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werezmastarbucks · 2 days ago

Text

snowball pt2

incarnations masterlist

part one

obsessive, deranged, stalker!yoongi x f!complicit!reader

in which, no matter what you do, you can't seem to escape him

word count: 9015

music: can't get over you by joji, haunting by halsey, basic needs by jonathan davis

author's note: supplied all childhood memories by myself, lol. not funny. a little funny. sorry for yapping but i need you to know that i wrote both parts in one day and speedran into a burnout like i, personally, went through all the abuse.

warnings: violence, casual threats of violence towards the reader (although it never gets to it), toxic relationship, obsessive behaviour, yoongi has rage episodes; smut, voyeurism, intense jealousy, hardcore stalking, codependent, dysfunctional relationship, gaslighting, manipulation, abuse? unhappy-happy ending

The mental health has been degrading since the breakup. The built-up trauma of being watched, being observed and controlled, gave you monstorus paranoia which now makes you check your stuff three times a day.

Has the shampoo bottle moved a millimeter? You check the soil of the plants for dryness, putting your finger inside, in case someone watered it without you. You keep a to-buy list of things stuck on the fridge and carry the pen with you at all times, making sure there are no other pens left at home.

Sometimes it feels like things go missing. Pieces of clothing; you find them later on the couch where you left them. The light coming through the cluttered old balcony (wooden, full of the previous tennants' stuff you have no idea about) plays shadows on the walls, so you keep the curtains closed.

The narrow memory of Yoongi's obsessive presence is like a crack on the wall, a thin scar on your forearm; he is a demon, not hated enough and thus, scary. You watch the streets around and gradually, way slower than you hoped for, start losing caution.

People like him, you think with jealousy, tend to lose focus. They are bright and agonizing like a short flame, and they often move on. You wonder who his next victim might be. Wonder if changing laptops helped, or he still could hack your web camera again, because you use the same accounts.

The last year of university begins; thankfully you miss him there, too. He graduated the previous spring. You hope the waters of life carry Yoongi far away from you, because you still get nightmares in which the white figure is standing above your bed like an alien, like a poltergeist. In the first six months without him, you develop the fear of quiet, unexpected noises; and then you also discover he was right. You are forgetful. You skip meals. You bump into things. Toilet paper stops respawning by itself in your bathroom; sheets need changing; and kitchen needs cleaning.

You catch a stare similar to his, from above the mask, in a public place, and the whiplash of the mix of emotions takes away your good mood. Danger and desire. Missing him and hating him. For a whole year you grapple with the existence in which nobody worships the ground you walk on. Nobody goes through your phone. Nobody makes your muscles twitch.

You almost move on.

─────────────── ✧

Namjoon has finally moved out of his mother's house and bought himself a tiny cosy apartment in Jangang-dong with some generous family help. Which reminded you that you have zero contact with yours. Whatever is happening to your sweet little sister, you don't know. She has entered the university and barely texts you anymore.

Without Yoongi, really, you don't have truly loyal people in your life. That is not to say you need him back.

You don't. You know you don't. You agree with your brain when it says so. All the logic and self-preservation instincts make it clear as day.

Then why are you staring. Through the cigarette smoke whirling in hairy vortices, pale, soft, you see Yoongi, also pale and soft - and - bigger. That's the first thing you notice. Not even the girl on his lap. Still student business, although all of you are far beyond graduation. Still the same company of people. Still the same drinks. Yoongi is new. First of all, he shouldn't be here at all; you dart to Namjoon, clinging to his shoulder, and Namjoon is clearly trying to hide his face from you.

"Sorry... I'm sorry. I haven't seen him in months either. Y/N, I didn't know if he would come or not..."

You don't even say anything, just look into his frightened eyes. The buzzcut of Namjoon is glistening with sweat, prettily; it's dense in the room; about twenty people are crammed inside the tiny space. The words pour out of him under your gaze even though you look up.

"It wasn't a secret. Party wasn't a secret. I simply told my pals the address, and... I guess someone still speaks to him".

You never asked anybody to throw Yoongi out of their lives. The looks on Namjoon and Hoseok's faces were quite enough for you to understand that they will have the dignity.

It shouldn't be surprising though, if it's about Yoongi. Yoongi is a shimmering snake. He will always find a way.

Your skin crawls like suddenly dozens of tiny fruit flies cling to it. You hide behind Namjoon for a while, your palms around his round bicep. Yoongi doesn't pay attention to you; he simply exists inside an armchair. His shoulders are bigger. His chest has grown. He is buffer, bigger, softer somehow. His snow-white hair like the center of gravitation. You have no idea who the girl is. Should you tell her? Make a scene? Grab her by the shoulder and tell her Yoongi will put hidden cameras inside her apartment and will visit her place when she's not at home to lie in her bed and do her laundry? Should you make that of yourself?

"Stop staring", Namjoon mumbles.

It's a relief. He doesn't look your way and doesn't look for you. The root of your tongue goes dry. You stroll into the kitchen, tracing the wall, trying to keep your facial expression in check. It's a relief, you tell yourself. Yes, it's a relief: he has leached onto someone else. Later, when everybody gets much more drunk than now, you should catch the girl and lead her away and doesn't matter what she thinks about you. You need to warn her. Yes you need to warn her, and take her eyeballs out with a hot teaspoon. The roots of his white hair are going slightly dark again. Yoongi can be very charming when he works you; his nods are art. He maintains the eye contact, keeps his mouth slightly open, moves his chin like he means it. His intelligent mouth curls into a sexy shape. You walk into the kitchen and look for water bottles, and check the stove out of habit. Namjoon is made of the same material as you. Breaks things. Forgets about open fire. Leaves the fridge door open. A walking catastrophe. You are too similar to ever fall in love.

You reach for the pitcher and then get a glass out of the cupboard. Hand nervously scratches the neck, too hard, grooming you into peace.

No, it's just funny that he used to spend every waking moment trying to consume you, and now he has a new girlfriend. It's funny, that's all.

You gulp water, trying to drown those stupidly obvious thoughts that betray the pathetic weakness of you. Stare into the black mirror of the microwave with smudges of fat on it. Then the white floats into reflection behind you, and leans against the wall. Like the fire entering.

"Oof, very awkward", he stretches his vowels. You bite the glass edge and then unclench your jaws to turn around.

"Seeing your ex at the party".

Yoongi is glowing. His cheekbones are becoming more protruded like he lost weight even though he did literally the opposite. He keeps his hands behind his back, the inner sides of his elbows shot with the same blue veins that cover his dick. You sigh with a shudder. Stupid bitch.

"I'd say sus", you manage. He slightly raises his eyebrows, feigning innocence. Then says,

"Oh, yeah. I need to apologize, probably. Sorry. I must have left a crazy impression, ha ha".

His chuckle is low and unreadable. Yoongi pushes himself off the wall and walks to the counter, and you move away, looking at him from under the brow.

"I hope you're doing okay though. I know I was acting totally crazy. Sorry. It's trauma".

He is carrying his new body with the nonchalance of a tiger. Goes through Namjoon's fridge the same way he used to go through yours. Like it's his place. Every place he goes, he acts that way. If you can find a way to slither into a space, you don't even need to claim it.

You tug at the painful spot on your upper lip, tearing the skin off.

"You seem adequate".

"I had therapy for a year. Getting over you, and stuff".

He doesn't look at you directly. The corners of his lips are slightly upturned with half-moons while he is reading the back side of a plastic pack of pineapple slices. He shakes it at you:

"Expired last week. Namjoon is so silly, I can't".

"Still have the caretaker complex. Therapy didn't help", you hammer, still walking backwards, until you press yourself into the window sill.

"Hey, it's not an easy thing to fix. At least I am trying".

It sounds weirdly like a jab at you. Yoongi looks at your face. He doesn't seem desperate. Doesn't seem needy. There's no heated glint in his eyes like before. He looks... calm. Collected. Polite.

"Are you really... okay?" you ask. Your eyes dart to the hand that's holding the expired pineapple slices. Fingers look normal. Yoongi catches your gaze and shows you:

"Yeah, everything's healed. Lucky. You know, I kind of need them".

He wiggles his fingers in the air, and you look away. You know your face is heating every passing second.

"Well, I am glad. Honestly, I didn't expect to see you".

"I missed these parties", he says simply. Then his girl enters the kitchen and immediately goes for his broad shoulders. Yoongi has always had a well-balanced, wide frame. Now it's magnified. Now. He looks irresistible.

She coos something to him, paying you no attention, and he bows his head, letting the hair fall on his eyes. The glimpse of the old, feral Yoongi.

Your heart is eerily empty. You leave the kitchen lighter. Now, you are a ghost. Why does it feel like you lost something?

The night becomes tighter like a python's gut. The room squeezes. You watch everybody dance. Yoongi is inescapable, gleaming. His hands on her body. She is in danger.

The party doesn't seem fun anymore. You take three more shots with Hoseok, who observes you with quiet caution and says nothing. Doesn't like your snappy character. His bony wrists only push tiny glasses towards you, then he nods, and you drink up. Once he is distracted by another song that he agrees with, he gives you a window to escape. It's perfect: Yoongi is gone from the room, probably making out with the girl. You slither among people, ignore Namjoon's weak call. Everybody is too drunk. You try to spot her wine-red dress on your way out, half-heartedly, then leave.

Climbing down two stairs is a challenge on wobbling knees. You do it slowly, without a hurry. You have no idea why you are so rattled, so furious about everything. Alcohol multiplying the awful things boiling in your mind. You push the entrance door open and step into the cool autumn air, and take a deep breath, only to swallow a handful of cigarette smoke.

You cough softly, and the white catches your eye.

Yoongi is leaning against the wall again, light bomber on his shoulders.

"Leaving?" he asks. The chthonic flesh-eating monster trying to act normal. You sway on your two feet. And you're not even wearing heels. There's a hickey on the side of his neck and a tired frown in between his lips, sharing space with the cigarette.

"Yeah", you say. Your eyes can't unclutch him. You try your upper lip with the tip of your tongue, and it's salty.

"You need a lift?"

You scoff. Yoongi smiles in unison, agreeing with whatever is on your mind. Yes, yes, stupid, he used to say. Of course, of course.

"Your girlfriend?"

"We met tonight. Here. She's not my girlfriend", he replies simply, without any disdain, not trying to prove anything.

"You gotta be honest", you press, shifting all weight to the left to steady yourself. Yoongi nods lightly, smoke leaving his mouth like a soul.

"Are you really normal now?"

"That's philosophical. Me being abnormal was always your opinion".

"Don't bullshit".

"Why? It's not like you're going to give me another chance?"

The music booms from up above through the open window of Namjoon's living room. You wonder why the neighbours haven't called the police yet. You notice Yoongi's free hand in the pocket of his bomber, fidgeting with something. Imagine it to be a knife.

"I have to go".

"I can drive you".

It's not urging, or pressing. It's a polite offer. Repeated twice.

"I saw you drink".

"I had one beer".

