with them.

Jungkook steps in closer. Not touching you yet. But near enough that you can smell him — faint cologne, his laundry detergent, the scent you associate with your car windows fogging up.

“I missed you,” he says, and his voice turns softer. “Every day. And it scared the shit out of me, how badly I wanted to talk to you. Touch you. Just be around you. I wasn’t ready to admit it last week, and I was a coward for that. But I’m not running anymore.”

Silence again.

Except it doesn’t feel like the ones you’ve been drowning in for a week.

“I don’t know what you’re feeling,” he says, lower now, like the words might break if he’s too loud. “And I’m not assuming anything. But if you still want me around— really want me— just say the word. I’ll figure out the rest.”

You inhale slowly, try to even out your breathing, but your chest still feels like it’s barely holding together. Your heart’s doing that thing where it thuds too hard without speeding up.

You hate that you believe him. That you always would’ve. That no matter how angry you were, no matter how cold you tried to be when he walked in — you still wanted him to explain, to prove it wasn’t what your worst thoughts told you it was.

And now he has.

He’s standing in front of you with open hands, with the words you oh so desperately wanted to hear. And for a moment, you’re not sure what to do with that.

“I hate you,” you say quietly.

It’s not true. Not even close. But it’s the first thing that leaves your mouth.

Jungkook huffs out a dry laugh, eyes dropping to the floor. “Yeah,” he murmurs, nodding. “I figured.”

You shake your head once. “No. I mean it. I fucking hate you for this. For—” You break off, because your voice is shaking now. “For making me feel like I was crazy. For not even saying goodnight after… after everything.”

His face tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“You could’ve just told me,” you go on. “You could’ve said it was too much. That it got weird. That you needed time. Anything. But you disappeared. And I had to sit here wondering if I made it all up."

You pause, pressing your lips together.

“And I— I missed you too, you know,” you add, quieter this time.

His mouth opens like he might speak, but no sound comes out at first. Instead, he closes the space between you by half, slow and steady, like he’s afraid of pushing too far.

“God, you’re such an asshole,” you whisper, but your tone isn't mean. Not even close.

He laughs, soft and low. “Yeah. I know.

“You promise me you’re sure? Cause Jungkook, I will fucking cut off your dick if you pull this shit again.”

He smiles but doesn’t hesitate. “I promise. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

You stare at him.

Long enough that the air between you stretches taut, thin as thread.

His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you but still doesn’t know if he’s allowed. His jaw flexes, his chest rising and falling in uneven swells. You can tell he’s waiting — for a sign, for a go-ahead, for you.

And even though part of you still wants to be mad, still wants to make him sweat just a little longer, the rest of you aches. For his mouth. For his hands. For the solid, grounding weight of him.

So you move.

You step into the last inch of space between you and grab the front of his hoodie. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a year, but you don’t give him a chance to say anything.

You kiss him.

Not out of impulse. Not for show. You kiss him because you need to. Because your chest feels like it’s going to split open if you don’t.

At first, it’s quiet. Just lips pressed to lips — careful, slow. There’s a pause between each pass of your mouth over his, like you’re both trying to remember how this started. How you even got here.

But then he sighs against you — not loud, not dramatic, just a sound full of relief — and it unravels something.

His hands lift, hesitating for only half a second before they settle on your waist, fingers curling tight. You press closer, and his lips part beneath yours. The angle shifts. Your nose bumps his cheek. It’s not perfect, but it’s real, and when your tongue brushes his, everything tilts.

The sweetness melts fast.

He makes a sound low in his throat and drags you in like the distance is unbearable. Your hands slide up into his hair, fingers threading through the strands at the base of his neck, and the way he reacts — the little shiver he tries to swallow — sends heat straight down your spine.

You kiss him harder.

His body crowds yours until your back meets the wall. Not rough, not rushed. Just firm. His chest presses to yours, and you can feel the way his heart races. How your own pulse kicks up to match it.

The kiss deepens, turns messy at the edges. His teeth catch your bottom lip and your breath stutters, but you don’t pull back. You tilt your chin, chasing more, and the next time he kisses you, it’s hungrier. One of his hands slips to the small of your back, palm dragging slow and warm beneath your shirt. The skin-to-skin contact makes your whole body twitch.

You gasp into his mouth, and he swallows the sound, his hands tightening. His other arm slips around your waist completely, pulling you flush against him, and suddenly you’re not thinking anymore. You’re just feeling.

The tension that’s been bottling up between you two — the silence, the week of wondering, the ache of missing him so much it hurt — it all floods to the surface.

You fist your hands in his hoodie, yanking him impossibly closer. Your hips shift forward, just enough to brush him, and the sound he makes is sharp and involuntary, caught between a breath and a groan.

“Fuck,” he mutters, barely pulling back. His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged. “You’re driving me insane.”

You huff, lips brushing his. “That’s fair.”

Then he kisses you again. Rougher this time. Desperate in a way that makes your knees go soft.

He doesn’t stay at your mouth for long. His lips trail down — your jaw, your cheek, the shell of your ear. His breath is hot and uneven, and when he finds your neck, your whole body reacts. Your hands clutch at him, your back arches off the wall, and the soft sound that escapes your throat isn’t one you mean to make.

He feels it. Hears it. Answers it with a low, reverent sound that seems to vibrate straight through you.

His tongue traces the spot beneath your ear, slow and deliberate, and your eyes flutter shut.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, your breath catching sharp in your throat. You pull back for a second before lowering your mouth to his neck, right where the collar of his hoodie dips. He lets out a small sound, hands flexing on your waist, when your lips press there.

You start slow. You can feel his pulse under your tongue, the way his chest rises against yours, unsteady and warm. Then you part your lips and suck gently at the spot just below his jaw. His whole body stutters, hips jerking against yours before he can stop it.

Your fingers trail down his chest, tugging his hoodie collar aside for better access. His head tips back, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted.

You do it again, this time with enough pressure to leave a mark, and the sound of your mouth working against his skin is lewd.

He groans. It’s low and rough and barely held back, and the sound shoots straight between your legs. You feel him hardening now, undeniable through the fabric where he’s pressed against you.

“All mine?” you whisper, your lips brushing over the new mark you’ve left.

He doesn’t even hesitate. “All yours.”

His voice is breathless. Wrecked. And so damn certain it knocks something loose in your chest.

You pull back just enough to look at him — really look. His pupils are blown, his lips swollen, a flush climbing high on his cheeks. He looks at you like he wants to devour you. Like he would if you let him.

“I missed that mouth,” he mutters, hands gliding under your shirt again, palms broad and warm. “Missed everything.”

You kiss his throat in reply and drag your teeth across it until he swears under his breath.

His hips grind against you again, harder this time. You both feel it — the friction, the heat building between your bodies.

His arms shift beneath you and he lifts you clean off the ground in one smooth motion, hands strong under your thighs. A startled sound escapes your throat as your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, gripping him tight.

“Fuck,” he mutters again, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “I want you so bad it’s actually stupid.”

You smile, drunk on the feel of him.

“Bedroom?” you murmur, tracing your lips over the new mark blooming against his skin.

He hums lowly, and shifts his grip on your thighs.

He carries you through the hallway and your lips never leave his skin for more than a second.

When he reaches your bedroom, he doesn’t hesitate. He steps inside and drops you onto the mattress in one fluid movement.

You barely get your bearings before he’s crawling over you, slotting his body between your legs, His mouth finds yours again, and you moan into it before you can stop yourself when his knee presses between your legs.

Your hips twitch, grinding down against the pressure, and he groans in response, the sound vibrating through your chest as his mouth moves with yours. His hand slips under your shirt again, this time bolder, fingers spanning across your ribs and inching higher until his knuckles brush the curve of your breast.

You gasp softly, and he pulls back just enough to murmur, “Off.”

You sit up just enough to grab the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head in one smooth pull, your hair mussed from the friction. He watches the fabric fall to the floor, then looks at you.

“You’re so fucking pretty," he breathes.

You roll your eyes automatically, even though your face is already burning. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” he says, and his voice drops low. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His lips part and he kisses along your sternum — slow, wet presses of his mouth that trail up and then out, over the swell of one breast, then the other.

You inhale sharply when his mouth grazes the sensitive skin beside your nipple, and his eyes flick up at the sound, pupils blown. He kisses lower, then higher again, murmuring against your skin, “Can’t believe I went a week without this.”

The vibration of his voice right against your skin makes you arch, and he meets you halfway, grinding down slow and deliberate, like he knows exactly what you’re chasing and wants to stretch it out just to watch you squirm.

Your hands curl into his shoulders, nails biting down just enough to make him grunt softly into your skin. He rolls his hips again, slow and heavy, and the pressure against your core has your breath catching in your throat.

“Koo,” you whine out.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, lips pink and wet, hair falling into his eyes. He grins, crooked and hot and deeply pleased with himself.

“Yeah, baby?” he asks, and his voice is pure sin.

You glare, but your thighs shift open under him anyway.

“Please.”

He hums, satisfied, and starts working his way lower. Every kiss is wet and unhurried. Down your chest, across your stomach. His hands follow, smoothing over your ribs, down to your hips, dragging the waistband of your pants just slightly with them. His thumbs hook in the fabric, pausing right above your pelvis.

He looks up at you, smug and dark-eyed.

“Gonna let me take these off?”

He's so annoying you're gonna kill him. “Do I look like I’m stopping you?”

“No,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss just below your navel, “but I like hearing you say it.”

You huff, fingers threading into his hair again. “Take them off, Kook.”

He eases them down slowly — too slowly — dragging the fabric down your legs while his mouth follows in a path of heat and pressure. He kisses your hipbone, your inner thigh, every patch of skin he uncovers like it’s something sacred. When your panties go next, he makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat — more reverent than smug this time.

You’re already wet, already aching, and from the way his eyes flicker as he takes you in, he fucking knows it.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re soaked. You missed me that much?”

You exhale hard, cheeks hot. “Shut up and do something about it.”

He grins again, slower this time. “Anything you want.”

His hands grip your thighs and spread them further apart, and before you can say another word, his mouth is on you.

The first swipe of his tongue is long, and delibirate. You jerk at the contact, a broken sound slipping from your lips, and he groans like he’s the one falling apart. His hands tighten on your hips, holding you in place, and does it again.

Every movement of his tongue is practiced and precise. He starts slow, almost gentle, licking through your folds with a kind of focus that makes your head spin. Your thighs threaten to close around his head, but he pushes them apart with ease, never breaking rhythm.

Your hands move to the back of his head, gripping tight. His tongue circles your clit once, then again, and the third time he sucks it between his lips. You try to stifle a moan, but it slips from your lips anyway.

He pulls back just enough to speak, breath hot on your skin.

“Keep making those sounds, baby,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Wanna hear every fucking thing I do to you.”

He movements turn faster, his mouth messy and hot and relentless. You’re already close, the build-up sharp and climbing, and he can feel it. One of his hands slips lower, spreading you open further with his thumb, and his tongue drags in tighter circles.

You’re writhing, panting, toes curling into the sheets. Your fingers tug at his hair, your spine arching off the bed.

“Fuck— Kook—” you gasp, head thrown back.

He groans again, the sound vibrating straight through your pussy. He doubles down, mouth moving faster, and when your hips start to stutter, erratic and desperate, he presses his hand over your stomach, grounding you.

“You’re gonna come for me?” he murmurs against you, mouth slick with you. “Gonna let me taste it?”

You nod frantically, unable to speak, your whole body wound tight and ready to snap.

He presses his mouth against you again, lips sucking against your clit, and the feeling has you squirming with pleasure.

“Kook—” your voice breaks open as you come hard against his mouth.

He moans, but his movements don't stop.