Yoongi stabs the cigarette against the new yellow paint of the wall. The building has been completed three years ago, it's a freshly born dwelling. The cigarette leaves a stark black spot and glows pale orange on the ground. He walks over to you but moves past, slightly changing the constitution of air around you. He smells like smoke, and sweet cologne vaguely resembling your own perfume.

"Come, I got a new car".

You shouldn't follow him, stupid bitch. His broad back in dark-blue bomber floats against the parking lot.

"You got a job?"

"Of course", he booms gently. Your feet start moving. Head is smoky with alcohol. With the night. Jeans tight around you. You are making a mistake, but he is your mistake. Nobody else's.

"How's the lotus spa going?"

Yoongi walks towards a silver car which you can't identify in the dark, and unlocks it. The lights blink like a warning. He opens the door for you and waits.

"It's in the future".

The cover of the night hides everything. Dissipating orange light from Namjoon's windows has no power here, in the twilight zone of an almost made decision. You touch the cold metal of the door, swiping your fingers up and down, and he clocks your hesitation.

"You don't have to go. Just thought to save you some money, night fares are insane", he says. Yoongi looks away, his throat shining in the blue darkness. You realize the street lamps don't work. You get into the car.

He drives with one hand resting on his lap; if it even knows how to do it. The hand that once shattered a glass bus stop and dripped blood. The hand that got stuck in between the door and the door frame. Hand that wrapped so lovingly around your throat, that balanced you every time you'd stumble. The hand that installed a surveillance device in your kitchen and stole items from your house, and never returned them.

"You feel alright?"

"Yeah".

"Your eyes are rolling".

The old Yoongi would scold you for drinking so much that you sway in the passenger seat. He would call you a lightweight. The new buff Yoongi with his fashionable bomber giving a special silky glint to his skin is driving quietly, shaking the hair away from his eyes. And in a twisted, serene old habit, you reach out and - what are you doing, stupid bitch - push the bangs away, scared that he doesn't, in fact, see around when it's like this. You think of the notion of Yoongi going through the life with the white curtain on his eyes. By the end of your, hmm, relationship, he did reveal them. Now he is fluffy and closed up again. Yoongi doesn't flinch, doesn't even acknowledge it.

"What job did you get?"

"Architectural designer in GBM".

The name of an insanely wealthy company leaves his lips like it's seven eleven. But Yoongi was made for these things. His satanic determination in studies was always clear. What's scarier was, it all came to him so easily. He never struggled with academic stuff. The human... was what he lacked in.

"That's pretty cool".

He nods like it's obvious. Still doesn't call you dummy. It even feels off.

He doesn't ask anything about you. He doesn't stare. Now you almost feel pathetic for touching his hair.

Another thing you totally miss is that he doesn't even ask where you live. You stupid, stupid cunt.

He simply drives you home to the other side of the city, into your new rented apartment with the wooden corridor, and parks in the lot in front of the building, and you drop your head back for a moment. You get out of the car quickly not to share this space with him, so egocentric that you fail to notice the obvious. Only when Yoongi leaves the car as well, does your head snap to him:

"Where are you going?"

"Calm down. You're drunk. To the entrance".

You stroll across the parking lot full of someone's cars. People are sleeping. This new building is smaller, quieter. The neighbours haven't known a Yoongi who bangs on your door regularly, who yells and shouts, and makes you yell and shout, too, in the bedroom. He follows you silently, and you punch in the code to the entrance door, and finally your alarms wake up half-willingly, the baseline self-preservation signals.

Yoongi pulls the door open above your head. His smell envelops you: hard, bitter, sweet, dense, all at the same time.

"Yoongi", you want to say his name firmly, like it's a derogatory term, but it comes out whiney and submissive. He is towering above you, eyes hooded in the lack of expression. White hair shining.

"What?"

"That girl who isn't your girlfriend", you slur, "doesn't even know you left?"

"I don't know her name", he pauses, "did it work though?"

His hand slides painfully slowly, on the edge of the door, until it touches your fingers, and you flinch them away.

"Don't tell me you did it on purpose", you wince. Your foot trips against the step, and Yoongi catches you by the waist. Cinematic. Nauseating. You remember his grab vividly, and yes, it's different now. He is bigger now, and it's the worst thing. You notice all the worst things.

"I did. Shit, it was great seeing you simmer", he whispers. He pushes you both into the building, and the door starts closing slowly, slowly, painfully slowly, like a mouth. You don't look at it. All your own animal wants to do it sink its teeth into Yoongi. For a good while you've been hiding your nature.

"You're still stuck on me", you mutter, accusingly.

"And you're still pretending to hate it", Yoongi grabs the railing and pulls you up the stairs, but you stop him on the fourth step. The new skin slides off him like sheep's fur. The bend of his elbow urges you to move on, your fingers sliding off the silky shoulder.

"The only thing I dislike about you?" he mutters, his mouth barely moving. The light that finally goes up in the stairwell almost blinds you, and you squeeze your eyes shut for a second. In this, it becomes clear that Yoongi is trying to drag you up without making it completely forced. You spin in his grab like it's a dance, balancing on the narrow steps, and his hand only grips your elbow now. Yoongi returns and pushes you against the hard greenish wall; inadequate, unpretty pale colour; but it goes well with white. He must be a little drunk after all, because he doesn't finish the phrase. His mouth forces itself on you, and you struggle for a good two seconds before recognizing his tongue.

Yoongi doesn't kiss; he devours you. He presses his head forwards, demanding the entrance, and then chokes you with tenderness, tilting your head back. He is trying to reach your throat from the inside, tracing your own trembling tongue. He is the ocean you don't have to leave. He only wants you. He whispers that: i only want you, like he's complaining: am I asking for too much? Your skeleton rattles inside, deprived of him for a whole year, every single system of your body working against your better judgement. So maybe you should screw it. You were meant to be. His small quick teeth never bite you to draw blood, but rather, to gently rehearse the day he finally gets to eat you. It takes a couple of minutes to get to the second floor, it's like in a movie; two mouths unable to get unstuck. You can't even hear the code beeping: the door simply opens, and he pushes you inside. The quiet, untouched darkness of the corridor welcomes him as he reaches for your thighs and squeezes them. It's a cataclysm. As soon as the door closes, he unzips his jeans and guides your hand inside, and you grab his dick, pulling out a soft moan out of him. It's still his trademark pleading. Stroke me, touch me, love me.

Yoongi kisses your wrist before pulling your top over your head, and immediately gets to your breast. Warm, safe, bee nest mouth bites too hard, and you shriek with pain, and he licks it softly to soothe it. What were the odds you'd meet him at Namjoon's house warming party? Yoongi doesn't fuck, he ambushes. You don't see any value in stifling your moans, harmonizing neatly, because it's one thing you never lied to yourself about. You feel so much smaller against him now, and it doesn't help. He could destroy you. Your tongue punches against the lower lip and gets outside, you feel like you're crumbling to pieces. The wetness of a whole year drips down in between your hips clashing together. It's sobering up. Sensitivity returns, and limbs go numb.

"This is fucking heaven", his tongue sanitizes your throat before allowing the teeth to bite. As you scream, you tighten around him, trying to bring legs together, but Yoongi is in between them, and he groans. Slow? Fast? You get what you want. He punches his thighs against yours until it hurts, then twirls you to your stomach and gets you on all fours. His body is fluid around you, like he's orbiting something. He nuzzles his face into your hair, moving his head, and it feels so good like he's never touched you before. All matter is knocked out of your head. Brain shut down. It's just juices, friction, pressure, love. Yoongi keeps repeating: my girl, my girl, my girl, like he is convincing himself. You have no idea what he's been doing for a year, but you sure haven't been fucked like that. Haven't been fucked at all. You think you and Yoongi invented sex, actually. It didn't exist before this. Your two animals kissing on the mouths, celebrating together. It's not you, it's them who kept magnetizing towards each other. Yes, that is easier to accept. His hand traces your arched spine and ends up on the side of the ass. A sonorous slap. Another one. The biting pain makes you feel everything more clearly. Then he cums inside, and the construction of you collapses, knees week, dysfunctional. He kisses it. Everything. As soon as your brain restarts, it advises: it was probably a mistake. Yoongi is licking the pink spot on your ass that he hit, like a kitten, with the tip of his tongue. You've never been loved before.

In the morning, you find him on your chest, his heavy head pressing on the rib cage, so much that it wakes you up. You push him off yourself and slide down instead, and he folds his arms around you through the sleep. Several hours later the day is breaking pale cold air in the bedroom with sunrays, and it burns your face.

The first thing you decide is that you can't go back to him. Wow, morning clarity is debilitating. You see his spider body, even more unbeatable than before. Yoongi has that cunning sweetness in his face, because it's kinda pinchable, and the cheeks are so soft. And it's a perfect disguise: he looks too cute. But when you think of the things he's doing, that mask turns insidious.

You try to slip out of the bed, but his clutch is iron even when he's unconscious. You look down at his hands. Half-fist as usual, short, trimmed, clean nails. The arms are like stubborn bush branches, trapping you in place.

"I want to pee", you whisper.

"Pee on my face", he mumbles, barely moving his lips. He crunches his nose when your movements become too disruptive to his snoozing. Before finally releasing you, he tightens the grip.

Everything in between legs burns. Muscles are sore, and the only thing they need is return into bed, but you force yourself to go to the kitchen for a glass of water.

This action brings up a huge question from under the sand of your mind. It's like the cameras all over again. It's like morning nausea. You put the glass back on the table and stare around the kitchen, the paranoia a forever chip on your shoulder. Calm down, you whisper to yourself. Knowing that it's the swamp you danced into happily yesterday. Are there cameras in your kitchen? Are there cameras in your bathroom?

Who unlocked the door to your apartment last night?

You can't remember. All you remember is animalistic desire. The need. The feeling of, if I don't let him in now, I'll die. Two things can be true at once: you are meant to be, you and Yoongi. He is your person. And he is clinically insane.

You walk back into the bedroom, where he is strategically putting on his jeans. The left side of his hair is flat because of the pillow, and he ruffles it with force.

"Yoongi".

You must have met before, in another lifetime: the way his name sounds in your mouth is too practiced. It lands neatly on your tongue like it belongs there. The same with yours. He lifts his eyes and walks around the bed.

"Now what? God, I just woke up".

His eyes are fixated on your right breast where a small bruise begins to form. He looks around and pulls your house robe from the floor. Untidy, the old Yoongi would say.

"Get dressed, or I'll drag you back to bed".

He puts the robe over your shoulders looking at you with such loving eyes that for a second you are ready to believe it's you that's slightly schizophrenic. He can't just leave it be once you put your arms through the sleeves; he drags his palm down your arm, fingers playing with your wrist.

"Who unlocked the door?"

He tilts his head forward and kisses you on the forehead.

But doesn't reply.

You try to remember. At the kiss, your memory fails. You remember the feeling. The light. Being pushed against the surface. Then, corridor.

Yoongi leaves the bedroom and strolls towards the kitchen, hanging his head low. You see he is rubbing something on his stomach.

"Snowball head".

He halts to a stop. Yoongi looks like a leopard now. The muscles in his shoulders lean and round. The neck looks stronger. His eyes peek at you through the hair.

"You're asking idiotic questions like before?" he hisses, "Instead of using your head, as usual?"

You grab the hems of your robe, closing yourself off.

"What does it matter who punched in the code?" he turns back to you. That white demon from your dreams.

"You never bothered to change it, and you've lived here for a whole year. Not a single time has it occurred to you to switch between them since you've moved away specifically to hide from me".

Boom. Just like that, the illusion of home dries down and evaporates like mist in the evening.

You don't want to stutter even though your hands give away the tremor.

"You've been here?"

"When?"

Your chin tilts forward.

"At all?"

"You expected me to just leave you alone or something?"

Yoongi throws it like it's a slight accusation, and goes into the kitchen.

But the plants stayed dry.

Floor moves under your feet slowly, carrying you after him. The jeans without the belt slide down under his stomach, and he pulls them up a little, then bows, looking inside the fridge. You fall onto a chair and feel scared of touching the table.

"Don't fuck with me".

"Yoongi..."

He snaps.

Yoongi swings the fridge door closed, and it bashes, opens again and rests half-open, while he stands up and turns to you.

"You are looking for things to complain about", he doesn't yell, he sizzles. "All the times I came round, I haven't even touched you a single time".

Your jaw unhinges and falls down, horror clouding your eyes.

They weren't dreams.

You didn't dream him up. He was there, in the room. White ghost against the bed. Your Yoongi. This is not dating, it's haunting. There was no break up, no year gap. Not to him. Yoongi rakes his hair with his hand, and you look at the knife resting on the counter to his left. The tender spot under his arm, in between top ribs, is asking to be stabbed.

"Get the fuck out", you get up.

"Don't even dream about it", his voice is bitter. You tug on his arm, trying to pull him away from the fridge. He closes it with his foot. Shakes off your hand. You grab again.

"What are you trying to do, baby?" he laughs. "You will throw me out? Again?"

He hasn't asked how you've been because he was there. He saw everything with his own eyes.

"Are there cameras?"

"No, I don't need them", he continues to laugh. Yoongi lets you drag him into the corridor, then loses his patience. Your fingers catch the air. His hand wraps around your throat. And finally, it's that one ring of the bell that should've sounded years ago. It's not the usual neck hold that fixates you in place. He starts squeezing.

"Stop pushing. Me away".

He skips the pleasantries of rhetoric questions and threats. He treats it like you're being problematic about a reasonable demand.

"We have been blessed with the love that doesn't even come to normal people sometimes", he grunts, "do you realize how rare it is? I found you within a week because I fucking read your mind".

"You are deeply unwell", you choke out, your hands scratching against his chest in an almost begging manner.

His eyes search your face, and he loosens the grab a little when the colour of it turns a little red. But doesn't let go.

"There's no shame in belonging to someone like you".

You mouth,

"Go".

Yoongi shakes you like you're a toy that refuses to work. The back of your head meets the wall, and he instantly puts his other palm against it. You kick. Then your fist collides with his unexpecting stomach, and he lets go.

You hold yourself against the wall and move towards the living room. He has to go. You run across the room and crash into the balcony door. Yank it open, and Yoongi grabs you by the shoulders. His weight makes you both step up, and you plunge into the wooden balcony, into the sun.

"He-" his hand slaps your face closed, covering the mouth. You hang from his arm, trying to scratch it, but you forget that Yoongi hasn't cared about pain since he was a child. Nothing can hurt him. Not your rejection, not your nails, not your fist. You mean nothing and everything to him. In a fit of delirious amusement, he bites your neck through your hair, giggling into your ear. You try to kick his shin but with your bare foot, it's ineffective.

"Stop fooling around and talk to me", he chuckles. Yoongi turns his head and spots a pile of someone else's old shit. Some garments, clothes, so old that they even smell. When you employ an elbow, to avoid being hit, he pushes you lightly to the side, and you fall there. Yoongi gets distracted by your leg ending with something he likes very much, as the skirt of the robe gets pulled up. He gets to his knees.

The barrier is so old that there are creases inside the wood. It's more of a hand-made cover, several square planks smashed together under the banister. When Yoongi's hand grabs your knee, you kick him in the chest with the other foot. He stumbles back. All his weight shifts, making him tip. He weighs a little more now - maybe around seventy kilograms? Not a small boy anymore. His back crashes through the barrier, taking it with him. He falls like a real man, without crying. And thumps on the ground, on top of the wooden pieces, three and a half meters down.

You don't even look; first thing you do is push yourself up and crawl out into the living room and run for the phone. Someone in the building opens a window.

You call the police, going through his clothes in your bedroom, looking for the car keys to make sure he won't get away.

Although maybe it's better if he does.

When you return to the balcony, you step carefully and crane your neck to look out. Of course, he's not there. You can't see any blood. His car is still parked in front of the building, although there are several silver ones. And you never bothered to check which one is his.

You sit by the wall, shaking, until the police arrive, and you tell them: my ex has followed me from the previous apartment where he had installed a camera in the kitchen to watch me.

Now, he has been visiting me, most likely at night, because he found out the code to the door.

The flat still smells like him everywhere. He'd been stealing things, too. I threw him off the balcony when he tried to forcefully eat me out after admitting the stalking.

The police say that it's the usual stuff. Shit happens. Lock your door for the night, they advise. If he reports the violence, you might be brought in for questioning, because you shouldn't throw people off balconies, no matter how they employ their mouths.

You collapse the next day on your way to work and spend a week at the hospital. Mental breakdown.

You spend a shit ton of money on therapy Yoongi never bothered with.

─────────────── ✧

Depression comes to you in the shape of irritation at everybody around you.

Two years later, the longer his absence, the stronger your fear grows. Yoongi can't just have disappeared, right, but it's a trick he does the best. You move from one flat to another every two months. You get a mechanic lock with the single key you always carry with you, even when you sleep. You don't meet new people but instead try to ground yourself in your family, or rather, the only member of it, who is still interested: your little sister. Too shy to text first. Too little to understand what's happening to you. You never talk about him. You don't need anybody to tell you that you've gone nuts; therapist does it well. You need someone to just be there.

You cut off everybody you knew from the university, even Namjoon and Hoseok, and feel awful about it, exhausted. After two years of running through Seoul and mapping it, leaving crumbs for everyone to see, you move away to Ilsan where your sister studies. But even then, you don't see each other very often. You install cameras yourself now: a black motionless eye in the bedroom; then watch yourself sleep in the morning, searching for snowy glow in the shot.

Yoongi is gone. This gaping hole smothers you with an unspoken promise of revenge. You don't even know how badly he fell back then - whether he can still walk. What happened to him. You don't get spooked anymore, don't get startled by blonde hair; you're quietly waiting for the day he shows up, to kill him. Live again? You can only do it when you know he is not there, anywhere.

You have no idea if what he's told you about his family, was true. That he had an alcoholic father and the mother that would make him beg for forgiveness on his knees, for every small mistake. That he was a lonely child at school, too small to even be bullied, just invisible. You always doubted half of it, because Yoongi always knew to push your buttons, almost like a real animal, a cat, that adjusts the sound of its meowing to soothe a human ear.

You are like that old dude from Jeepers Creepers 3, who sits with the shotgun, waiting to blow the demon down once it twitches again.

You miss the way he touched you like you were the most delicate, the most beautiful thing in the world. You could tear yourself apart.

Psychologist says it's an extreme case of codependent abusive relationship and that Yoongi most likely has borderline personality disorder and OCD. You scoff at that. You know he is an incubus.

You work from home; don't show up on the street a lot. All deliveries brought to you are under your name. Your apartment is untidy and messy, and owned only by you. No one steps inside, and there's no alien smells. Not bitter, not sweet, not the love. No hatred in your heart. Just readiness.

Mending relationships you'd neglected for years is an ungrateful business. Especially if it's your family. When your mother texts you that there's a gathering, it's not a happy message, a call to get together to catch up. To her, it's a chore, and you wouldn't even go if your sister weren't there. The last time you saw her, she was a worn out graduate, given up fencing and all her old hobbies, just trying to cope with her demanding major and friendship problems. It was a year ago. Once you moved to Ilsan, she had welcomed you and vanished again, leaving you on read for months. Guess you can't ask for more after being such a rotten creature that only gravitates towards the worst people.

You would've worn an armour if you had some, to family gatherings.

It's the most unpleasant faces you've ever seen in your life, all looking at you like you are shit. Mother eyes you up and down, and you recall how you had to kneel before her when you were little, begging for forgiveness. You'd never told Yoongi that; always wondered if it was a coincidence. Not really anybody knows that, except you and her.

She has a softer stare for the younger version of you, that didn't disappoint; from the other side of the big living room, you see the back of the head of your sister, and how the corners of mother's eyes relax, and lids go a little down.

"Did dad text you?" is all she asks. You say no.

"Uncle Namgil is here", she warns. Guess it's her version of taking care. Uncle Namgil liked to carry you around by your ankle when you were small enough to be carried. Almost dislocated your hip every single time, shaking you like a cat. You know well to stay away from him, even now.

"Minjae?"

The cousin who kissed you french style when you were ten.

"No".

She nods at your sister and smiles at her warmly. You get an uneven glass tilt. Once the girl turns and waves at you, lifts her arm, the cardigan on her body stretches, and you notice a belly.

"Oh shit", you utter before you can stop yourself.

"She is six months pregnant", mom explains.

You walk towards each other, and you hug her. She is still the same strong girl with shy eyes telling you things she isn't capable of pronouncing. Now she avoids looking at you, rather usual stuff. You need to nudge her a little, though. Having a baby is no small deed.

"Nani", you coo. The little nickname you gave her when she was little. You never call her the full name. "Congratulations".

She smiles, wrapping her palms around her belly. Then blushes slightly.

The relatives chat around. It's always a fine concussion of a reminder, how many there are, of you. Sister squeezes your hand shortly in gratitude.

"I'm sorry we didn't speak more".

It's a very vague apology. 'Didn't speak more' sounds like an unfinished conversation from yesterday, not a full six months of ghosting you. But you can't stay mad at her for long. You look around, seeing if anybody else is surprised by her growing belly. If there are the typical accusatory glances at you, blaming you for making your younger sister take the burden because you are just so selfish. Your mother asks her about the boyfriend softly.

"Boyfriend?" you ask, surprised, "you're not married?"

She shrugs.

"It was a happy accident".

Her eyes shine with what you know is infatuation.

"Where is he? Has he come with you today?"

She opens her mouth and says nothing at first, but her stare is direct. Your convoluted mind halts, waiting for a response. The voices of your family a hiss of the sea around. The room is yellow.

What enters the living room is black.

"I should've told you", her throat convulses, eyes bulge a little. All features indicate that she is feeling guilty. You look down at her stomach, then back at her face, then again, behind her shoulder.

Because your battered brain refuses to register.

"Sorry", she whispers quickly.

His hand lies on her shoulder, and you stare at the fingers with clean, short nails.