Your body arches helplessly, heels digging into the bed, one hand fisted in the sheets, the other still tangled in his hair as you ride out the wave. You’re gasping, blinking hard, your heart trying to punch through your ribs.

Only when your legs start to tremble uncontrollably does he finally pull back.

His lips are slick and swollen, jaw damp, hair messy from where you’ve been gripping it. And he looks wrecked — eyes heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide, like just being between your thighs has undone something in him.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then drags his lips slowly up your inner thigh, leaving lazy kisses in his wake.

You’re still catching your breath, staring at the ceiling like your soul just left your body, when he plants a final kiss on the inside of your knee and murmurs, “Yeah. I’m never ghosting you again.”

You let out a breathless laugh, too blissed out to be mad. “You better not.”

“After that?” he says, crawling back up your body, slow and unhurried. “I’d be clinically insane.”

He settles over you again, pressing a warm, open-mouthed kiss to your stomach, then another between your breasts, then finally your mouth. You taste yourself on his tongue, and when he groans against your lips, it sends a fresh jolt of heat straight through you.

His body is flush against yours, his clothed cock thick and heavy where it presses against your thigh. You let your hands trail down his chest slowly to tug at the denim loops of his jeans.

"Want these off," you mumble against his lips.

He smiles and presses one last kiss to your mouth before he leans back onto his knees. His hands go to his belt, and you watch the way his fingers fumble for just a second.

He gets the buckle undone, then the zipper, the sound louder than it should be in your quiet bedroom. You watch as he shucks them down, boxers and all, and your breath catches slightly at the sight of him — flushed and hard and achingly ready.

“Better?” he asks, voice low.

You nod, breath shallow, and he’s already crawling back over you. The heat of him sinks into your skin as his body settles between your thighs, bare now.

Your legs part without hesitation.

His weight, the press of his chest to yours, the familiar scent of him wrapped in something raw and new — it all hits at once, and your whole body shivers.

He’s warm everywhere. The kind of warmth that soaks into your bones and makes you ache for more.

His hands slide along your arms until they find yours where they’re resting above your head. He threads his fingers through yours and presses them gently into the pillow, pinning you there. His eyes search yours, and you feel the first brush of him between your legs, just the tip, teasing the edge of you.

He doesn’t move yet. Just rests there, eyes locked on yours.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice low and thick, like he’s hanging on by a thread.

You don’t answer — not with words. You just tilt your hips up, welcoming him in with nothing but a look.

He pushes in slow — painfully slow — each inch dragging fire across your nerves as your body stretches to take him. Your mouth falls open in a silent gasp, your fingers clenching around his. When he’s fully buried inside you, he stills completely.

“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead dropping to yours. “You feel… unreal.”

You can’t speak — your body’s too full, too wrecked already — so you kiss him instead. Slow and sweet and a little desperate. Your hips rock up, seeking more.

He groans into your mouth, finally starting to move, and every thrust is so fucking deep. It’s not rushed or frantic. It’s him savouring you, like he wants to remember how this feels with every part of himself.

His hands stay tight around yours, anchoring you both to the bed, to each other.

The rhythm builds, a slow burn that spreads everywhere, and between kisses you catch the way he looks at you — like he’s seeing something he’s afraid to lose. Like there’s something he wants to say but can’t yet.

“You were supposed to beg,” you manage to murmur against his mouth, breathless. “Grovel a little.”

That crooked smile curls against your lips. “My bad, baby,” he murmurs. “You can make me beg next time.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re gonna regret that.”

He shifts his hips, thrusting deeper, and your breath leaves you in a ragged gasp.

“You promise?”

The challenge in his voice is smug, but his eyes are dark and glassy, his control hanging by a thread. You whimper in response, thighs tightening around his waist, and he dips his head to your throat, dragging his lips along your pulse like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.

He starts to move with more purpose now, making you feel every second of it. His cock grinds into that spot that makes your vision blur, and your whole body tenses, fingers squeezing his like a lifeline.

The moan you let out is shameless, high and wrecked, when he tilts his hips just right — again and again, like he’s carving his name into your body from the inside.

“Right there?” he murmurs, already knowing. His hand slips between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with the kind of confidence that only comes from knowing you — every reaction, every sound. “God, you’re so fucking wet. You always get like this for me?”

“Koo—” His name slips out broken, a warning and a plea wrapped in one.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice ragged, forehead pressed to yours. His thrusts get rougher now, faster, the rhythm losing polish but gaining intensity. “Let me have you, baby. Come again for me.”

The words send a bolt of heat straight to your core, your whole body winding tight. His mouth crashes against yours before you can respond, tongue tangling with yours, greedy and open and honest in all the ways his words still aren’t.

When he pulls back, he’s panting, “You feel like heaven, fuck.”

You can’t even process it — not now, not when his rhythm stutters and his hips slam harder, each thrust jolting a cry from your throat. Your legs are trembling, your grip bruising where it clings to him, and you can feel the knot in your stomach tighening.

“That’s it,” he groans, watching your face like it’s the only thing that matters. “Let go for me. Let me feel you.”

You bury your face in his shoulder, teeth catching on his skin as your orgasm crashes over you. Your body locks up, thighs clenching, and you cry out his name. His hand squeezes yours back, holding you through it.

Your walls grip him tight, and he groans loud against your skin, hips faltering. “Fuck— shit—”

He thrusts once more before spilling into you with a broken sound, voice rasping your name like a prayer.

His whole body shudders as he comes, arms locked tight around you like he needs you to stay exactly where you are — here, under him, around him, real. His forehead drops to your shoulder, damp curls brushing your skin as he exhales, long and shaky.

Neither of you move right away. The air between you is thick with heat and breath and a comforting silence.

Eventually though, he shifts just enough to press a kiss to your collarbone. Then another, softer.

His hand slides along your waist, fingertips brushing lazy patterns into your skin. You hum under your breath — not a word, just a sound — and he responds by kissing your shoulder again.

Your legs are still tangled together. His body still half-draped over yours. There’s a mess between your thighs and sweat clinging to your skin, and you should probably say something, anything — but there’s something sweet about the silence now. It’s soft. Unspoken. Peaceful, in a weirdly intimate way.

He shifts again, easing out of you with a quiet groan, and you wince a little at the loss.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, running a hand gently over your thigh like an apology.

“It’s fine,” you breathe, eyes closed, chest still rising and falling too fast.

He doesn’t go far. Just rolls to the side, still close enough that his leg stays pressed against yours, and reaches for the blanket to pull it up over you both. He tugs you into his chest like second nature, burying his nose in your hair, his hand stroking absently up and down your arm.

“You good?” he asks softly, lips brushing your temple.

“Yeah,” you say, quieter now. “You?”

He pauses. Then he nods against your skin. “Yeah. More than.”

You lay there like that for a while, heartbeats evening out. He’s still drawing shapes on your skin — fingertips slow, mindless — and you smile to yourself, warmth blooming low in your stomach.

“So,” you murmur eventually, voice still hoarse. “What now? We high-five and call it a night?”

He huffs a laugh into your hair. “I mean, I wouldn’t say no to a high-five.”

You laugh, nudging him with your shoulder. “Cocky.”

“Confident,” he corrects, grinning. “But really—” He shifts a little so he can see your face, one hand reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “If we’re doing this, I wanna do it right.”

You blink, caught off-guard by the sudden sincerity in his voice. “Do what right?”

He raises an eyebrow, like it should be obvious. “Us.”

There’s a pause. You look at him, and he looks at you, and it’s terrifying and sweet all at once.

“I really like you,” he says, quieter this time. “And I’m not just saying that because I just got laid.” He cracks a small smile. “Though, to be fair, that was mind-blowing.”

You snort. “So humble.”

“I’m serious,” he says, nudging your nose with his. “I’ll take you out. I’ll plan dumb dates. I’ll be obnoxiously charming and show up with flowers. I’ll be— like— a gentleman, or whatever.”

You give him a look. “You should’ve done all that before you fucked me.”

His grin spreads. “Yeah, well. Guess I got the order wrong. You gonna hold that against me?”

“Maybe,” you say, lips twitching.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, fingers brushing your cheek. “You’ll see. I’ll be so romantic it’ll make you want to punch me.”

“I already want to punch you.”

“And yet,” he says smugly, pulling you closer, “you’re still in my bed.”

“This is my bed, dumbass.”

He pauses. “Okay, fair. But I am naked in it. With you.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile on your face won’t go away. His arm tightens around your waist, and you let yourself relax into it — into him. For once, it doesn’t feel like something to second-guess.

He kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth.

You tuck your face into his neck and sigh. “You better bring the good flowers. Like the ones that don’t die in two days.”

“Oh, so now you’re picky?”

“You said dates and flowers. I’m holding you to it.”

“Noted,” he says, fingers threading into your hair. “I’m gonna be so disgustingly good to you.”

You laugh softly into his skin.

And he just holds you tighter.

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

[zyettemoon1800]

Saja Boys watching you get your hair braided

Since becoming the manager of the Saja Boys, you haven't been able to catch a break. If it wasn't a meet and greet then it was practice, and if it wasn't that then they needed you to do something for them. Just when you thought you were going to crash out, Jinu decided that everyone deserved a break for the next day.

Knowing that you might not get this chance again, you made an appointment to get your hair braided. The following day, as you woke up extremely early to go to your appointment, you were surprised and annoyed to see all the boys up and ready to go with you.

Not wanting to deal with them, you told them that they could tag alone as long as they are on their good behavior.

Baby

He wasn't really interested in going, but since everyone else was going he just tagged along.

For the first five hours he was fine and kept himself entertained, however, after his phone dies and he doesn't have a charger, so he makes it your problem.

While you are sitting in the chair, he will walk up to your chair and look at your hair when the person is braiding it. "Are they supposed to be different sizes?" He'll say and then walk away

Romance

He did really well for the entire 10-hour process.

He most sat over by you and made sure you didn't need anything.

As you are getting your hair braided, he is already showing you pictures of other braid styles that he thinks will look good on you.

Since the place that you are getting your hair done at is in a kind of crowded area, he will go out and get food for you

Mystery

He didn't make it pass the two-hour mark

He is a fidgeter and sitting for hours on end is not something he wants to do.

He will start to read and look at everything in the store and when he is done with that, he will mess with you for a little bit by staring at you or sitting by you and putting his head on your lap.

He would definitely go with Romance whenever he goes out to get food.

Abby

Another one with a short attention span

He will probably join Mystery in reading everything in the store, however he does get bored on that pretty soon, so he will start lifting heavy things and start exercising.

He will start flexing and posing in the mirror and taking pictures with you in the shot

Jinu

Through the entire process, he is asking you a bunch on questions about your hair and why you wanted to spend you day off doing this.

You both had a talk about how your hair does much better when it is left alone.

He is amazed by your braids and keeping touching them

However, after about five hours he does leave because he is bored.

[honeybeegashii]

Feral Devotion 2

⋆˚꩜｡Note: Thank you guys so much for the support for the first part! It was heartwarming to see all the likes, reblogs, and comments. I quickly cooked this one up, shout-out to my boyfriend for being my beta reader.

Summary: A dangerous hunter is drawn to your fragility and quiet nature, seeing you as something precious and divine. Despite the vast differences in your cultures and the Yautja's violent instincts, he treats you with care

He’s not supposed to want you.

Not like that. Not like this.

You’re quiet where they roar. You flinch from the kind of touch that means affection to them—too close to violence, too hot, too heavy. You’re human. You’re wrong.

And still, he watches you like you hung the moons. Like there’s something divine etched in the fragile lines of your body, something sacred about the way you curl in on yourself instead of baring your teeth. You learned early what he is—a hunter bred for war, death, and blood under his claws.

You’ve seen what he does to the things he wants to keep. How rough their courtship is. How bloody. But when he touches you. He’s careful.