Yoongi is all black, like a swan that's undergone a transition.

He is happy, as well.

"Hi".

Your mother is mesmerized by the handsomness of this dude. He has a trendy cut with sidebangs, an there's a silver earring in his ear, but it just suits him so well. Black shirt is ironed, you know she did it. Yoongi bites his lower lip shyly. His eyes are revealed, and your mom drowns in them. It's in the genes. She can't not see the perfect slant. You bet she is almost fainting at the realization her grandchild will have these eyes.

It's a callback to his kitchen greeting: wow, that's awkward.

It's what you say now, to deelectrify the air. Yoongi's gaze darts to you like he doesn't recognize you. Nani's face gets flushed.

"We used to date", you explain to your mother. She opens her mouth, confused. Nani twists out of his hand gently. And takes the mother's arm.

"We should leave them for a while".

Throws you another cautious look. You had not a single idea this girl was capable of being a cunt. Not a single idea.

She lingers for a moment, looking at him, then at you, then purses her lips and leads mom away.

Yoongi looks at her like he would rather slash his veins that let her go. You feel your eyes go cold.

Seeing him in black is so weird, it's so... it's like you've accidentally jumped into a parallel dimension. You study his hair, shiny, black like his jacket.

"Is this your natural colour?" you don't know why you whisper.

It's the first thing you tell him after three years.

By the way, he doesn't look crippled.

Is this the same person at all?

When he opens his mouth, you recognize the voice.

"Yeah. Why?"

You can't remove the frown from in between your eyebrows.

"You've seen my teeange pictures".

You blink the paralysis off.

Yoongi orbits you a little, choosing an angle, then stands by your side, like you're both observing the living room.

"I have a great family", he sighs, "so many people".

Finally, the ice-cold spear of understanding slides down your guts and settles there, where Nani grows his parasite.

"You fucked my sister?"

He raises his eyebrows at the vulgarity of that. He is slowly changing his young adult face to his man face. It's rougher. Still handsome to the point of annoyance. Cheeks soft. But the white is drained. It's mute.

"She has your eyes", he deadpans.

"That all you got to tell me?"

Yoongi grins a little. There are small creases at the corners of his eyes. He must work a lot.

"One thousand, one hundred sixteen days", he replies. His eyes travel across your face. "And you finally don't fuck around".

"Walk with me".

You turn and make your way into the kitchen that's across the living room, down the corridor and to the left. Nani and mom are sat on the couch and watch you two, a little scared for some reason.

Yoongi strolls behind you soundlessly.

You rake your hair, it helps you think. Yoongi closes the door behind him and gets distracted by the little vase with candy. You stop at the knife stand, staring at it like it knocks all thoughts out of your head.

"You'll be an aunt soon", he says from behind you. Traces his finger on the table as if checking if your mother is as dirty as you are. You barely ever dusted.

"It's a boy".

"I don't believe it. Is it really yours?"

You turn with a swing to face him. He's a crow now. A levelled-up creature.

"Yeah, it's mine. I had lots of sex with her".

You cover your nose like you're ready to vomit.

"When did you start it?"

"About a year ago".

"And before?"

"Huh?"

He is playing fool now. Direct and annoyed Yoongi is taking his time pulling the nerves out of you.

"Where have you been before? It's been three years".

He smirks with his teeth, and takes a step towards you like he likes something in your voice.

"Why are you asking? I was working. I need to provide for my family. While you were drowning in your own shit, I got really loaded and ready to procreate".

He says it with mercy, a soft tilt of the head, a hand ready to catch you.

The balcony flight really cemented your unbalanced seats in this fucking spectacle. It's true. You've been surviving. Him, his aftershock, and then, without him. Bizarre. Your life started revolving around him.

Yoongi sighs through his nose and holds himself against the counter. Looms above you the way he likes to.

"You can't have Nani".

"Oh, shit", he whines, "I can't have you, I can't have Nani. Who am I allowed to have? Your mom?"

He observes you like he actually considers it.

"I actually might get a shot with her".

You chuckle at the cold delivery, so obscenely empty that there's an echo inside your ribs.

You turn slightly, and grab the knife from the stand. It's a good, broad knife with a sturdy black handle. Nothing white anymore, it's all coming together.

"Take off your jacket".

Yoongi obeys, disinterested. He puts the jacket on the high stool and gets back in front of you, eyes slightly curious about the thing in your hand.

"It's bad timing. I am proposing tonight".

He acquired a new expression. It's a condescending smile. His triangular, softly oval face is clean, pale, with the eyes oozing black like never before. He has the capacity to be very safe for the right people.

"You shouldn't have gone for my sister".

"I won't deny it's all about you", he notes softly. The words low, dipped in careful reproach, "but don't get cocky about it. You've hurt me twice".

You raise your hand, and he doesn't react, at all. His eyes, you realize, are so focused on you, like he is drinking the image of you.

What if he hasn't watched you these three years? And hadn't seen you? And whatever's happening now - this stillness, is the waves drawing away from the shore?

Your limbs go numb. Yoongi's mouth is raw pink. The times when he had breakfast on your kitchen, masturbated to you walking around the apartment unaware, and went through your phone, feel so simple now. Almost nostalgic.

"Yoongi", you call, to test the waters. You look where you should - at his hand, suddenly forming into a fist, thumb shaking.

"Why did you choose me?"

His eyes stare through you.

"Did you know I can recognize your smell?"

"I can recognize yours, too", you shake your head dismissively. The knife still limp between you.

"No. At distance. Like a trail. I think we're soulmates".

You have no jabs to throw. You lift the knife and stick it to his chest. Yoongi grabs your wrist.

"At least go for the heart, my love. And good luck; if you think I won't hunt you down in the next life..."

He swirls it sideways so that the tip goes in between the ribs.

Betrayal is what you can't forgive. Not dying the hair is alright. His natural colour makes him more mature. Makes him blend in. Perhaps he has got tired of being the snowball head.

Gaining weight made him look like an apex predator. Strong structure of his jaw gradually lifts into the cheekbones that give up his old blood. The animal bows its head at you and drops the hand, asking for nothing. You have no idea what's going on in his head. You know nothing goes on in yours. Nothing to report.

You press the knife in, and Yoongi helps, keeping himself in place with the hand clutching the counter edge. Bright kitchen light is atrociously yellow. It takes some force to drive it through him, but once you get it going, it gets easier. There's a nasty crack, and he gasps quietly. His chin drops like he wants to watch. Yoongi stumbles forward, and the last thing he does is kiss you. You haven't kissed him for three years. His mouth is warm, like the forest nest where you can hide. Sweat immediately appears above his upper lip, and you lick it clean.

Yoongi falls on the floor.

Then the knife hand clunks against the tiles.

Then, people come in. They scream. Nani screams the loudest. Mother goes pale. Blood. Jail. Death.

No, rewind back.

You let yourself soak in the scene, calculating, your head goes light.

It's not even the jail that stops you, but another, second best thing: the world without Yoongi. The whole rest of your life without him on your scent.

His hand still grabbing your wrist. He calls you pretty. To give him a kiss, you have to cut the distance with the knife.

You press it harder, just to let the anger out, and Yoongi lowers his eyes, unimpressed. Probably far from the pain level to even notice for him.

You press until the tip penetrates his skin and tears the black shirt just a little, then your upper lip twitches in anger.

You throw the knife on the counter.

He kisses you, pressing you against the hard edge, the bulge in his trousers nudging you in the thigh. Some things never change with Yoongi. His hand cradles the back of your head, and you feel loved, the way only a stupid, capricious bitch can be loved, that earned the love of a demon.

You grab his chin hard, digging into the jaws, and feel his teeth with the fingertips. He looks a little funny like this, like a kissable twink again.

"You will never see her again. You never hurt her again".

"Oh, Nani is screwed for life", he promises, with a sigh. "You made me do it".

"And you stop gaslighting me about every little thing", you utter through your teeth.

He bites his lip like he bites his tongue. His eyes come alive. The animal is sniffing you.

"Get your things", he suggests, "we should leave now".

You nod. Half way out of the kitchen, you turn. Yoongi is tapping his chest, lower lip pulled up, and with the other hand, feeling for his jacket.

"You care about the baby at all?"

He shakes his head.

"We could take it from her, but it's undercooked..."

You suck the air through your teeth and shake the door handle before opening the door.

You walk through the living room, shooting one empty glance at your sister.

She looks at you, her hands crossed on her lap. You wonder to yourself if she was manipulated into it; seems way too pliable, even for her.

Whatever. This is utterly your world.

You leave the house and take extra pleasure out of bumping your shoulder into uncle Namgil.

Yoongi emerges five minutes later into the street full of icicle teeth. You have no idea what car he has now, so you just linger outside, away from your mother's house, where, if they throw something out the window, it won't make you.

He waves his hand in an order, and you don't move. Yoongi frowns, but there's a smirk in it. Punches his cheek with his tongue, walks over, gets your elbow. And then crooks his neck and kisses you again, the steam leaving your mouths. The street is muted and white, covered in funeral snow crust; like pieces of his old hair, spread out. Yoongi is a black stain, impossible to lose again. He leads you to a big chocolate-brown Hyundai and gets the door for you.

"What did you tell them?"

"Not to search for us".

You throw a look at the house. Someone is watching from the window.

He drives calmly, one hand resting on his lap. Once he makes sure where you need to go, the hand crawls over to yours, and takes your palm, lovingly. Nobody ever quite mustered the tenderness with which Yoongi always touches you. Like only he knows the code to your door. Like he kills the competition and fucks the copies of you. The fingers interlock, and you think to yourself, if you keep him close, nobody else will get hurt.

You wonder if the lotus-shaped spa is ready.

─────────────── ✧

You rub your eye carefully and adjust the lamp light from your phone. Laptop is on your knees on top of the blanket. Yoongi is in the same bed with you, an elbow away, drawing something on his iPad. He really likes drawing things. It's always some structures; he doesn't draw people. Except for you. He draws you, and buildings. Staircases, lintels, slabs. Like an engineer. And balustrades, pediments and columns, like an architect. Eyes, wrists, ears, hips. Like Yoongi. You rub your eye again, and he says,

"You work too much".

Your hand stops clicking the keyboard. You look at the time. Almost made it a whole half an hour without his comments. Almost done.

You glare at him, tilting head, brows up.

He smirks.

"What? You don't need all that. Ever since we moved in together, you started working more".

It's because you finally got your peace of mind and therefore, productivity increased.

"It's like you're trying to prove something".

He looks away from his intricate, angular black and white molding and peeks at you from under the black hair.

"Because everything I do is about you", you sneer gently. He goes back to his work.

"Well, everything I do is about you. But I'm a fool for hoping my ministrations would be reciprocated".

"If the both of us acted like this", you sigh, "we wouldn't leave the house and nothing would get done".

"By you. I am proactive".

You decide it's best to leave him hanging. He is irritating when he is on his superiority wave. Yoongi loses interest in his drawing when he spots the time. You realize the work is done when he puts the iPad and the pen away, and his hand reaches for your laptop.

"No, no! Not finished".

The tip of his tongue helps him concentrate on catching you. You turn on your side. His fingers clutch the lid of the computer.

"I am your husband. Be with me".

"You're not my husband".

The silent, lazy struggle doesn't leave your square in the bed.

"I will be. Give it to me".

Yoongi is pressing his weight against your free hand, trapping it under, and yanks the laptop away.

"I mean it", you press, slightly angry. You need to win this at least once. You need to know that he sees a human in you, still.

"I don't care".

You sit up, let go of the laptop and go limp. Yoongi hates that the most. Fighting is exciting. But total surrender with no expression on your face is something he is powerless against.

He whines tiredly.

"Come on".

He walks around the bed and puts your laptop on the desk, then gets inside, under the blanket, on your side, sitting on top of your knees. Then stretches his body like a cat, straddling you. Tries to look inside your eyes.

"Y/N".

"You don't care. Fine. Go to sleep".

"Tsk".

You stare through him knowing that it will drive him up the wall in no time.

"I don't mean it like that".

"Uh-huh".

That's the worst part. He totally means it like that. He always means he doesn't care what you think as long as he knows better.

He doesn't think you need to work at all. What has he been breaking his back for then? You should just be a good girl. Enjoy the fruit of his labour. Stay pretty. Stare into his eyes.

Yoongi slides his thighs, taking you with him. His hips are incredibly strong for someone who's never been fucked by a man. You are forced on your back, and he grabs your face, plumping your lips.

"I say things to make you mad, you know that".

Two things can be true at the same time. You press into his cut. One little wound: empty eyes; and he is going desperate.

"If I really didn't care, my dick would be in that mouth four times every day", he narrates, and it's twistedly funny.

"If I didn't care about what you say, I wouldn't memorize every single thing you say, every day".

You wait another minute and blink as surrender. Good enough. His fingers relax a little. His back muscles do, too. Yoongi presses a kiss on your cheek, light like a touch of a moonray. He hovers, moves his lips to the corner of your mouth as an apology but doesn't go further. Begs for permission.

"We're going to Namjoon's party?"

He opens his eyes and lifts himself a little. Your hand swipes through his hair. It's been a new hobby; longer locks are like a coping mechanism for you.

"Do you want to?"

You shrug. Saying you miss Namjoon's smiling face with dimples would be stirring new shit when Yoongi has just demonstrated such outstanding capability for being pliant.

"I want to see everybody. You ever cared about them?"

"Parties?" he curves his lips into a lopsided shape.

"Namjoon and Hobi".

"Oh. I like them. They are the only two people from uni I didn't hate".

You gasp.

"And me?"

Life is unfair. Two disgusting people like you get to enjoy the bliss of being together in a huge, warm bed, while other, less corrupted souls go through their lives struggling.

Well, those souls maybe should've worked better and become architects.

"You... are barely a person", he concludes seriously.

"Weird, I always thought the same thing about you".

"Wow", Yoongi rolls his eyes. "We are so-o quirky".

He drops down, and your hands wrap around his head. He is corporeal, at least when in your grasp.

taglist: @mar-lo-pap , @benyhime

#yoongi x reader #yoongi imagine #yoongi angst

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thejesterstears · 3 days ago

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Initial thoughts on TADC episode 5 (SPOILERS):

- Ohh Caine is slowly losing it, this is going to be interesting to see the more the series progresses.

- Of course Jax would suggest poaching as an adventure lol, I can only assume he submitted the President Pomni idea as an excuse to blow things up too.

- GANGLE’S ANIME-INSPIRED ADVENTURE WAS SO CUTE also I would watch a full episode in that art style, it was fun!

- I’m presuming the stargazing adventure was Pomni’s suggestion, it genuinely warmed my heart to see her actually happy and relaxed.

- There were so many fun and different things going on with the animation in this one, I adored the intermission sequence.

- Opposite Jax was just Serial Designation N in disguise lmao

- ALSO MAID JAX IS CANON I SCREAMED LMAO

- Okay getting into the nitty-gritty character analysis aspect, but I have to say I love that Pomni seems to be a sincerely kind person who wants to help people. She had small heart-to-heart moments with both Jax and Ragatha and seemed genuine in wanting to be there for both of them, even attempting to mediate between them in an escalated moment. She didn’t even say anything negative about Ragatha when Jax was ranting about her, and helped try to boost Ragatha up by giving her an extra turn to prove herself during the softball game. I feel like she’s going to play some key role between Jax and Ragatha when things inevitably fall apart between them but it also seems like she’s possibly caught in the middle of them, so I’m curious how that will progress. I do worry about her falling into the role of group therapist and how it might break her down over time.

- I was so surprised to see Jax interacting sincerely with Pomni, I think he genuinely wants a friend and Pomni seems a good candidate because she’s sweet and still new enough not to know all his baggage. Also Ragatha implying the only friend(s) he ever had are gone and the way he reacted made me feel sick, ohh we are going to get a vulnerable Jax moment in the future aren’t we.

- And Ragatha. Oh my god. I had always suspected that her people pleasing tendencies were a product of trauma and I swear my jaw dropped having it confirmed to be true. She was verbally abused growing up to the point where she felt unloved. She tries to appease everyone around her and remain optimistic just to make people like her and not leave her, but she’s bottling up so much more than I realized. She really was jealous of Pomni and Jax becoming friends because, from what I perceived, she did see Pomni as an opportunity to make a new friend who really gets her because she doesn’t seem to have a deep connection with anyone else in the circus—that final clip damn near killed me where everyone went off on their own and left her alone. She truly is a broken and lonely woman struggling to find the acceptance and love she so desperately yearns for. I’ll probably analyze this deeper later.

#the amazing digital circus #tadc #the amazing digital circus spoilers #tadc episode 5 #jester tea

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yall-batman-fanfic · 20 hours ago

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DC x MARVEL Crossover: Pym Particle Laundry Day | Batfam x Ant Man

Synopsis: Jason and the others did everyone's laundry and things didn't go so well.

The note says: Stay away from the laundry

But Jason thought it would be best to give Vivian and Alfred a hand with chores while they, along with Bruce, head to New York for a Wayne Enterprise thing. The morning they left, Jason took full control of the house---wearing a baby carrier for a toddler Valerie would entertain herself while he goes around the Manor doing the work.

He just finished with the kitchen when he saw the laundry and the note.

“What are you doing?” Stephanie asked when she saw Jason throwing in one of Vivian's clothes in the wash.

“I'm baking a cake—what does it look like I'm doing?” Jason tossed a shit ton of detergent in the machine.

“It looks like you're doing the exact opposite of what Viv said,” she showed him the note on the door of the laundry room. “And you're exposing Val to a shit ton of chemicals. “

Sweet little Valerie had no idea what was going on and just happily kept putting in clothes to the washing machine. Whether it was red, white, or blue.

“Ma and Alfred are stuck at New York and haven't had a break for months. I'm just helping out, okay? Also, Val is in perfect hands.”

Right on cue, Damian arrived in the laundry room, he looked around until he saw Valerie. No words spoke, he just went in, unbuckled the strap and caught his sister before she fell.

“What the fuck, Gremlin?!” Jason exclaimed.

Valerie happily patted Damian’s face and snuggled in his arms.

“Now she's in perfect hands. I'm taking Val to her room where it's safe.”

“Dami!” Val cheered and hugged him tight. “Play?”

“Okay, we'll play.”

“Cassie?”

“We can invite Cassandra too.”

“Stephie!” Val reached for her.

Stephanie shook Val's hand and let Damian leave the room. Once he's out, she turns back to Jason and the catastrophe that was going to happen.

“Well, good luck with that. Also, that's Vivian's favorite dress and its fabric is really delicate so… something to keep in mind.”

“Yeah, yeah. I can handle this, Brown!” Jason waved her to leave.

~ An Hour Later ~

Shit. He messed up.

He messed up big.

Everything he threw in the machine shrunk! It was as if every dress, every shirt, and pants was made for Valerie and Valerie’s clothes were made for a smaller infant. And the white shirt suddenly turned pink! He wasn’t that stupid to mix up the white fabrics from the colorful ones!

“What the hell did you do?!” Tim marched inside the room and grabbed the pink shirt Jason held. “This is mine!” he showed the initials on the inside tag. “This was a gift!”

“I don’t know! It just shrank like that!” Jason reached in to check at the other clothes. They both gasped at the next thing he pulled out.

“That’s Viv’s dress. That’s her favorite dress, the one Bruce got her,” Tim pointed out.

“Yeah, I know. I was there when he got it for her after shopping! Let’s just put it back there…” He was about to drop the dress inside when they heard a cough from the door.

It was Stephanie with Damian and Valerie who had the look that says: I told you so.

“Mumma!” Valerie squealed in delight when she saw the dress. It looked exactly like her mother’s but smaller.

“She’s going to kill you. And I’m going to enjoy watching Mom do it,” Damian smirked. “Val, that’s not yours, that’s Mom’s.”

“Mumma!” Valerie pointed at the dress again.

“There’s gotta be a way to fix this, right?” Jason asked them.

“We all know that the only one who can fix this is Viv, Jason,” said Tim.

“What about Val? She’s magic! Right? Val, magic?”

Valerie clapped her hands in front of her, trying to make the same gestures and sound her mother does when Vivian snaps her fingers or claps her hands together and makes those pretty lights but nothing. She pouted, “No.”

“Actually,” Stephanie spoke up. “I think I might know someone who can help us out.”

“Who?!”

~ Boston, New York ~

It was a normal day at home, as normal as it could get, when Cassie Lang got a message from Stephanie Brown about heading up to New York. Nothing new and nothing to worry about. She and Stephanie have been hanging out for a while now, along with Cassandra Cain, and have girls night out. It’s not everyday you get to meet people who have similar double lives, you know. But when she answered the door, she wasn’t expecting to find Stephanie with half of her adopted family, all holding laundry baskets filled with what looked like baby clothes.

“I had the impression Bruce Wayne has like a hundred washing machines,” Cassie told Stephanie.

“Yeah, but they fucked up,” Stephanie took the dress from the basket that shrunk.

Cassie winced. “You’re lucky Dad and Hope aren’t here. Come on in. And I think I got my old playpen for your sister too.”

“She likes to observe,” Damian told her as she carried Valerie in his arms.

“Well, she can walk around the place if she wants… the rest of you, we can go to the lab.”

As Jason, Tim, and Stephanie brought the baskets to the basement where Cassie was leading them, Damian and Cassandra decided to stay upstairs with Valerie to keep watch on her.

~ * ~

“Don’t you guys have a butler or something?” Cassie asked as she prepared the Pym Particles.

“Yeah but Alfred’s old now and Jason thought it would be a great idea to do the laundry himself,” Stephanie answered.

“But what about the whole magic thing?”

“Viv’s out of town, actually, they’re in New York today for a Wayne Enterprise business meeting,” Tim answered.

“Can you fix the clothes or not?” Jason groaned.

Cassie raised a brow at him.

“He’s always an asshole, don’t worry,” Stephanie told her.