Too big for your world. Too dangerous to breathe the same air as you. And yet, he steps soft when he enters the space you call home (a cage, a cell, a corner of a ship lit by humming low-tech lights because their stars are too bright, their walls too raw).

He brings you things.

Not flowers. Not chocolates. No, he’s not stupid. He brings you kills. The skull of a serpent-beast. A feathered claw from a world that burns too hot for your lungs. Trophies, cleaned with his own hands. Left at your door. He leaves them like a stray cat with a bleeding mouse, proud and anxious, waiting for praise. You told him once, voice shaking. “I’m not like your women...”

And he growled. Not in anger. Not in threat. But something low, something that made your stomach twist, your spine press against the cold metal behind you. Like the idea excited him. He tilted his head. Clicked low in his throat. Moved closer. Towered.

“No,” he rasped, his translator lagging half a breath behind the guttural music of his voice. “You are mine.” You're not ideal. Not Blooded. Not even worthy by their standards.

But his. And maybe that’s worse. Because it means he wants you. Means you’ve been marked by a creature whose love looks like possession, whose tenderness comes with claws that can cut you open if you flinch too fast.

You don’t even know how it started. The way he began inserting himself between you and anything that moved too fast. The way he tracked your scent was like it was a command, not a curiosity. The way his eyes followed your throat when you swallowed, was slow and fragile and breakable.

Sometimes you think he doesn’t even want to breed you. That the idea of touching you would be too much, like holding a moth in a closed fist, terrified of the ruin. Other times, you wake up with his shadow looming in your doorway, watching you sleep like he’s debating it.

Like he wants it. Not the act, but the claiming.

And what do you do when something like that wants you? When something that could tear your spine from your body with a flick of his wrist chooses to kneel instead? You let him bring his trophies. You let him watch. You start dreaming about what those claws might feel like pressed just right. And slowly, slowly, you start to wonder—not if he’ll claim you, but when.

He doesn’t understand why you flinch when he calls you mine.

Doesn’t get why your voice rises when you say, “I’m not a thing,” or why your hands tremble after you push him away. Soft, but still rejection.

Because where he’s from, possession is not cruelty. It’s protection.

It’s a promise. It’s a claim burned brighter than blood and louder than any vow.

In his culture, nothing is more sacred than what you keep. Trophies are not just reminders of conquest, they are proof of survival. The victory, and the value.

And you? You’re his most precious kill-not-kill.

He didn’t mount your skull on a wall. He didn’t skin you and hang your pelt next to his Xenomorph marks. Instead, he keeps you fed and clothed you. He stood between you and his kin like a wall of living flame.

You think that’s captivity.

To him, it’s worship.

You come from a world of soft language and softer boundaries. Consent, communication, compromise. He doesn’t speak that tongue. Not naturally. Not easily. His language was forged in the heat of combat and scarcity. It is made of action, not words.

His society teaches that worth is earned in blood. That the weak must be culled or kept. And he kept you.

You don’t know how many he had to fight for that. You don’t know the way they laughed. The way they mocked him for guarding a soft, broken-boned little thing like it was a sacred heirloom. They called him feral. Called you a pet. Told him you wouldn’t last a season before you snapped under pressure like wet bone.

You snapped, yes, but not in the way they thought. You bent around him. Learned the rhythm of his rage. You stopped crying when he snarled and started staring him down instead. You learned how to say no in a language with no word for refusal—and he started listening.

That’s the thing no one warned him about. That humans infect. That their fragility is contagious. That their softness spreads.

Now, he waits before he touches. Watches you sleep instead of curling around you like a beast. Tries not to show his teeth when you talk back. (He fails sometimes. But he tries.)

He still calls you mine. But he says it differently now.

Previous

[0gl1tch0]

-AWAY! Fuck you. We’re done! And honestly this is a long time coming. Things have been shit, you have been shit, for so long. Looking back I don’t know why I put up with it. Momentum? But this, this is on another level. You got my family involved. Don’t fucking talk to my family! We’re done. Fuck you. This is goodb-

I only know one spell.

Forget. Forget. Forget.

I can use it on one person, and have them forget forget forget one thing, at one time. Use it on someone else and they remember, immediately.

It’s not the most useful spell. It can’t cover up anything with two witnesses. It can’t hide any memory indefinitely.

And I can’t use it on myself.

I would.

It’s hard to pick the one thing I’d use it for.

YOU wouldn’t believe it. I just got pulled over and I’m like super high. And I’m sooo nervous. Like this pig is definitely knows. But he goes back to his car to run my plates and he must have gotten a car or something, cause he just flipped on his lights and drove AW-

Susan is at the library on a Tuesday. She’s supposed to be at work, but she forgot. So she went to the library like she usually does on her days off. It helps her study. She’s earning an online degree in public health. She’s a good person trying to help. Plus, she doesn’t want to be a security guard forever.

But she does want to be a security guard for now. And the second I make someone else forget forget forget something, she’ll remember. She’ll be running back to work confused with no excuse. I suppose if I did it to her enough then the government would fire her. But I need her to keep her job, at least for now.

So I change what I’m forcing her to forget forget forget. She grabs her purse and starts sprinting out the door to her car. She doesn’t remember to log out of library computer though. I don’t let her.

-N we talk? If you’re busy it’s okay but this is important. Last night I was hanging out with one of the guys from work. I thought he was sweet, and we were having fun, I dunno. I was just so drunk. It started to rain and I was cold and I wanted to go inside but I just passed out on the ground. And he was laughing. He just left me there. My memory gets hazy after that. YOU-

It’s a funny thing, memories. Every time you think about them, they change. They aren’t records you play and put back on the shelf. They’re stories you tell yourself, over and over, memorizing the newest telling each time. Your biggest regrets? Those terrible things seared into your brain? You aren’t reliving a particularly bad moment. No, you spend the rest of your life telling yourself the same sad story, over and over, combing through the details looking for any little thing you could have changed. But it doesn’t matter. The ending is always the same.

Even if your mind slowly massages your recollection, reality brings back the pain you can’t forget forget forget.

Take Susan, for instance. She shot and killed someone. And she’s been retelling herself those every day since. I can see it, in the version history of the report of the incident on her computer. Certain truths become fuzzier. Certain falsehoods more distinct. Her memories of the biggest regrets of her life smoothing like wood, as she tries to sand away a chaotic hectic and jagged piece of her foundation into something she doesn’t hurt herself to touch. But the guy is still dead. The smooth shaft of wood still ends in the point of a spear. And she’s stabbing herself on it. Trying to forget forget forget.

Her boss says she’s a hero. The mayor is going to meet with her. Only she’s not going to remember the meeting.

I only have a few minutes before she runs back into the library and signs out of the computer. I won’t need half that to clean up after myself. I’m not the kind of person whose presence leaves evidence. Not anymore.

-ught about it. For a long time. And I. I dunno. I like you a lot. It’s just. I mean how would that even work? Maybe we should just be friends. CAN-

Getting into the restaurant will not be easy. I can’t sit down at a table without a reservation. Even if I cast a spell on the hostess, that won’t change whether or not the tables are full. And if I get a table, I have to order something. This isn’t a place regular folks can afford, and I can’t even scrap together regular people money. Maybe it slips the waiters mind and he doesn’t bill me, but I’m leaving here with my spell on the Mayor. I just need to get close to him for a moment.

One moment. That’s all any of us ever need. That’s all any of us ever get. We are all just a collection of what we did in a small list of moments.

-HIS is a really bad time. I’m sorry, my dog just died. I really can’t think about anything else right now. I don’t have the THOU-

Human beings, ultimately, are just a pile of chemicals. Big meaty lumps controlled by electrical signals powered by a series of gasses and fluids, flowing at a steady rate each and every second. We are a teetering balancing act of chemical input and chemical output, existing as a filter in a river of time while reality sifts through us.

It’s not the balance that makes us. It’s the imbalances. It’s the different needs and cravings at different levels. What does it mean when the introduction of someone’s scent increases our endorphin levels? How do we shape our lives if the thing we’re missing comes in a pill that the government can take away? What does it say about us if the thing we’re missing doesn’t come in any pill at all? What would you do to try and find balance? How good does something have to feel to be good enough?

We are all just piles of chemicals trying to bond.

And I’m standing in the bathroom because I let one chemical spill out.

I cut myself on my arm, walked into the front room, and asked if I could clean myself up. Of course security would let me through. I didn’t even need to use a spell to be left alone in here, although I’d planned to. Most people are inherently good, most of the time. And I erase a little bit of people to get what I want. What does that make me?

AND he’s dead. Oh my god he’s dead. I just found his obituary. It says he killed himself, Jesus Christ killed himself months ago. He’s the best thing that ever happened to me, the best part of me. I think we were like… platonic soulmates. And he’s been gone. Just gone. For months! I can’t believe it. Please say something. I can’t take TH-

I’m not going to kill the mayor.

I could, maybe, I think. For a few minutes have him forget forget forget to breathe.

But I don’t want anyone to die. I just want there to be a little less hate. I want Susan not to have hated anyone who scared her while she was working alone. I want Susan not to hate herself for what she was expected to do while afraid. I want Susan not to hate herself for what she does now, just to get one evening where she feels good.

I want the first world to function less punitively. I want the world to understand decisions were little bursts of energy through couple soupy wrinkles of meat, and sometimes that energy misfires. Sometimes that meat is wrong.

But we don’t do that. We see something wrong and we hate it. We hate it like that will make it right. If the force of our disdain and the extremity of our punishment are extreme enough we can beat the things we hate into submission. We treat the human psyche like its only remedy is ballistic repair. Hit it to make it start working. If the signal is still fuzzy hit it again.

We hit each other and ourselves so hard and so often that the only remaining ways to cope are the exact things we hated in the first place. We hate the poor so we take their homes away. We hate the fat so we force them to stay inside where we cannot see them. We call addicts criminals and brand them for life, barring them from any alternatives that might feel good.

And the mayor? He needs people to vote for him. So he has to be the paragon of our hate. He has to embody it, to take that nebulous hate and through his pen channel it into legislation. In front of dozens of cameras he’s going to sign a bill that condemns those of us hurting the most to even worse cells at even worse prisons for even longer sentences. And he’ll do it with a smile, in front of dozens of cameras, shaking the thankful public’s hand.

But it won’t do anything. You can’t unring a bell. You can’t untake a pill or unpull a trigger. Susan won’t bring that boy back when she rethinks the story, when she takes pain killers, when she gets fired for having them or when she spends time in a cell. He will always be dead.

So I won’t let the Mayor do this. For three days the bill will sit in a shelf in his desk that I command him to forget forget forget.

That’s the best I can do. I just stop things from getting worse. I don’t know how to make things better. That’s not my part of the phrase.

No I think we could move in together. What’s the worst that happens, I have a shitty year there? I’m going to have a shitty year here. Besides, you’re my best friend. If we get into a fight I’m sure we can���t forgive and-

You only know one spell, and it isn’t even a high-level spell. But between its versatility and your creativity, you’ve still made a name for yourself.

[bbyg4rl]

୨୧ ─ fetishes . . .

cw: REQUESTED / jj x reader, SMUT, foot fetish, dry humping.

It’s a quiet night, your legs are stretched out, your toes nudging against JJ’s thigh while something forgettable plays on the TV. You’re in his shirt, sprawled across the couch, half in his lap, like always. He never complains. Until your foot creeps higher today. JJ shifts. Clears his throat.

You pretend not to notice. Just smile to yourself and drag your toes along the seam of his shorts, featherlight. “Hey,” he looks at you. “What are you doing?”

You nudge again. “What am I doing?”

His voice drops, hand stroking your leg. “This.”

You giggle, all mock-innocent, but he’s already catching your ankle, hand curling gently around it like he’s not sure if he’s supposed to stop you or keep holding on.

“Fuck, you’re warm,” he mutters, thumbing over your skin. His other hand drifts down, big palm pressing against the arch of your foot like it’s instinct. You wiggle your toes. He shudders. “Don’t look at me like that,” he mumbles, eyes flicking up. “I’m a simple man.”

“Oh?” you tease, slowly climbing into his lap. “That why do you look like you’re about to die?”

JJ groans. “That’s ‘cause I’ve got a beautiful woman teasin’ me, and I think I’m living a fantasy I didn’t even know I had.”

You settle fully onto his lap now, knees bracketing him, shirt riding up your thighs. His grip slides to your other foot too—both palms now resting against your arches, rubbing slow, grounding himself.

He’s hard already, and the way you rock against him is making his breath stutter. “Fucking hell, baby.”

“You’re squirmy,” you murmur, letting your hands trail over his shoulders. “You gonna lose it?”

He nods, dazed. “Yeah. Probably. It’s not my fault, though.”

“No?” You tilt your head.

JJ swipes his thumbs down your heels, massaging lazy circles into your skin like it’s keeping him calm. “You on top of me. This is... yeah. This is it for me.”

You grin, dipping forward, brushing your mouth over his. “You’re cute.”

JJ groans again, bucking up into you. “Don’t call me cute while you’re grindin’ on my cock.”

You giggle again, harder this time, your smile curves against his lips. “I mean it.”

He whines a little, and you feel him pulse beneath you, hips twitching—so close to the edge, just from the heat of you, the slow rhythm, the feel of your soles in his hands.

He uses his grip on your feet to push you higher, moving you straight over the hard strain in his pants. One hand leaves your leg to dig into the flesh of your ass, squeezing enough to make you whimper and grind down harder. He mouths at your collarbone, teeth grazing the skin, leaving little bruises that he quickly softens with his tongue.

You don’t stop until he’s breathless and clinging, forehead pressed to your collarbone, gripping your ankles like they’re the only things keeping him grounded.

You feel his hips twitch when your hands grip his hair—the slight pain tugging at his scalp delicately. He bucks into you one more time before groaning hard, head falling into the crook of your neck as he finishes, his hand gripping the soft arch of your foot while he does so.

You kiss his temple after, fingers running through his hair—soothing where you had pulled before, “Good?”

He nods, dazed and a little breathless, “Fuck—yeah.”

♡ requested by anon for ꒰ ⑅ ๑  𝟗𝟗𝟗 : : RELEASE ꒱

check out my — masterlist / 2k celebration ૮꒰•༝ •。꒱ა

[lavenderchqn]

✧・┆cottons and linens

— stealing clothes and accessories can go both ways. anemo men make sure you don't forget that.

content warnings: it's implied you either share clothing sizes or the clothes are oversized on you.

this set of scenarios has been requested by anon!

𝐀𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑

“Oh, sorry!” Aether rubs his neck as he realises what just happened. A pair of freshly dried sweaters had to have gotten mixed. And yes, the two of you own the exact same hoodies. The same size, the same embroidered details. The sole reason as to why you’re surviving is that they’re marked. 

“That’s alright,” You reply, putting Aether’s sweater on. 

It’s equally comfortable. Slightly warm from the dryer as the floral scent envelops you. And yet, it doesn’t smell exactly like yours. Perhaps some of Aether’s own scent has gotten itself into the fabric? That’s the sole explanation. 

The blond seems to mirror your move, taking the florals in. Oh, how cute. With a dishevelled braid and nose snuggling into the sleeve, Aether looks like a baby. Even more babies than usual. 

“Oh, Ae…” You coo, cupping his face. “You look adorable!” Your cheeks are so stiff from how big your smile has gotten. It’s like… like you’ve been shone by a sun child.

Aether leans back, his doe eyes trying to follow your movement. He’s slightly pouting, unhappy with being treated like a child. “I’m not.” He says it, but on the inside, he’s enjoying all the attention.  

In sickness and health, you shall share the hoodies until the death. 

𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈

“You’ll catch a cold.” You whisper. The jacket that was around your shoulders mere moments ago is now keeping Venti warm. It sounds exactly like a situation he’d end up in — shivering during a walk and waiting for his saviour (you) to swoop in. 

“Thank you,” Venti’s voice is equally hushed. His cheeks are tinted pink. It’s both the ‘sheer’ cold of the outside mixed with how romantic your gesture is. Making sure their beloved is not freezing to death, how chivalrous! “I appreciate it, Muse.” 

You nod. Taking a step back, you evaluate the situation. Your partner, wrapped in your jacket, as he’s snuggling into the collar. Adorable. Simply adorable. 

“You’re staring…” Venti giggles, catching you off guard. The smile gracing your pretty face is now quite sheepish. He wasn’t supposed to know you’re watching. Alas, Venti is Venti. He knows. He will use his knowledge against you. 

He envelops you in a hug. “Oh, don’t be angsty, Lovie…” The scent is quite overwhelming. Your perfume, his perfume, the laundry detergent. It’s all a tad bit too much. You try and lean back. Getting air into your lungs. “Nononono—“ Venti pouts, leaning into you.

What a cat he is. Ironic, really. He leans so close that you can feel your legs giving out. Heavens, when Venti wants… he can be such a cutie pie. Your jacket is only a plus. 

𝐗𝐈𝐀𝐎

“Does it look okay?” Xiao turns around, about to present you with his masterpiece. Well, it’s your shirt, but he can take the credit here. 

Jokes aside, he looks stunning. With his hair pushed back, the cuffs to the black shirt and some smart slacks… Damn, is he hot. He desperately needs more button-downs like these. It's not like he'll wear them without an occasion. Perhaps Xiao would consider one making you happy? 

“Close your mouth.” He rolls his eyes. Your eyes say a simple thing — starstruck. As much as Xiao is aware of his… pleasant appearance, getting this reaction from you cannot but make his little heart flutter. “A fly will fly…” 

You cover your mouth with your hands. You’re realising you haven’t said anything yet. But, oh my heavens, how can you describe what you’re thinking. Degenerate. A degenerate is what you are. An art gallery. That’s where you have to stick to Xiao. 

On the other hand, you don’t want anyone to look at him. Especially when he looks like that. Taking a picture. Maybe three thousand. You could have an art gallery at home. Perhaps you should think about buying some beautiful frames? Only the best for Xiao’s grace. 

“You look nice.” You say with a smile, yet downplaying the reality. 

“With how you’re looking at me,” Xiao raises an eyebrow. “I think it’s a little more than nice.” 

𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐙𝐎𝐔

It’s absolutely the worst feeling. You swear you’re going crazy. Your sock cabinet, for no particular reason, is empty. You see your socks in the wash. They don’t disappear in the washing machine, you’ve checked. Hell, you’ve even attempted an exorcism on the thing one time. 

You sigh, digging around again. Maybe if you pray enough, the sock gods will answer. 

“Babe,” Heizou’s voice is muted — coming from downstairs. The two of you have made plans and should have left by now. It’s especially annoying since the shoes you planned on wearing simply require socks. A single barefoot, and you’re risking blisters for weeks. “You ready yet?” He shouts some more. 

“Almost! Looking for socks!” You shout back, growing more frustrated by the minute. You can hear the footboards creaking. Is Heizou coming to help you? 

The door to your room flies open, showing an amused redhead. “If you wanted to stay home badly, you could’ve said so…” He sighs, looking around the room. You’re there, pitiful on the floor. The entirety of your cupboards open. “Wait, you’re seriously looking for socks.” 

The surprise in his voice shocks you. Is he not plagued with a sock monster of his own? You look at Heizou’s own shoes… and socks. Now, hold on?! 

“Are these my socks?” You ask rhetorically.

“Yeah?” He answers. “Is it a big deal?” So your socks haven’t gone missing. They haven’t entered a separate dimension. They just were… in Heizou’s drawers. You take a deep breath. “Heizou, I exorcised the washing machine, looking for my socks.”

“No fucking shot, dude.”

𝐊𝐀𝐙𝐔𝐇𝐀

“But you have so many of them already!” Your hands are on your hips as you stare at your partner. Kazuha’s grabby hands have managed to finally lie themselves on your lucky hat. 

You still don’t understand this habit of his. Sure, this might be the first time you’re the victim, but… All the apology letters you’ve forced him to write? Worrying. 

Kazuha says he cannot help it. There are these two little brain cells telling him to just… take the hats. He appreciates all the details of the hats. The materials used, the tiny decor, the smell. It’s all comforting. 

“Oh, but love…” His voice is meek. The pleading one. The one he uses solely when he wants to get something. And with how whipped you’re for the man, it’s a given. You’ll break one way or another. “We’re not even going anywhere.” 

That’s right, you’re not. Maybe… maybe, just maybe, you could give it for some time? Kazuha will be pleased, and you’ll have the situation under control. At the very least, it’s not the property of a stranger. Not to mention, you’re sure he will return it the second he’s done. 

“Okay, okay…” You sigh. Kazuha has won. There’s this pleasant smile plastered on his face. A tad adorable and quite smug. And well, he does look nice in the hat, doesn’t he. 

𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐑

“These are mine.” You say, coldly. You’ve barely started the day and you’re already upset. You’ve had two things planned for today — wearing your comfiest house pants and having a cup of coffee first thing. Recently, work took out everything from you. You… needed the break. 

“Should’ve woken up first, idiot.” Wanderer barely acknowledged your presence when you stormed into the kitchen. Not only is he wearing the comfy pants but he’s drinking the most bitter of coffees. It’s like he wants to replace you to live your ideal day. 

It’s maddening. A pout makes it itself onto your face, matching the ‘sour-ness’ in which your brows are furrowing. If he plans on stealing your pants like a child, you’ll just behave like one. “You’re so mean!” You yell, stomping your feet. A tantrum, that’s what he’ll have. 

“What are you? Five?” Wanderer raises an eyebrow, taking a sip of his drink. There’s this glint in his eyes — the one where he’s amused to no end. You place your hands on your hips. Now you really look like an angry baby. All because he stole your trousers. “Get a grip, you.” 

“Give the pants back.” Your voice is loud and clear. Until you receive your pants back, you’ll get on his nerves. “I bought them.” “He stops, pointing at you. He’s telling you to quit it. Not a chance, mister. 

On the other hand… What if you just steal his instead. Eye for eye, a pair for pair. 

𝐈𝐅𝐀

“Is it really okay?” Ifa, asks with worry written all over his face. He tugs on the sleeves, clearly enjoying the plush material. His hair is soaking wet. A towel is placed on his shoulders. A typical, yet unfortunate, aftermath of getting caught in the rain. 

“It's all good, silly.” You say asking him to bend down. The moment he leans, you grab his towel to dry his hair. In all honesty, you could care less Ifa's wearing your sweater. Not only is it made from natural material, but the colour brings out his eyes. “It suits you.” You murmur, fighting a smile. 

A smile is not the sole thing you’re duelling against. You can feel how your cheeks feel warmer. Ifa… really does look nice. And now he gets to smell a little more like you. Like home. 

Is this what it's like for others to see their partner in their clothes? No wonder all fictional boyfriends allow their hoodies to be stolen. Maybe you should rummage through Ifa’s closet yourself. He’d probably let you take anything you desire. You rub the towel through his pretty hair, soaking all the cluttered water.

“You’re adorable,” He chuckles, lacing his fingers with yours. It’s like he knows exactly what’s on your mind. Is— Is it really that visible? Ifa’s not the one to have figured out mind reading already, you think. 

date of posting — june 25th 2025

[acmeangel]

I’ve had this in my drafts for about 5 months because I’ve been too afraid of stirring the pot if my takes are hot, but I also really just enjoy character analysis so… this is my opinion!

Levi would not be a rough, mean dom in bed, and he wouldn’t have a high sex drive.