“Well, if my calculations are correct, this is enough to get your clothes back in the right size… all I need is to use this,” she pulled out the gauntlet they use to control the increase and decrease of their size. “And you won’t get your asses kicked for ruining your adopted mother’s Prada dress.”

“It’s actually Armani,” Jason muttered.

“Whatever. Let’s try it out.”

~ Manhattan, New York ~

A large woman’s garment is seen covering the neighborhood in Boston—

Vivian and Bruce, everyone in the meeting, paused when they saw the giant bra that lay over the houses in the mentioned neighborhood in Boston. Alfred, who just got a call from Damian, entered the room and paused when he saw it on the television.

“Is that my…” Vivian trailed off. “It can’t be, right?”

“It is,” Bruce muttered. “I’d know.” He’s ripped it off of her so many times to have that bra memorized in the back of his mind, luckily Vivian has magic to fix it.

“What the hell?” Vivian turned red in embarrassment.

Local authorities have gone to check on the site and see if there are any injured… One of the Avengers have also been called to the scene—-

Vivian hid her face from everyone else, but then she saw six familiar faces on the broadcast. No matter how much they tried to hide themselves, the cameras caught them.

Jason. Tim. Stephanie. Cassandra. Damian and Valerie.

When everyone saw the Wayne children, the members of the meeting turned to Bruce and Vivian, and soon realization came and were blushing in embarrassment.

Bruce stood up with Vivian. “Excuse us, there’s something we need to deal with.”

“Of course, Mr. Wayne,” Lucius stuttered. “I’ll call for your drive to get you to the…”

“I think we can drive ourselves. Thanks,” Vivian quickly left the room.

Bruce sighed. “We’ll reconvene tomorrow.”

~ * ~

Bruce, Vivian, and Alfred arrived at the Lang residence, which was under the cup of her giant bra, and found her children sitting on the curbside with Cassie Lang while the familiar Avenger, Scott Lang—aka Ant Man— and Hope van Dyne —aka Wasp—were either giving them a lecture or… it was unclear.

“Mr. Lang, Ms. van Dyne,” Bruce approached them.

“Bruce Wayne! Mr. Bruce—Wayne—Bruce Wayne—hi” Scott wiped his hands on his pants before offering his hand to shake. “And Mrs. Wayne… uh, I guess this is your…”

“Yeah, it is,” Vivian sighed, then turned to her children. Valerie was the only one who wasn’t avoiding her gaze and was fighting Damian to get to her mother. “Do I want to know why my bra looks like a contemporary art piece in the middle of Boston?”

“Mumma!” Valerie got out of Damian’s hold and waddled to her mother. Vivian picks her up and lets Valerie hug her.

“It was Jason!” Stephanie pointed at him. “He did the laundry when you and Alfred said not to!”

“I was just trying to help out!” Jason exclaimed.

“There is a reason why we do not ask any of you to do the laundry, Master Jason,” Alfred sighed.

“I’m guessing this is your bra, Ma’am?” A firefighter asked Vivian with a thick Boston accent.

“Yes, it is,” she replied through gritted teeth.

“We’ll handle this,” Hope told the man.

“Is there any way we can fix this fast?” Vivian asked Hope.

“We can shrink it back but I can’t promise it will go back to its right size,” Hope answered.

“Do it. As long as this doesn’t stays live on the news for another second. Please. I’ll handle fixing the size and the… the damages in the community,” she noticed some of the houses’ roofs were messed up.”

“The Wayne Foundation will contact the families and lend a hand in the repairs,” said Bruce.

“I’ll get the thing,” Scott told them and ran inside the house.

“As for you five,” Vivian turned to her children.

“Me? What did I do?” Damian argued but one look from Bruce and Alfred had him pouting and slouch, just like his siblings.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do but this isn’t—augh!” Vivian started marching towards the car.

“Quoting Ms. Vivian’s words from before, you are all dead,” Alfred said as he picked up the basket of laundry on the ground.

“I GOT IT!” Scott waved from the house roof. He then fired something to the air, rather to the bra cup, and when it hit the fabric the bra shrunk and he caught it in his hand. Bruce wasn’t too happy when Scott was waving it around as he ran back to them. “Here you go, Mr. Wayne. One shrunken bra.”

Bruce accepted the garment and thanked him. “I’ll make sure to send the check when we get back.” he then handed him a card. “To keep contact… and we would appreciate it if…”

“We won’t tell anyone else,” Hope reassured him.

“Right. Thank you.” He turned to his children. “You five. Our hotel is five minutes away. Understand?”

“Yes, Father/Okay/Fine,” they all said.

After saying their thanks and goodbyes, the Waynes drove away from the Lang residence, headed back to Manhattan.

“Wow, I can’t believe I shook hands with Bruce Wayne,” Scott said.

“And you waved his wife’s bra like a prize,” Cassie told him.

“Don’t think you’re off the hook for this,” Hope told her.

“They asked for help!”

“Well, just like them, you’re grounded,” Scott told her.

~ * ~

The Wayne kids weren’t grounded. They were sent to community service by helping in the construction repairs in the neighborhood.

During that time, Bruce and Vivian were getting a lot of messages and calls from super-friends and friends about her bra on the news.

#batman x reader #bruce wayne #batfam #dc universe #dc batman #batman #batman fanfiction #fanfic #dc comics #dc fanfic #batman x vivian pryor #bruce wayne x vivian pryor #bruce wayne x oc magician #batman x oc magician #DC X Marvel #marvel x dc #batfam x antman

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lightlycareless · 2 days ago

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waaaaa i really love your fics, thank you for feeding the naoya girlies :')

i wonder what naoya would be like with a funny y/n that makes him laugh? i think he needs to laugh a little, like a genuine, heartfelt laugh

Heyaaaa anon :>!!!

ngl, if there's one thing I struggle the most when it comes to writing, aside from smut, is anything remotely funny. I just... it doesn't come to me when I put my mind to it😭 probably not even natural either but well... Here I am, your humble servant. Hoping to deliver something of your enjoyment!!

I focused on the sweet this time around to make up for the lack of funnyness. 🙈🙈🙈

warnings: fluff. highschool au. naoya is WHIPPED.

Happy reading!

I know that when we imagine someone making us laugh it’s usually the idea of “they told a good joke” or a “funny anecdote” and while I do think that might happen with Naoya and you…

It’s mostly you being kinda silly, borderline awkward, that makes it for him.

And he doesn’t know why, like, it’s so… simple. Stupid even! How fate decides to play you a nasty joke by making you trip and drop your favorite treats, mochi of course, into the cold, dirty hard ground.

You silently stare at the crime scene, pouting a bit before ultimately sighing, accepting defeat.

“Seriously like, why did I even wake up today?” you whine, Naoya... chuckles.

It’s not intended to be funny, naturally. But Naoya, so touched by your undeniable adorableness, can’t help himself from interpreting it so. He’ll make it up to you later of course, it’s not like he didn’t have spare boxes just in case something like this happened, but he'll do it after his fair share of enjoyment.

However, the moments that make him laugh are those where you humiliate others (you don’t genuinely do so but he doesn’t know the difference) with your unexpected boldness, back and forth banter between you and whoever had the courage to provoke you; usually Gojo or Geto.

Mainly Gojo. Always him.

“Aww, you’re getting all red, Y/N! Why is that? Is it because of me?” he teases, you roll your eyes.

“Yeah, it’s an allergic reaction to your existence”

Naoya snorts.

“Admit it, Y/N. I’m the most interesting part of your day, aren’t it?”

You remain quiet for a few seconds, before pursing your mouth into a small oh, feigning enlightenment.

“Ah, that explains a lot then.” You say. “And here I wondered why today felt utterly mundane.”

“Mundane?? Excuse me?!” Satoru frowns, Naoya laughs.

He just loves your confidence when it comes to Satoru. How you’re the only one that can kick him down a notch when he gets too insufferable.

Of course, that amusement is short lived the longer Gojo goes on with his usual antics, sparking jealousy the moment he feels him to be mocking you out of interest instead of his usually obnoxious behavior.

But in the end, seeing you put him in his place, or just seeing you in general… while excitedly sharing the things you like, one of his favorite moments for example, enough that your tongue trips over itself, leading a demonstration of embarrassment that makes him want to pinch your cheeks, unable to hold back his amusement and further deepening the redness of your face—

His affection for you even stronger…

You’re the only one who gets to see and earn this side of him, and Naoya hopes it’ll remain that way.

you his pookie, that's it. also, the only time i think he might've laughed in that obnoxious way where you know is borderline fake is with Toji—he does strike me like the kind of "pick me" boy that would just hype this man so damn much it's not even funny. but hey, if that makes him happy I guess.......

#ask #naoya zenin #naoya zen'in #naoya x reader #naoya zenin x reader #naoya zenin x you #jjk naoya #naoya zen'in x reader #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jjk x you #prompt series: jujutsu kaisen

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fameandfiction · 2 days ago

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IMAGINE PART I: “What Can I Do” — Reneé Rapp x Reader

— Best Friends With Unspoken Feelings.

Requested | PART1 - PART2 - PART3

Los Angeles doesn’t sleep. It simmers. Like the stretch of sunlight that never really disappears between tinted windows and the buzz of people too pretty and too tired to care anymore.

It’s Friday night. Again. That kind of Friday that’s soaked in routine: the same familiar friends, half-hearted laughter, crowded rooftop air, the scent of weed curling through the wind and someone’s perfume always lingering too long in your sweatshirt.

And Reneé—God, Reneé—leans against the railing like she belongs to the city. Like she is the city. Bleached blonde strands tucked behind one ear, heavy silver rings catching the last of the amber glow in her whiskey glass. One boot up on the concrete edge. Her attention is split between the moon and you.

You’re on the couch just inside. Feet curled under you, sipping something way too sweet, staring at your phone and only half-listening to the guy beside you—your boyfriend—ramble on about a podcast he wants to start.

Reneé watches you the way people watch a train they know is about to crash.

And you? You smile when your name’s called. You look over, meet her eyes through the glass, wave her in. Oblivious.

That kills her the most.

You met her on set. Not a real set. Some indie thing you did PA work on because you needed a credit and free coffee. She was visiting a friend, wasn’t supposed to stay. But she did. She lingered, watched you tape cables, flirted like it was breathing. You thought it was a joke. An inside thing. Some celebrity habit to make herself feel normal around you.

She liked that you didn’t care about her fame. That you weren’t impressed.

You liked that she saw you. Really saw you.

You don’t remember when it shifted. When the casual texts became late-night calls. When voice notes turned into FaceTimes. When every party felt wrong if she wasn’t there, when she started inviting you to events like you were her date.

You told yourself it was platonic. It had to be. Because people like her don’t look at people like you that way.

And because you had a boyfriend by then.

You’ve always been bad at endings. You drag things out. Like splitting wood that should’ve snapped clean years ago. Like staying in relationships you’ve outgrown, too scared of the silence that might follow.

You love your boyfriend. Or maybe you love the idea of him. What he offers. Stability. Comfort. The illusion of safety. A straight line.