(CW: sex, prostitution, trafficking, all the Levi childhood things)

To start, if we look at his childhood, his mother was a prostitute in the Underground. And he was the direct product of this. While it was never specified exactly how Kuchel died — just that she was sick — I'd wager that it was almost definitely from an untreated STD; and even if not, it was precisely her dire circumstances that would've prevented her from receiving adequate treatment for any other illness. This lifestyle killed his mother, and we can see how deeply her death impacted Levi through even the smallest behaviors in his adult life; in the way he treats life as valuable, how he looks out for the young teenagers who end up on his squad, even in the way he holds his teacups. Kuchel loved him, and she was a kind person, but it didn’t matter—the world was too cruel of a place.

In Bad Boy, we see young Levi being threatened with the prospect of being sold into the same life as his mother — one of the men says, "We should make him do the same job as his mother. He might have inherited her talents." That's not something he'd easily forget, and, unfortunately, would likely be an experience that shaped his perception of self-worth, what sex is, and how the world works. This is not to say anyone is defined or shaped by their traumas, but our childhoods are very often where many of all our behaviors lead back to.

I'd imagine that if this is the life he grew up with, it would make his viewpoint on sex that it's something harmful, cruel, and unforgiving; it's a transactional means to an end, something taken with brutality, not an act of care, love, and intimacy.

There likely wasn’t anything in his life in the Underground to shown him otherwise, and he was there for all of his key, formative years. Even aside from his own personal experiences, we know that prostitution and trafficking ran rampant in the Underground—Mikasa and her mother were intended to be sold into it.

His abandonment by Kenny (who he almost definitely thought was his father at the time), only would've compounded his negative views regarding self-worth and the dysfunction/unreliability of relationships that are supposed to be caring, comforting, and nurturing. It took him decades to find out who Kenny really was or why he was abandoned—that's plenty of time for these emotional scars to cement themselves deep within him, even if subconsciously.

He'd then go on to lose basically anyone he'd ever dared to care about from that point forward—from Furlan and Isabel to the original Levi Squad to almost the entire Scout Regiment to Erwin to Hange to Sasha and Eren. Because of all of that emotional turmoil and the loss of all of his relationships that had mattered to him (despite his best efforts to keep them), I don't think emotional or physical intimacy would come easily to him or be something that he'd go out of his way to find, because why risk it? Why take the chances of getting attached to someone if your life is full of loss?

For that reason, I don't think he'd seek out sex just for the pure physical release. I think that for sex to even interest him at all, there'd have to first be a level of emotional connection and trust. With the right person, I'd reckon that over time, he'd develop a desire/need for it—it feels good physically, he'd see that it does foster intimacy, it would likely soothe some of his emotional wounds, and he'd want to please his partner. It’s also not to say he’d be overly gentle or timid or meek; but there’s a difference between passion and being rough with someone to the point of harm.

I just don’t envision him being particularly rough or dominating about it. He's not a violent or aggressive person at heart—only by necessity and circumstance. Honestly, I think, to some degree, he likely struggles internally with the super-human physical strength and fighting skills he's inherited. In my mind, it's not a far stretch to think that Levi has viewed himself as more of a tool/weapon/killer than a person, and I don't see him wanting to bring that into sex (or a relationship at all for that matter).

Levi didn’t choose to be an Ackerman/fighter — it was a perfect storm of his bloodline, Kenny’s influence, and the survival instinct necessary to live in the Underground that turned him into one. But that doesn’t mean that it’s his true nature. (Yes, he can at times reach a breaking point and lash out because he’s human, and almost no one constantly acts in line with their true nature and morality when put into dangerous, pressurized situations.)

I feel that Levi would want to avoid being violent or aggressive in an intimate setting, toward someone he deeply cares for, at all costs. Underneath his stoic exterior, crudeness, and the hardened mask he's often had to wear, he's shown to be a deeply caring, protective, and empathetic person.

Not to mention, I could genuinely see him being wary of his own sheer strength and not wanting to hurt his partner in any way or potentially scare them off, which would lead to yet another loss/abandonment.

Again, none of this is to say that a person’s trauma has to define them or shape their actions, feelings, and behaviors; but Levi is a deeply empathetic person, and I don’t see him easily shaking off seeing his mother’s tragic life, being abandoned, the loss he’s experienced, and the violence he has committed. Sure, it’s possible that after he gets into a relationship, or feels truly comfortable enough with someone, he’d be more open to different types of sex and not be as wary, but he’s just not a violent person in my eyes.

But mostly… I think, after a life of fighting and violence and aggression, he’d be eager to leave that behind when he can.

He’s not a violent dog, he doesn’t know why he bites.

This is not to discount anyone’s versions of Levi that they write/enjoy in fics/smut, I don’t really care what other people do and this isn’t about that. I’d never tell anyone what to do in regards to that. At the end of the day, we are really all just having fun here and living out our little fantasies as our our collective favorite character (I mean, I mostly write fluff pieces, so it's really not all that serious…). This just happens to be my take on Levi, it doesn’t have to be anyone else’s by any means, and I think character analysis is interesting! Pls don’t come for me, I won’t come for you!

[podcastenthusiast]

My probably unpopular hansry opinion is that if they did run away together to escape the arranged wedding, living alone in the woods somewhere or even trying to disappear in a city, Hans and Henry would start to feel so much resentment toward one another and the entire situation once reality sets in, like I'm sorry but I think they would.

Hans would absolutely miss the comforts of nobility, there's a very small part of him that laments falling for a peasant, but he can adjust to living with less. The necessary isolation? He's been lonely all his life. What I don't think he could handle is knowing he abandoned the people of Rattay--he really did want to be a good lord, to look after his people, and now he feels useless, without purpose. Henry still has nightmares he won't talk about, worse than before, leaving him tired yet restless. Surely Hans is not enough for him after all, just a selfish brat whose wonderful love indulged his most foolish whim. Hans doesn't cope well with boredom or guilt, as we know. He can get mean, words sharp as poisoned arrows, even though the regret is immediate. Everything should be all right. Henry should make it so; that's what he does.

As for Henry, well... that boy just needs a village, his friends, family, a task on which to focus. He would miss the other survivors from Skalitz and the Devil's Pack terribly. Y'know that Vonnegut quote that's like "But what they’re really yelling at each other about is loneliness. What they’re really saying is, 'You’re not enough people.'"? That's Henry. Not to mention he'd have to watch the war carry on without him and wish he could join the fight, torn between the sweetness of choosing freedom and the bitterness of running away, again, of knowing they can't truly build any sort of life here meant to last. Sometimes part of Henry wonders if he should've stayed in Rattay where things felt simple, as much as it would've broken his heart. He clearly isn't enough to keep Hans happy, if Hans is even trying to be, and he can't be happy either. Why isn't this enough? It's supposed to be enough.

[vm-haunts]

The world shaked apart around them as they moved further away from the hospital, debris covering their tracks and buries their way back.

It worked out alright though, in the end.

Between Ghost's help and Jason's better control, they managed well enough to keep the body alive in the chaos around them.

Ghost... isn't entirely sure why that is important when they're both ghosts, but he knows it is.

...

The people around them is... Hard to focus on.

Ghost first noticed at the hospital, with the doctors and nurses passing in and out of their room. They all feel like the cutout background crowd in a cartoon, to him at least.

Jason is getting better, slightly more aware and for longer every time he wakes up. Still, there is no way to tell how much he retains between his wakings, and communication is still hard despite his efforts.

So perhaps the reason Ghost felt like they're drifting is because the other people are all so alive, when they're both dead, and the dead isn't meant to interact with the living. Or perhaps it's because Ghost isn't anchored to anything living, and Jason who is wouldn't feel the foggy glass between him and the world at all.

Whatever the reason may be, if Jason can feel the world better than he does or not, it doesn't change the fact that they just drift through the living's world without much interaction.

Which makes it that much harder to notice, and that much more jarring too, when the living does manage to impact them.

...

Here's a secret: they remembered how to break a man's every finger before they remembered to eat every day.

Although, both realizations actually happened together when they fell over the passed out man, so it doesn't really matter anyway.

It could also be because one is an active threat to them, and the other is an... inconvenience that neither of them had to worry about for a long while.

Between the grave and the hospital, Ghost isn't even sure when was the last time Jason actually has to eat anything. His ghostly self doesn't remember eating anything, ever.

The only thing that matters is that they did remember, when they collapsed after giving the man a broken hand.

The guy has enough on him for a meal or two. It's harder to find somewhere to get said meal, and harder still to get things past their throat, but it worked.

Now they just have to remember to do it often enough the body don't shut down.

...

There's chaos everywhere, ruins and rubbles in place of buildings and streets.

Ghost isn't sure if that makes it better or worse.

On one hand, they fit right in with the miserable people camping out on the streets. No one cares if they can't respond right, not when so many others is just as unresponsive. Shock, ghost recalls, something that'll turn normal people into half living ghosts too. Metaphorically.

On the other hand, they don't know where else to go. Jason still wants to find Bruce, and as much as ghost wanted to help, he has no idea what else he can do when neither of them has a clue on where to and how.

Without a clear destination, the only thing they can do for now is stumble around blind, but Ghost doubt they can sustain it forever. Sure they are getting better at moving the body, but trying anything beyond the most basic instincts remains a struggle.

Guess they'll figure it out as things comes by.

...

There are... people, watching them.

Ghost isn't sure what they want. They aren't like the others that wants their spot to sleep, or the food they aquired. But they must want something from them, even if they can't figure out what.

Jason is wary, though Ghost doesn't feel any kind of hostility from them. They felt like the crows in the graveyard, or the shadows that lives in them. Watching because they're curious, or bored, or because they're told to.

Ghost suppose it doesn't hurt to be careful around them.

So these people watched them, from a distance, and they watched back. On and off again they caught sight of each other, as Ghost and Jason make their way around the crumpled city.

...

They walked some more.

One day they got to the seaside, where they can see the reminants of some collapsed bridges. Jason almost lost it when they did, and ghost still can't tell why.

Ghost steered them away from the ocean after that.

Another time a bunch of clowns tried to jump them outside of a park, but Ghost can clearly hear them scheming. They turned and left before the stupid clowns can start anything, and stayed away from the parks.

The people watching them disappeared for a while, and something is different when they cone back.

The chaos continues in the streets, but the scent of death is letting up. Change is on the horizon, Ghost can tell even without the crows.

...

They tried not to sleep at the same time, but sometimes they still crashes together.

They were moved again, is the first thing Ghost noticed when he wakes up. The second is that they are sitting in a room, with more people watching them.

He was wrong apparently, these people aren't like the crows and the shadows. They are speaking, he thinks, and it's clearer than any other people speaking, but the words eluded him unlike the crow's.

He has no idea if Jason even noticed they were moved. He's been out of it ever since they went to the seaside.

After a while ghost lost interest in the people watching them, when they presented no more threat nor entertainment.

When they wakes again, there is a lady with them, in green rather than black.

Lost Ghosts

[continuation of Little Prayers]

Something went wrong.

The boy woke up. The ghost knew that Jason would wake up, knew it with a surety when he doesn't know anything else. He had been waiting for that moment, for a fellow ghost to emerge ever since he felt Jason's first wobbly core speak.

But that's the problem, isn't it? He was waiting for a fellow ghost to come out of the grave, not- not for the boy to wake up back in his body, still stuck in the casket!

Soon the faint sounds of movement from beneath the grave turned into frantic scratching, and the ghost ties himself into knots with worry. What is he supposed to do? He need to get the boy out, body and all, but how? He had tried digging, but his claws are no help when it pass straight through the earth without moving a single blade of grass.

A distressed cry for help comes from beneath, and suddenly the ghost is hit with a memory. His very first memory really, of a warehouse, of sealed doors, of a freshly forming core's first cry.

Most importantly, of moving a half dead body around.

The ghost frowns at his claws and tried to think. A moment later he sinks into the grave with a reassuring hum, and the faint scratching turned into loud rakes of claws on wood.

...

Breaking through the silk and wood of a casket is a simple task, when sharp claws are involved.

Digging free through six feet of crushing dirt is much harder, but the ghost managed. It does get significantly easier after he found a way to pass through the earth again, this with the boy's body in tow.

The real challenge though, comes after they're out of the grave. Namely it comes in the form of figuring out how to walk. In a physical body. With legs.

Oh he can control the upper half just fine, his own ghostly self has similar enough bits. But legs? Tough luck. Not to mention that this body is also affected by annoying things like physics and gravity.

Even worse, he is also running out of energy, fast.

After the fifth time they land on soft muddy ground, the ghost huffed out a cold breath and laid there for a long second. Five falls in twenty yards, this really isn't going well at all. The edge of exhaustion is closing in swiftly and moving in the boy's body is getting harder by the second. At this rate they're never gonna make it out of the graveyard.

The ghost blinked, and took a moment too long to open his eyes again.

Distantly, he had the impression that someone is laughing.

[jupiterpiss]

i keep seeing ex remmick which u eat up everytime but i’m wondering what the process of breaking up with him would be like

Thank youuuu 😝😝 I feel that a lot of this is kinda just me retelling some stuff.. maybe? Not really but it’s different ways he’ll be ruining your life that were mentioned before. This doesn’t have a ton of smut.. actually close to none lolz. This reads to be very.. aggressive on his end. It is supposed to be like that.. he’s a piece of shit sorry.

Honestly.. I think it would be a very complicated process.. because in my mind I think Remmick doesn’t necessarily ever think you two are ‘broken up’. Like yes.. you kicked him out and told him to fuck off and said this is over BUT LIKE you were just upset. People say means things all the time when they’re upset.

I truly don’t think he ever sees you as not satisfied.. cause he knowssss he’s satisfying you so like why are you acting mean and RUDE?? Not cool wtf. It’s kinda how he wouldn’t leave alone ANYONE IN THE JUKE JOINT even tho they told him to fuck off SEVERAL TIMES. He literally won’t take no for an answer, it’s not in his vocabulary so why should it be in yours.

So with that added pain of him not really seeing you as separated just ya know going through a mild disagreement.. which if he wants to call it that he shouldn’t be using the word mild. It’s farrr from it, like you two literally threaten each other, that’s not mild.

Threats of killing one another, threats of going to the police or family or vampire hunters. Everyone and anyone at this point. It’s bad. Wtv. Ahem.

Point is— it’s hard to leave someone who doesn’t see you as separated.

That’s also where the toxicity comes from, because at some point you become beyond annoyed with him. He won’t stop showing up, won’t stop threatening to eat your family, coming up with lies that he’ll change, that NO he isn’t mean.

You eventually meet your breaking point when you do try to move on, threaten to start sleeping with other people and he, I KIDD YOU NOT, yells about how you can’t be with anyone else cause uhhhh he’ll curse them to die from a terrible infection!

“Vampirism?”

“No.. worse. If you sleep around, every dick you touch will fall off.”

And he’s not kidding LMAOOO. Do I think he’ll have the ability to do that.. idk. I don’t actually know if vampires can actually possess people or anything.. but he does cause I said so. Not possess I guess but more so he makes them go crazy. Like actually crazy.

Remmick PLAGUES the minds of those you touch. Also.. he counts this as cheating on him. He’s not too fond of it, matter of fact it pisses him off really really bad but wtv. You’re just going through a weird phase.

Ya know those people who say ‘they know where home is’ when speaking about their cheating spouse? Yeah that’s fucking him. Except he also curses and scares off anyone you actually do. I don’t wanna go tooo in depth cause quite a few people asked for a second ex!Remmick post and one person asked for this exact scenario.. so more on that later. It’s gonna be part of the part 2 of that post.

Anyway.

Once your done with sleeping with other people cause CLEARLY that isn’t helping anyone (this proves his point right btw even tho it wasn’t on purpose on ur end.. he still sees you stopping as a means of you ‘leaving this phase’)

You decide that maybe packing up and moving would do good. Leaving your house, leaving your family, the town. Everything. Last day of packing tho he shows up and fucking flips his shit.

This is where I reallly wanna reel in the fact that toxic Remmick is extremely scary. Like really scary, you should probs not be trying to look for this man, type of scary. Cause he wrecks all your shit, tells you how are you going to leave when you have nothing??

“Fuck you! I’m done, we’re done— done! I’ve been done, I’m moving-“

He tuts, shaking his head slow, “and what exactly will you be leavin with? Got no furniture now, got no clothes, jewelry.. baby, you’re not prepared to go.”

And it’s like.. hello?? Yes I was but you literally lit all my shit on fire while happily jumping up and down. Hooting and hollering, happier than a fucking clam. He’s unwell. He saw all your stuff resting outside, heard you still shifting around stuff inside, packing the rest of what you got. You live far out.. so having shit stolen isn’t exactly on your mind but you thought ‘hey, just one more box and I’m done’ only to go outside to see a massive bonfire.

And who’s standing beside it with a box FILLED with matches? Remmick :))

He lights all your shit on fire, and if you have a car he slashes the tires. Lights it on fire too.. this is starting to sound actually really bad. Omg okay but HE DOES THIS OKAY. I’m not backing out, he destroys ur shit!!

Okay.. moving is a big no. And ya know what else is a big no.. ur friends. You see.. Remmick does some hunting and searching, he decides ya know what?! I’m gonna take this bitch’s friends. Yeahhh fuck you im making you a complete loner. So that’s what he does LMAOOOO he makes ur ass a bigger loser then him by quite literally taking out all of ur friends.

And he uses that hivemind like noooo one else. Forces them to try and convince you back together, that really he will change. That this is just a word phase ur going through, cold feet. Ya know.. but that’s okay! He’ll warm them up!! He completely takes away their personality, who they are. What they want, what made them.. them. Everything you loved, those imperfections, the characteristics.. mind you, these people are your home. A found family of some sort all built on the need to find connection outside of family. Outside of blood.

And that’s gone.

It freaks you out, rightfully so. Everyone is so.. bleak. A empty cast of what they use to be, pawns for his own destruction. Makes you wanna vomit and sob on the floor.

And you do. Really you do. You start to actually feel trapped, unable to really do anything.

Your friends keep saying, “just let us in! Let him in! I can see all his memories.. all his emotions. Everything. Honey, he really does love you.” And it would be a friend of urs that HATES men. Hello? Not the same person.

AND HE STILL WONT LEAVE GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE. Stillll thinks ur together and—

“ya know, this whole cat and mouse thing is really startin to get on my nerves, hun. Just- I don’t even know why you’re upset.”

He really doesn’t. Remmick doesn’t get why you won’t let him in, or why you keep claiming you broke up. You didn’t? He thinks he’s in the right, thinks all of this is for your own good cause.. you two are meant to be, mean to thrive together. Why would you give that up cause of one messy argument.

It wasn’t a messy argument and really he’s always been manipulative.

If he were to convince you to have make up sex he would try to baby trap you. I’m certain of it.. that or because I don’t think vampires can have babies, he would bite you. Just like in the fic. More on this later.. actually I’m thinking long and hard about this, you will be seeing it.

[mikeysonly]

Indifference — Nagi Seishiro

tw: angst

sorry.

-

Nagi wasn’t a bad boyfriend. Well, let’s not say that. He was a great friend but an awful boyfriend.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t cheat. He didn’t lie. He just… wasn’t there. Not really, anyway.

And that’s what hurt.

“Sei, it just feels like you don’t care.”

He didn’t look up from his Switch. Just tapped at the screen, game still going.

“I do care,” he said flatly.

You waited for more. A glance. A hand. Anything. Okay, fucking prove it.

“You don’t act like it,” you said, sharper now. “People talk down to me. Make me feel small. And you just sit there. Like it’s not happening. Like I’m not worth defending.”

“It’s just easier not to make it a thing,” he mumbled. “Why does everything have to be a fight?”

You stared at him. At the slump in his shoulders, the lazy drift of his eyes. How he always looked half asleep. Like he didn’t care.

“It’s not a fight. It’s me. I’m telling you I’m hurt. And you won’t even look at me.”

Still no eye contact. Still no pause. Just the dull clicking of buttons.

“I cried in the bathroom last week, you know that?” you said. “Your friends called me names, told me I wasn’t worth it. I was a distraction. You just sat there.”

“It was just a joke,” he muttered.

“Jokes are supposed to be funny.”

“It was.”

He finally looked up then, but his expression didn’t change. Blank.

You wanted him to fight for you. Just once. To stand up, to raise his voice, to feel something.

But all you ever got was indifference dressed up as peace.

You felt pathetic. For begging. For trying. All you did was try, you did everything you could. You met him halfway for months. You stopped everything, even how you felt, to keep him comfortable. But he couldn’t make one change for you. Not one sacrifice.

“I don’t want to be someone you just tolerate,” you said, voice cracking. “I want to matter.”

Nagi blinked slowly, as if even that was a task.

“I never asked you to try so hard.”

That was the one. That was it.

You shook your head quickly and turned away before he could see you cry. Not that he’d try to stop you. Not that he’d even get up.

As the door clicked shut behind you, he stayed where he was. Game still open. Room still quiet. Like nothing had changed.

But something had.

Once you walked through that door, you knew you weren’t coming back.

You thought about turning around. You even stopped in front of the door, back still turned. You wanted to kick it down, scream: Please, my God, please be kind to me. Please stick up for me. Please be strong for me. Please—anything. Just make me feel seen for once. All I want is to be loved. Please, God, love me.

But you didn’t.

[abbotty]

I Wanna Love You (But I Don't) | TEASER

SYNOPSIS. After 5 years spent with Jack Abbot, you've come to the conclusion that you'd be better off apart. After all, what good is a loveless marriage? Now, with the divorce papers signed, there's only one thing keeping you tied to Jack: your three year old son Adam. In order to protect Adam and yourself from the scrutiny of Jack's family, you and Jack decide to keep the divorce a secret until the 4th of July week spent with the Abbot family is over. A week spent in a cabin trying to convince everyone that yourself and Jack are still in love... what could possibly go wrong?

It felt wrong sitting in front of Jack, a tense silence resting heavy between you, only broken by the tick-tick-tick of the analog clock hanging on the wall.

Jack wouldn’t look at you, his eyes trained solely on the small stack of papers on the table between you. He was doing that thing - digging his thumb into the meat of his right thigh. The pain grounded him, he had told you once. He would do it when he was hurting or anxious or uncomfortable. It wouldn’t take a genius to know why that habit would surface right now.

You had shown up at his work in the middle of the night, unannounced, and all but dragged him into the break room before silently handing him the manila envelope that contained the divorce papers you had had your lawyer draw up weeks ago. It was supposed to be done in private, within the safety of your apartments four white walls. Jack wasn’t supposed to be working, but he just couldn’t help himself. He never could.

He was probably anxious to get back to the floor, always thinking about the next trauma, the next patient, the next case. His work was his one true love.

You hated how bitter you were about it.

“This is what you want?” Jack’s voice, though the words were quiet, startled you. You looked at him, his eyes didn’t leave the papers.

”Don’t you?”

Jack’s jaw clenched, his lips pressed into a thin line, brows furrowed. If you didn’t know better, you would have thought he was going to say something, thought he’d have refuted your accusation. If you didn’t know better, you would have wished he did.

“What about Adam?”

Adam Michael Abbot. Three years old, already the spitting image of his father, and the one good thing to come out of your marriage. Adam was proof that, at one point in time, Jack had loved you — however fleetingly.