But Reneé is a wildfire. A question mark. A feeling that wakes you up at 3 AM and steals the air from your lungs.

You can’t admit that. Not even to yourself.

So instead, you keep things tidy.

Reneé is your best friend. You say it often, just to remind yourself. You wear her hoodies. You text her first when something good happens. You touch her without thinking: hands on her thigh when you laugh, fingers tangled in her hair when she cries at dumb movies.

She lets you.

She always lets you.

Even when it breaks her.

Tonight, she drove you here.

You were wearing that stupid denim mini skirt she always teases you about—“slutty for no reason, I respect it”—and your boyfriend was late. As usual. So you slid into her passenger seat, and she let you play your favorite playlist even though she hated half of it.

Somewhere near the freeway, her hand brushed yours on the gearshift. You didn’t move away. You didn’t look at her either.

She didn’t say anything, just swallowed hard, and turned the music up louder.

Now, an hour later, she’s still trying not to look at you like you matter too much.

She’s losing that fight.

You find her by the kitchen island. Everyone else is too drunk to notice the tension. Your boyfriend’s disappeared again, probably outside with the podcast guys. Your cup is empty. So is hers.

She pours tequila into two glasses, doesn't ask if you want one.

You down it together.

Then another.

The third is just her, and her voice is quieter now.

“Why are you still with him?”

The question lands like a slap. Uninvited. Inevitable.

You blink. “What?”

Reneé shrugs, but her mouth is tight. Her knuckles white against the counter. “He doesn’t get you. Not really.”

Your chest tightens.

“He tries,” you say, defensive out of habit.

“So do I,” she mutters.

The air shifts.

You laugh, too loud. Try to steer. “What is this, an intervention?”

She doesn’t laugh back.

Instead, she looks at you like she’s drowning. And she’s been drowning. For months. And you’re the one who keeps throwing her anchors instead of lifelines.

“I would never make you feel small,” she says.

You freeze.

Your heart beats once. Twice. Then faster.

“Reneé…”

She steps back like the space between you hurts her. Like touching you right now would ruin everything. And maybe it would.

“You don’t see it, do you?”

You don’t answer.

Because you do. Somewhere. Deep down. You feel the weight of it every time she texts goodnight and doesn’t say I love you even though it’s written in every word. You feel it when she lingers in your doorway. When she watches you dance like you’re hers and you let her. When she says, I got you, and means it more than anyone ever has.

But it’s safer to pretend.

Safer to stay stupid and scared.

So you say nothing.

And Reneé nods like she expected that.

Back at the car, she doesn’t drive.

You’re both sitting still, the city buzzing around you like static. The streetlamps flicker over her face, casting soft shadows. She’s staring at her steering wheel like it’ll give her the answers you won’t.

“I’m not gonna wait forever,” she says.

It’s not a threat. It’s a confession.

And you feel it in your bones. The slow-burn tragedy of it all.

You should say something. Anything.

But what can you say?

That you feel it too?

That you dream of her mouth on your collarbone and her name between your thighs?

That you think of her when your boyfriend holds you, and you wish it was her fingers instead?

You can’t. You won’t.

So you whisper, “I’m sorry.”

And her laugh is sharp and sad and small.

“You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for.”

You stop sleeping. Not really. Not deeply. You toss, you ache, you write unsent drafts in your Notes app that all start with “do you ever think about kissing me?” and end with “never mind.”

She texts less.

You check more.

She goes to a premiere without you.

You watch her red carpet photos alone.

She posts something cryptic—“people only get tired when they’re waiting for someone who doesn’t show up”—and your stomach drops like you’ve been punched.

Your boyfriend asks if you’re okay. You say yes.

You’re lying.

Weeks later, you run into her again.

Not planned. A friend's thing. A rooftop again. A circle of people you barely know. She’s wearing that dark green blazer that makes her look devastating.

You drink too much just to have an excuse to talk to her.

You bump her shoulder on purpose. “Miss me?”

She doesn’t smile.

“Not enough to keep pretending,” she says.

You blink.

And in that moment, you realize what you’ve done.

You didn’t just deny her.

You made her believe she wasn’t worth the risk.

Later, alone on your bathroom floor, you cry into the sleeves of the sweatshirt she left at your place months ago. It still smells like her. Something like vanilla and anger and secrets.

And you whisper into the cotton, voice shaking—

“I do. I do. I do feel it too.”

But no one hears.

Requested | PART1 - PART2 - PART3

#fanfic #fanfiction #imagine #imagines #x reader #Reneé Rapp #Renee Rapp #Reneé Rapp x reader #Renee Rapp x reader #RPF #Real People #Real Person Fiction #Real Person Fanfic #requested #requested fic #requested by anon #answered requests

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sasaranurude · 3 days ago

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I've been thinking about this idolish7 scene a lot lately. I wanted to get it all out of my system. Major spoilers under the cut for this and other scenes, so if you watch this clip and go "wtf wait should I be watching idolish7? I'm gonna watch idolish7" then don't read it maybe?

Thoughts on the framing of this scene, and Yamato's character

This scene is one of the most well-done and densely-layered single scenes in Idolish7 and I love it so much. Through a whole-series rewatch with a friend and then just a few days later watching just the first 3 episodes of s3 with some other friends, I ended up thinking about Yamato's arc in the beginning of s3 So So So much. and ofc this scene is at the center of it. And also at the center of how well-put-together idolish7 is in general

Starting from like. The way this scene is framed, in the show, in its particular context. The way the viewer is primed to receive this scene and how that impacts the experience of it. Because this isn't the first fight Yamato and Yuki have gotten in, right? In season 2, Yamato had his red herring moment where he tells Yuki that he's been poisoning Momo, that he's actually the season's big antagonist spoiling things for everyone, all in a post-credits scene that leaves the episode on a cliffhanger. It's shocking! And then of course, we then get immediately shown in the next episode it's a fakeout. Yamato was acting, the whole thing was an orchestrated scene to get Yuki to speak out in Momo's defense so that Momo could see he loved him.

And we've gotten other big fight fakeouts before, too. Tamaki and Sogo got this in season 2 too, when an episode cold opened on them fighting about a girl right as Sogo was anxious about telling Tamaki about Aya, swiftly revealed to be acting practice for the drama they're in together.

And so with this scene--a sudden escalation into extreme violence with Yamato saying some seemingly out-of-character things--the viewer is primed to believe it's a fakeout. They must be acting, rehearsing, pranking, something like that.

And then the next time we see Yamato, he's waking up from an upsetting dream on Yuki's couch. So it has to be a fakeout, a dream sequence. Yuki's rubbing his throat, says he sang too much in the studio (while the camera avoids his eyes, a technique i7 loves to employ when a character isn't telling the whole truth). Whether Yamato believes him is unclear.

But later we see Yuki in the makeup chair, throat visibly bruised, with the makeup artist having to hide it. Yuki laments that he just got himself strangled.

It wasn't a fakeout at all. By playing with viewer expectations, i7 creates a fantastic reverse fakeout--one where even one of the characters involved might not really believe it happened. Yuki and the viewer know it was real, but to Yamato, it still could have been a dream. And it might as well have been! He's clearly not in his right mind in this scene.

So. Like. What IS Yamato's deal in this scene? Because this still is a very sudden escalation into extreme violence, with Yamato saying things that have seemingly no precedent. Like, he likes Yuki? What's all that about?

It's multilayered. (everything in idolish7 is lol)

Here's a conversation between Yuki and Yamato in season 3, episode 3, the episode before the aforementioned scene happens:

"You're an earnest and honest kid. I have no idea why you pretend to be so irresponsible and perverse." "I'm not pretending to be perverse." [...] "We swap out emotions in front of the camera. It's similar to receiving counseling from a therapist. If you allow yourself to be swallowed up by an unhealthy mental state and shallow thinking, you'll back yourself into a corner."

Yamato has wrapped himself up in a web of facades. He's an actor, it's what he does, it's what he's been able to do from the beginning. As a child of an affair whose existence is an open secret, his whole life is something that has been covered up by those around him from birth. Those around him expect him to keep their secrets, too. Constructing his own facades is something that he does so automatically he doesn't seem to realize it: he easily falls into any role that others expect from him. He pretends to support his groupmates as their leader, saying whatever will help everyone the most and smooth over any strong emotions. He pretends to want revenge against his father and the industry. He pretends to be a misanthrope who doesn't care about anything. He doesn't know which desires are real and which are facades.

Yamato is playing a serial killer in the movie he's in, currently. He's shown getting very into his role, reading books about gruesome murders at home and on other jobs. His character can only be himself with the corpses of the women he loves. His character blames his father for the fact that he can't show his true self to anyone. Or, at least: this is how Yamato reads his character.

Yamato is wrapped in the lies and secrets of industry thanks to his father. He can't tell his friends about any of this, because to do so would be to admit that he's been keeping secrets from them this whole time, and that his real motives for entering the industry were impure compared to theirs.

Yuki is someone close to Yamato's father. He spent a lot of time with him and got a lot of advice from him. He's someone who reminds Yamato of his dad. But he's not his dad. He's someone who knows Yamato closely, more closely in some ways than his groupmates. Yuki knows a version of Yamato that he might wish didn't exist, because if the version of Yamato that had wanted revenge didn't exist then he wouldn't have to hide himself from his friends the way he does.

Propelled by the director's vague instructions to give his character more depth, Yamato falls into his character's emotions. He starts feeling things that aren't there. Yuki, who knows the unfortunate truth of him, becomes one of his victims, someone who could love him so much better if only he were a corpse.

And, well, there's also, you know. There's the casting couch subtext to the Chiba Salon. In text it's a union, but we also know it's "steeped in industry secrets." It all started because Chiba had a mistress, after all. As Yamato develops his fixation on Yuki, we get callbacks to Yuki washing cars for Chiba, which Yamato says is degrading. We get these shots through Yamato's eyes of Yuki, hot, sweaty, wet, selling himself to Yamato's father. We see this again right before Yamato chokes Yuki. Right before Yamato talks about how much he's always liked him.

Yamato allows himself to be swallowed up by his role exactly as Yuki warned him about. His feelings come out violently as he mixes up his hatred of himself and his past, his feelings towards his dad, and his maybe-invented sexual fixation on Yuki. He'd like Yuki better if he didn't talk, just like the corpses his character collects in the movie. It's fake and it's real all at once.

(And Yuki lets it slide because on some level he seemed worried that this, or something like it, might happen. He lets Yamato believe it was a dream, something that wasn't his real feelings. He's letting Yamato grow beyond the version of himself that's perverse and irresponsible, because Yuki truly believes that that's not him. I mean I don't think Yuki was particularly doing that on purpose I think he's just autistic and conflict-avoidant but it had that result)

As soon as Yamato expresses the true depth of his feelings to his friends, unravels all the facades he wrapped himself up in, and allows himself to choose which version of himself he truly wants to be and make that the truth, he finishes on the set, and his acting job is done. He's figured out his role and all the different versions of himself.