“It’ll be better for him.” It was that, those five words, that had Jack's gaze shifting to meet yours. His expression was severe, eyes pinning you to your spot and you realized how those words could be taken. Your own demeanor softened. “I’m not trying to take him away from you, Jack. Not in a million years. I just- I don’t think a child should grow up in a household with parents who can’t have a single conversation without yelling. I don’t want that for Adam.”

”And what do you want for him?” You could hear the growing frustration in Jack’s words, could sense the end of the conversation before anything was really even said.

Words sharp and biting, you said simply, ”Better than what we’ve been giving him.”

Jack seemed to deflate. He was quiet for a moment, as if letting the full weight of your words rest across his shoulders and burrow into his chest. “Does anyone know?”

The real question was ‘have you told either of our families?’ and the answer to that question would be no. And, if you had it your way, you would be as far away as possible when they would inevitably find out. Your family would be sympathetic - they’d support you as much as you’d allow in your transition to ‘single mother status’. Jack’s family… you imagined they wouldn’t be quite as understanding, especially when taking into account the tragic passing of Jack’s first wife. They’d think you were cruel. They’d think your intentions were that of a spiteful bitch instead of the heavyhearted, discouraged ex-wife-to-be you were. They’d make you out to be the villain in your story.

You weren’t the villain, you thought. You weren’t the one that ruined things.

Instead of saying all of that, you simply shook your head no. Jack said nothing in return.

The tense silence returned, minutes ticking by without a word from either of you.

A speaker overhead clicked, startling you as the intercom came to life, ‘Level one trauma, ED trauma room five, ETA three minutes. Level one trauma, ED room five, ETA three minutes.’

You expected Jack to stand, to offhandedly dismiss you before leaving to join his team in the trauma bay. Instead, he stayed seated, eyes trained on you, as still as a soldier at attention.

You sighed, choosing to stand in place of Jack and made your way to the break room door. Jack’s eyes followed you. You paused with your hand on the handle, turning to say, “Adam’s at my mothers house. He’s going to stay there for a few days while I… figure some things out.” You paused again, feeling tired and undeniably defeated. “Sign the papers, Jack. That’s what’s best for everyone involved.” With that, you turned and walked out of the break room.

The sound of the door shutting felt like the end.

[crownmemes]

Questioning Sentences, Vol. 46

(Questioning sentences from various sources to ask all kinds of muses. Adjust phrasing where needed)

"Do I look like I have company?"

"Are you sure you're not making a deal with the devil that your ass can't cash?"

"Sorry, since when did you start keeping a gun in the office?"

"Why are you still here when the both of us know that this is bad for you?"

"Can you provide any assurance that you'll follow through on this extravagant promise?"

"You just help yourself to people's ice cream, do you?"

"Can I borrow your imagination?"

"Do you ever hunt?"

"Are you just going to stare at me like I'm some kind of space alien?"

"Can you kill them all with one pistol?"

"Who is he to you that makes you want to risk everything for him?"

"You're a weird fucking guy, you know that?"

"Do you honestly think I care about you fucking someone else?"

"Are we entirely sure that this is my doing?"

"I know I was right. I'm always right. What was I right about?"

"How am I supposed to respect you if you don't respect me?"

"You've fantasised about killing me? Tell me, how would you do it?"

"Why can't you just ever be happy?"

"This doesn't seem to be bothering you. Why is that?"

"When did you get so wise?"

"What have I ever done to make you treat me so disrespectfully?"

"You made me chicken soup?"

"What are you smiling at?"

"What does all this have to do with me?"

"Did you think I was going to ask you out?"

"Is this really happening?"

"I thought you weren't going to become a man like your father?"

"I know it's not my place to ask, but what is going on?"

"You don't really believe that was a ghost, do you?"

"Who are you to tell me what to do?"

"Can you talk me through your thinking here?"

"You just can't stop trying to give me advice, can you?"

"So, your pain is greater than mine?"

"What are you doing? Who are you protecting with all these lies?"

"Did you kill him with your hands?"

"What did you think you would achieve with this?"

"If you open this door, you won't control what comes through. Are you ready for that?"

"Haven't you ever done something stupid for love?"

"You were shot! Why didn't you tell me you were shot?"

"Isn't not telling me the whole story the same damn thing as lying?"

"Do we kill our own?"

"Do you have any idea how crazy you are?"

"Do you want to know what I am?"

"Remember how we talked about picking your battles?"

"Am I supposed to be impressed?"

"We're all alone in the end, don't you think?"

[riddled-with-fear]

Hello hello friend! Congratulations on your 100 followers! 🎊🎉🎊

I would perhaps like some 80's music on a Vinyl with Arkham Riddler? 👀

Thank you, friend!🥹💚

So, you’re looking for an 80s Vinyl Featuring Arkham!Riddler? I have JUST the thing 😌🫶🏻

side note: this kind of got LONG haha! Thank you for your continuous support, and all of your kind words! <3

WC: 1782

CW: Fem!reader, PIV Sex, unprotected sex, verbal abuse from Eddie (like always), if I am missing any tags, let me know!

NSFW under the cut!

“Hand me the socket wrench.” Edward held out a gloved hand behind him.

You quickly rifled through a cardboard box of various assorted tools. Sensing Edward’s very thin patience, you grabbed the first wrench-like tool you saw and slapped it into his waiting hand. 

Edward brought it in front of him, sighed deeply, and then slammed it down on his work table. “A socket wrench! Socket! Do I need to spell out everything for you?” 

Heat bloomed across your cheeks and down your neck, you turned back to the box and dug through the tools again.

Edward clenched his fists, furrowed his brows, and took a deep breath. You were making far too much noise, and taking far too long to look for a very common tool. 

“ENOUGH! Leave, I’ll get it myself. Your incompetence lately has not been unnoticed.” Edward stood up, easily towering over your hunched form.

You sheepishly stopped digging in the dingy box, and stood up, facing him. You couldn’t help but notice the way his goggles mussed his dark hair up. You couldn’t help but notice the way the oil and grime highlighted his cheek bones. You certainly couldn’t help but notice the sweat trickling down his neck, over his collarbones, down to his bony chest. You saw thin strands of chest hair just barely peeking out from the neckline of his well-worned white undershirt. You so badly wanted to see what else he was hiding under it. You let your eyes wander.

Edward cleared his throat. Your eyes quickly snapped up to his. He was right, you had been ‘incompetent’ as of late. You couldn’t exactly place why you were so out of it. Why you were so distracted… why you found yourself with lingering eyes, or why you were starting to notice more physical details about Edward.

Then, it hit you.

You wanted to fuck Edward. The Riddler. Gotham’s greatest everything.

Shit.

Edward cocked his brows up, “Well? Are you going to stand there all day with your mouth hanging open like some lobotomized fool?”

You quickly closed your mouth, and backed away from the box. Edward bent down, and began to rifle through his chaotically organized tools. You noticed the way his muscles and tendons flexed under his skin. You noticed just how large his forearms were. You supposed that’s what happens when you work with your hands as much as he does. You bit your lip, your throat going dry. 

“This!” He exclaimed, pulling out the wrench, “Is a socket wrench.” He turned to face you, holding the tool out in front of him. 

You couldn’t focus on what he was saying, but you saw his gloved finger pointing at the tool. His large finger. You began to wonder what his hands would feel like on you. His arms wrapped around you… His fingers inside you.

You shook the thought from your head as soon as it entered. God, what was wrong with you? You could not believe you were harboring these explicit feelings for your boss. Someone with walls so impenetrably thick. Someone who was so cold, you were surprised he could feel anything at all. 

“I-I know what it is.” You finally responded.

“Oh? Is that right? You could have fooled even me.”

“Eddie, enough, please. I understand I haven’t been performing as well as I should be. You don’t need to keep berating me.”

“No, no, I think I do. How else will I get through that thick skull of yours?” Edward turned back to the mechanical odds and ends splayed out on the table.

“You’re an asshole.” You wish you could have swallowed your words before you said them.

Edward paused with the mechanical tinkering. He slowly turned to face you, his blue eyes cold and sharp. “I advise you to watch that mouth of yours, lest you forget who you’re talking to.”

You stood up straighter, “No. It’s true. You, Edward Nigma, sir, are an asshole.” 

Edward let the wrench fall out of his hands and clatter to the floor. He stood up, his fists clenched in on themselves. 

With your feet thinking for you, you bolted out of his workshop. 

Edward quickly followed suit, yelling for your attention, yet it fell on your deaf ears. You didn’t quite know where you were running to, but you just needed to escape that suffocating workshop. You just needed to escape Edward.

You flung open the closest door, closing it quickly. You turned around and your sigh of relief quickly turned into a sigh of annoyance. Of course it would be Edward’s room you stumbled into.

The door flew open, knocking you back. 

“What do you think you’re doing?!” Edward was furious with your recent actions.

“Noth-nothing! It was an honest mistake, I’m sor-”

Edward cut you off, “-I don’t want to hear your simple-minded excuses!”

He walked closer to you, giving you no choice but to walk backwards and away from him. He didn’t stop. He kept stalking closer to you, his sharp features twisted into fury. Your knees hit the back of his bed, knocking you on your ass on his mattress. Edward hovered over you.

“What do I have to do?” Edward shoved your shirt over your bra. “What do I have to say?” His gloved hands shoved your bra up, exposing your tits. 

You let out a meek gasp at his brazen actions, “Ed-!”

“-I am NOT finished!” He roughly groped your tits, kneading the pliable flesh under his gloves. 

“I let you in. I let you stay! I let you be a nuisance to me. I don’t know what more you want!” His hands slid down to your jeans, fumbling with the button and the zipper. 

“I… I just.. I…” your mind was a fogged mess. You couldn’t think straight. You and Edward were just arguing, and now? Now he had you on his bed, underneath him as he was undressing you. 

He, undressing you.

You couldn’t make sense of it, had the tension really built up this badly? 

“Well? Cat got your tongue?” He yanked your jeans down your hips. 

“No! No, I don’t know!” You muttered out.

Edward let out a sharp scoff, “that’s right, you don’t know. Your tiny little brain knows nothing!” 

You were shocked, to say the least, at the effect of his words. Usually they cut through you, stinging your soul, piercing your heart. But now? Now they went straight to your core, seeping out of you in shameful arousal between your thighs. 

“Pathetic. Look at you. Succumbing to such base and utterly filthy instincts.” Edward scowled at your now nude body underneath him. He scowled at the damp spot on his sheets.

Bold of him to point out your feelings, when his are showing quite well under his cargo pants. 

His gloved hands grabbed your knees, forcing your legs apart.

“Filthy. Utterly filthy, look at you! A wet, trembling mess.”

Your breathing picked up, the arousal burning your core. You bucked your hips upwards, in hopes of getting some kind of friction to your throbbing clit, or something to sink your aching cunt on. 

“Eddie–fuck!–please!” you whined. 

Edward undid his tool belt, tossing it aside. His question mark belt followed. He wasted no time in unbuttoning and unzipping his stained cargo pants. 

You bit back a moan at the sight of his cock. Thin and long, it mirrored him quite well. The tip was already flushed and leaking. Still with his gloves on, Edward grabbed his hard cock, giving it a few quick strokes as he braced himself against your warm, wet entrance. 

“You,” He thrust himself inside you, “have become quite the problem.” 

You finally let out the moan that was desperate to crawl out of your throat. 

Edward’s cock easily slid into your soaked cunt, his clothed hips meeting your exposed ones. Edward sighed, dropping over you, caging you into the mattress with his arms. 

“What have you done to me?” He mumbled in shallow breaths. 

Edward began thrusting into you slowly, clearly savoring the way your cunt gripped his cock, your soothing walls calming the ache in his shaft. He tangled his gloved hands into your hair, gripping tight, trying to ground himself. 

His tip kissed your cervix gently with every slow thrust Edward gave you. His tip slid against your G-spot with every soft drag out of you. His shaft stretched your walls just enough you felt full. It was pure ecstasy, and he was your dealer. 

Edward leaned closer into you, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. He was lost in you. His mind was quiet, he felt… good. For once, he actually felt like he was doing something right. His lips found your earlobe and he gave a gentle suck, eliciting a soft mewl from you.

“Eddie…”

“Shh. Just… Be quiet. Please?” He moved to your neck, peppering surprisingly soft kisses along your pulse point.

You obliged him, enjoying the feeling of finally having him where you want him. That ‘where’ being inside you. Being as vulnerable as he possibly can, with you. 

Edward moved away from you, rising up. He quickly pulled out of you.

“What’s wrong?” You were concerned you scared him off already. 

He didn’t say anything. Edward grabbed your hips, flipped you onto your stomach, raised your rear to meet his hips, and thrust into you again. 

You yelped in surprise. His thrusts picked up becoming harsher and faster. 

“Ah fuck! Eddie, Eddie slow down, wait!” 

“Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up!” He gripped you harsher, his thrusting becoming erratic. 

Edward felt his cock start twitching, his balls felt tighter with every thrust into your sopping cunt. Pleasure ran through your nerves, your own orgasm slowly building up. Edward lost rhythm as he chased his own release. 

You reached a hand in between your thighs, your fingers circling your neglected clit, working it fast in hopes to cum in tandem with Edward. Edward gave a final thrust, stilling inside you while he came with a heavy sigh.

You worked at your clit still, finally reaching your own climax just as Edward fully pulled out of you. Both of your release spilling from you and soaking his sheets. 

You collapsed onto your side. Flushed and breathing heavy, you look to a flustered Edward.

He cleared his throat, “Well. I have much work to attend to… So… I’ll just go do… that.” He quickly made himself decent, grabbed his belts and left you to clean and dress yourself. 

You stared at the open door in disbelief. 

You were far from satisfied with him. You finally had a taste, and now you had an insatiable hunger.

[demonslayedher]

Things that went through my head while watching this episode (in 2025!)

--Tamayo sure made that decision quick to go join the Corp. I love that it is so clear how much she and Shinobu do not want to work together. I wish, wish, wish I could have seen Tamayo meeting Ubuyashiki, as well as first meeting Shinobu. --The animation in the glass pane as Tamayo looks up at the moon?? love it.

--Giyuu really do just be sitting there in an empty room. Buddy, that ain't meditating, that be ruminating.

--I am so grateful for all my years of Japanese study so that I can soak in all the meaning of Aoi using such stiff keigo (polite speech) with Tanjiro (and for that matter, any active Corp swordsman). She truly sees herself as far beneath them, and in her dealings with Tanjiro, it is like she purposefully keeps things strictly professional. It is so revealing how diplomatically she addresses that, at least if she were the one who someone were trying to cheer up, she would prefer to be left alone. That is why she has kept this professional distance all along, isn't it? Somebody telling her "it's okay you weren't as brave as all those swordsmen who wound up fighting to the death anyway" would only make her feel worse, after all. I wonder about her decision to keep wearing the Corp uniform despite the adequacy she feels in it?

--Giyuu would tell her she deserves to wear it, wouldn't he? Luck or not, she likely did more to ensure her own survival on Mt. Fujikasane than he did. (Now I crave an AU in Shinobu dealt with Aoi's post-Final Selection fear not by allowing her to freeload (as Aoi might interpret it) at the Butterfly Mansion and avoid missions, but instead by creating a situation in which Giyuu is pressured to take Aoi in and train her--Water Breath users, after all!).

--Despite that Tanjiro killed the Hand Demon, whom Sabito could not, Tanjiro does not think of that at all. He instead thinks of how Sabito "saved" him back on Mt. Sagiri, and how in the course of the Final Selection, Tanjiro could not manage to save anyone like Sabito could, for Tanjiro could barely save himself. Their outcomes happened to be different, but Tanjiro sees the gulf between their potential and inherent ability so plainly.

--Tanjiro has made the switch from "Tomioka-san" to "Giyuu-san." Get FRIENDED, loser.

--The way the scene is framed so that you can't see Giyuu's face when he declares that the Water Hashira position is vacant

--GIYUU IS SO ANNOYED WITH TANJIRO, HAHAHAHAH. He's not only annoying for barging in when Giyuu is busy ruminating, but for trying to insist on some easy simple solution to a situation he doesn't understand (even though the way better solution to all of this would have just been for Tanjiro to use that battle sense and nose to become the Water Hashira, duh). But also, he is sitting so close. As Tanjiro keeps bugging him, like at dinner, he is still sitting SO FREAKING CLOSE and poor Giyuu just wants to eat. He just wants to bathe. He can barely sleep knowing that Tanjiro is curled up on his front door step, maybe Giyuu look like the bad guy for leaving this poor injured kid out there like that. How the hell is he supposed to explain that the kid is choosing to do that, when Giyuu can't explain anything else in the first place?

--And then he knows he must. So he does. Plain and simple. And Tanjiro gets it. And it hurts.

--And then he accidentally adds to Giyuu's pain. OH SNAP. Soba time.

--In the previous arc, we saw the drama of Muichiro instantaneously regaining memories of precious things people have said and entrusted to him, and how this brought him not only back from the brink of death, but pushed him over the edge to attain a mark. What happened here on the bridge was essentially the same thing for Giyuu--but in a more peaceful way. Though he did not have his mind as clouded as Muichiro, trying to find his way back to those memories would have drowned him in sadness, but now, all at once, all these years later, he can embrace the words Sabito said to him, and embrace the promise he made to Sabito that he would carry on Tsutako's will in the world. He has attained that power again, and in a way, reattaining that memory right after he said "Sabito might have, but I won't" is his first step on his path to being able to achieve a mark.

--and then "Let's have a soba-eating contest."

--wut???

--Was this kid always this weird???? I mean, okay, I guess if he insists, I will eat soba with him and let him be satisfied in making me join the training this way, though I really did just already make up my mind to do that because I am, in fact, the Water Hashira

--As he ate soba, I wonder if Giyuu found himself wondering if Tanjiro ever did weird stuff like this around Urokodaki, thereby second-handedly embarrassing Giyuu for having spoken so highly of him

--Stepping back a bit, I love the underlying creepiness of Tanjiro cheerfully looking down the alley and declaring, "nope, no demons here!" Kiddo, there is a reason for that.

--Also little Giyuu with light in his eyes, I will always miss him

--Jumping ahead, the eye-twitch is so becoming on Shinobu. She should sport that more often.

--My gosssssshhhhhhh I wiiiiiiiiiish we could have SEEN Kanao at all these Hashira trainings. The opening implies that she was with the boys and ran laps around them at Uzui's training. But where are the girls?????? They exist!!! We know they exist! If Kanao hasn't gotten out of this, they ain't either!! But like, seriously, what was Sanemi gonna do when she showed up? Hit her??? Hell to the nah'.

--Still, for as much of a battle queen as Kanao soon becomes after this, she is still strengthening that heart-to-voice connection, and it is hard to do that after so many years of leaving the connection broken. (And unfortunately for Shinobu, it is only because of Kanao's progress that there is any way for them to defeat Douma.) Still, going back to the previous episode, I love that Shinobu judges Kanao's battle prowess so strongly that she will entrust Nezuko to her in the event of, say, Kibutsuji Muzan himself showing up at the Butterfly Mansion (not that this would have been likely to end in Kanao's favor, but Shinobu knew she could at least leave Kanao in charge in case of other high-level demons--maybe even a swarm of them--showing up)

--So yeah, she will totally entrust the defeat of Upper Moon Two to her, even Shinobu, a Hashira, knows she cannot do it herself

--HOW EXTREMELY FRUSTRATING

--This ending theme, man

--That distinctly Muichiro-like silhouette is mean. But the second one looks more like the Heian-period doctor. And the pair of silhoettes after that still have us pretty firmly back in time by several centuries.

--Fly, crow, fly! Fly for the sunlight!

--Love these subdued stills of all these important moments in Corp history that have led them to this time, and how the one of Tanjiro has motion, with his tears flowing and then him standing to face this horrific reality--and that focus on the "metsu" on his sword to tie together all of these scattered scenes of all these people throughout the last thousand years who have been so whole-heartedly dedicated to defeating Muzan once and for all

--All these symbolic spots of red being dramatically destroyed as Muzan passes by, this the most chuunibyou ending song ever and it is great

--Daaaaaang, this means Muzan has been doing his dramatic walk since episode two

[wxsteriawishes]

xavier being a libra

go back to masterlist

content: use of pet names (star, baby)

libra sun man attributes

neutral, comfort-seeking, romantic, protective, aloof, people-pleasing, needy

♎️ neutral ♎️ he wants to keep the peace. he doesn't want any unnecessary drama in his personal life, though drama may follow him. he entertains himself via others' theatrics, but runs from it when it involves him. people might fight over him, for example, but he'll make it clear he chooses you. if a fight breaks out and he's asked to pick sides, he simply won't do it. he prizes justice and will always try to be fair. he'll always be a prince, no matter how much he runs.

♎️ comfort-seeking ♎️ he wishes to entertain no problem for too long. if one of you is upset for too long, he can't stand it. he despises any sort of miscommunication and he absolutely hates lies. he's spent so, so many years alone, he doesn't want to waste his time with you. deep down, he needs stability to be comfortable. it's why he runs to you. he expects only the truth from you and you give it. it's why he so easily lets his guard down in your arms.

♎️ romantic ♎️ he doesn't like drama at all, whatsoever. however. there is a thrill that jealousy can bring out within your relationship. he trusts you, he really does, but can he not get a little possessive over you? he is a gentleman, but libra men are known for being flirtatious teases. he knows what he's doing, giving you those bedroom eyes. he'll serenade you in a suit, take you out to admire you underneath the moonlight. he'll make a rose petal path to guide you to him, his star.

♎️ protective ♎️ he is protective of himself. he'll hoard his things, keeping all of his memories safe. he guards his beliefs and ideas with an intensity you don't often see from him. and most of all, he is protective of you. usually, his jealousy is just performative. but if you ever feel nervous, anxious, or scared in any way, he won't hesitate to step in front of you. he'll become your shield, willing to take the brunt of anything. funny, it was supposed to be you guarding the prince. but in the event of an explosion, a flying bullet, anything, he seemed to act off of reflex. he'd cage your body with his, safe within his arms.

♎️ aloof ♎️ he is very introverted. initially, at least. he seems to have no trouble socializing when the two of you do go out. perhaps he just comes off as a distant man. he certainly was quiet when you first met him. he's slow to opening up, sarcasm creeping through and hints of a smile catching you off guard. he definitely still likes his alone time, but he prefers having his head in your lap. sitting in silence, your hand in his hair, his eyes gazing up at you. you think he's trying to get you all hot and bothered, but he's only trying to commit your features to memory.

♎️ people-pleasing ♎️ it isn't that he's gullible or naïve, though sometimes it feels like he certainly is. and he isn't stupid either. he's just very easily influenced by other perspectives. if there was a clear antonym to being as stubborn as a bull, that was what he was. he wants to appease everyone, make sure the whole world is happy. call it muscle memory, but he's constantly looking for the perfect compromise. even if it isn't the best of deals for him, he'll shake on it.

♎️ needy ♎️ an explanation is not needed. xavier is clingy, desperate, selfish when it comes to your love. it's probably a fuel for his possessiveness. missed calls when you're gone for too long. "where are you, baby?" whiny voice messages, a bunch of texts and pictures of an angry pout. you call him a sad puppy. he's unable to deny it.