#suchobabbles #idolish7

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whateverloomis · 3 days ago

Note

anon ghostface but in the woodsboro high bathroom… think that scene with sidney

Under the Mask 🔪

Guess who's under the mask... Part 1

A/N: Thank you for your request love <3 I set this in a collage AU for obvious reasons. It was quite fun to write. Hope you enjoy!

18+: Low-key breeding kink, unprotected sex, dubcon, fingering, leather kink, face slapping (once,) dark-ish reader (?,) AFAB reader, unedited

WC: 1.1k

It wasn't easy being on campus ever since Casey and Steve were murdered by ghostface. Mainly because instead of mourning the situation, everyone kept speculating and coming up with theories about a case that the police barely started to investigate.

It might be insensitive, but you were tired of hearing about it. You didn't care about the craze, plus you didn’t even know the victims. It was just another tragedy that was eventually going to be solved. Fade away and taken over by another murder case.

On the other hand, and to make it even worse… People are wearing ghostface masks. Playing pranks on everyone. The goddamn costume should freak you out but instead… you found it incredibly hot. Sometimes you even thought about it while fucking yourself before drifting off to sleep and wake up soaked from your ghostface dreams, taking care of your ache all over again in the morning.

It was finally the end of the month which meant a huge pool party at the frat house once the last week was over. The place was packed with drunk college students, drugs everywhere and people making out in every corner.

You were guilty yourself, having made out with the mysterious bad boy you’d been eyeing for a while. You found his best friend pretty cute too, a little on the goofy side, but you’ve no doubt he can work magic with that tongue of his that he stuck out more often than normal.

After your little makeout session, alcohol, and some pot you needed a breather so you escaped to the campus bathroom, where it was sure to be quiet and empty.

Was it a good idea for you to be wandering around so late at night, alone? No. Did you care? Not really.

When you walked in the bathroom, the mirror was surprisingly clean and you couldn’t help but check your reflection out. Your bikini top was nearly exposing your nipples and the bottoms dug deeper between your ass cheeks than they should, but damn, you look hot.

Taking your phone out, you decided to take some mirror selfies to post on your blog later, already excited to receive all kinds of compliments, and tips.

While you snapped a few pics you heard a noise inside one of the stalls.

Keeling down, you scanned under each one but didn’t see anyone, however, something felt off. There was a presence you couldn’t quite describe.

“Hello? Anyone in here?” You said softly. No answer.

Strange.

Looking down at your phone, as you looked at the pictures you noticed a set of boots in one of the stalls behind you.

Gasping, you turned around and in the blink of an eye you were pushed against the mirror. A large hand around your neck. When you looked up at the tall figure it was him.

Ghostface.

Your heart rate went up and you started to struggle against him, but there was no use. You weren’t going anywhere, but you kept trying. Pushing and kicking, but his grasp only got tighter. Stronger.

“Fuck… Please,” you managed to say.

“Please, what?” He spoke and you froze.

You’d never heard the one and only speak and in a sick, twisted way it sent a bolt of pleasure between your legs.

He squeezed your neck a bit harder and you let out a pathetic whimper.

“Oh, you like that?” Ghostface spoke again and held your waist with his free hand, sliding it down slowly before pulling the strings of your bikini. The feel of his leather gloves sent goosebumps down your legs and as fucked up as the situation is, you were too affected by the substances that were coursing through your body to care.

You’re horny for ghostface.

You were panting, needy as ever. When you felt his gloved hand reach between your legs and over your mound of hair, you let out another needy whine.

Ghostface chuckled at your reactions and little noises, enjoying the fucked up effect he has on you.

Running his fingers between your folds, he collected your slick, rubbing your clit a few times before sliding two fingers inside your cunt. Fucking you with his hand.

Loud, shameless moans escaped your mouth. You held on to his cloak and rode his fingers, rubbing your clit against the palm of his hand. The smooth leather of his glove allowed you to glide against him so good that you already felt your orgasm building up. Ghostface did too but he wasn’t going to get you off without him getting his fill first, so he removed his hand from between your legs. Your cunt squeezed around nothing and you moaned in protest.

Ghostface chuckled at your pathetic neediness and pulled you by your hair, pushing you into a stall, bending you over the toilet – lid closed –.

Your bikini bottoms were long gone, saving the man time to be able to fuck you senseless. He lifted his cloak high enough to reveal his lower half, quickly unzipping his cargo pants and releasing his thick, heavy cock. It rested on your ass crack and you gasped as you felt how big he is.

Fuck, you needed him so bad.

Sneaking a hand between your legs, you spread your pussy lips for him, exposing your pretty little hole.

Ghostface chuckled again and said, “If I had known you’re this much of a slut I would’ve fucked you sooner.” And without warning, he slid his cock all the way in your pussy, bottoming out and grunting at the feeling of you wrapped tightly around his length. The man knew he wouldn’t last long with how amazing you felt so he made the best of it.

He moved slowly at first, feeling every inch of your cunt, letting the pleasure wash over his body, but ghostface couldn’t handle it. He needed to shoot his load inside you and fill you up nice and good. Knock you up and leave you fucked out in that stall.

So he did.

His thrusts got quicker, grasp on your hips nearly bruising as he pulled you against his cock and used you like a toy for his pleasure only.

Ghostface grew bigger inside you the closer he got and the stretch made him feel better inside you than before. Another orgasm built quicker in your core and at that moment both of you were chasing for release.

“Fuck, please!” You moaned and he slapped your cheek in warning, “Shut the fuck up.”

“Mmph!” You whined as he reached between your legs and rubbed your clit in slow circles.

Without warning, ghostface came inside you, fucking himself all the way inside your cunt and making sure he filled you up with his seed nice and good before pulling out.

Satisfied, he released you and stormed out of the stall, leaving you without a release,

fucked out,

and knocked up.

#ghostface smut #ghostface x reader #ghostfacesmut #scream (1996)#billy loomis smut #billy loomis x reader #billy loomis x you #stu macher smut #stu macher x billy loomis #stu matcher x reader

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wulfsredroom · 20 hours ago

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⋆˚꩜｡ FRIENDS FOREVERMORE ⋆˚꩜｡

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆— SYNOPSIS A collection of headcanons featuring X (Sonic. EXE) as your friend. Purely platonic interactions and ideas.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆— WARNINGS None. Completely safe.

⋆✴︎ You didn’t seek him. You just lingered too long on an unknown file, watched the sprite idle, twitching, for hours on end, fingers frozen on the mouse. That was all the invitation he needed. And now? Now he refers to you as his “chosen exception.” Not a pet. Not a player. Not a cultist (yet). Just you. He finds your resistance charming. Not because it works, oh, no, you’re hopelessly his, but because it amuses him.

⋆✴︎ X doesn’t “hang out.” He manifests. He warps the air around your room and makes it cold, freezing to the point of shaking. When you’re alone, he might appear as a corrupted Sonic plush, slumped on your desk, eyes blinking red when you look directly at it. You’ve grown used to it. Sometimes you even talk to him. He likes that. Likes the sound of your voice, especially when it stammers.

⋆✴︎ He offers you games. Always games. Pixelated labyrinths with screaming walls and ever changing rules. They’re impossible to win, but he watches with rapt attention whenever you try. If you surprise him with a clever move, he’ll freeze the game and laugh, low and raspy, before resetting the level just to watch you suffer again. But he’s never angry when it’s you. You’re different. “You play like you mean it,” he whispers. “That’s rare.”

⋆✴︎ You asked him, once, if he gets lonely. He stared at you with that twitching grin and his ever bloodied eyes. “I have all the company I need,” he said and then let his game go quiet for the first time in months. Later, you found a note etched into your monitor glass, clawed in from the inside. It just read: “DON’T LEAVE.” It was gone the next day. You never mentioned it again.

⋆✴︎ You’re the only human he doesn’t toy with during sleep. Others wake screaming. You? He appears at the foot of your bed and watches your dreams like theatre. If you cry, the dreams distort until they become something else, pleasant, even. When questioned, he simply says, “I like the sound of you breathing.” And smiles.

⋆✴︎ You tried to log off your computer once. Just once to rest the piece of junk, but he didn’t like that. X didn’t threaten. He just got quiet. Your game stayed stuck on a static screen, unable to be shut down. Hours passed. Then, a little chime. A pixelated version of yourself walked across the screen and sat beside a silent X. He never looked at you, just murmured, “You can’t leave. No matter the situation. No matter the reason.”

૮ >ﻌ< ა artfight. ₊˚⊹ 𐂯 ⋮ art blog. ₊˚⊹ 𐂯 ⋮ masterlist. ₊˚⊹ 𐂯

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ladycremecaramel · 3 days ago

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My BOTW/TOTK OC Ideas and personal rambles

I'm dumping all of my oc loz ideas here for my sanity because they've been bouncing around in my head for a long while.

So, I still can't draw very well, and ZoraMay is over, but I have an idea for two Zora oc's. One is inspired by @gargoylesister 's OC Littol. I never once thought about the possibility of tiny zora and I thought "Omg I wanna make one too!"

Zora OC 1's design is based off of a neon tetra. I always loved neon tetras since I was a little girl. I remember growing up with a freshwater fish tank with many fish and one that was a constant were neon tetras. They didn't always last long, but they were so pretty swimming in a school and how their scales reflected in the light. No name rn

Zora OC 2's design is based on my favorite fish. The red wagtail platy. I dunno what it is about this simple fish but they make me so happy. They were also common in the big fish tank my family had growing up. I vaguely remember always watching one swim up and down in a corner of the tank like it was trying to find a way to escape.

Also no name and might be full size or just as small or bigger than the Tetra Zora.

Some of you remember me talking about Rito OCs. I still have 2.

Rito oc 1 is Leela. Obviously I still want to keep the shadow puppeteer idea. And i like the idea of her pairing up with Harth. :>

Same bird design. The Chinese bulbul

Rito oc 2. This one would be my Ritosona. An Atlantic Puffin.

I always liked puffins. They're kind of the best of both worlds. They can fly AND swim.

My last OC . Besides my Hyliansona, Tabitha (not my real name), I have one other OC that isn't from Hyrule at all. I see her as one that can be easily put in most if not all fandoms.

I've talked about her before on my tumblr page as a potential character for the dragon age fandom and I nicknamed her Puddles.

Let's see...🤔

She was made for an original role-play forum that was freeform combat and the story is X-men inspired/superheroes teenagers going to a school in NYC. I think the RP was called Zankoku. This was in 2010

When I was invited to play, I knew next to nothing about how superpowers would work irl or the physics...stuff like that. So they told me to RP with a style I would be most familiar with and I chose water bending from the Last Airbender.

If I had to pick an image for what she would look like, it would be based on the cheerleader from the TV series Heroes, Claire Bennet.

Long curly blonde hair (curlier than the gif), gray eyes, tanned skin, thunder thighs, and was pretty tall for a 15-year-old teen. I think I made her height 5'7''.

Her name is April May Mickadoo and she had the powers to control water and ice (hydro and cyrokinesis). She was my most extroverted and emotional OC I think I ever created. Out of all of the characters that were created for the RP forum, she was one of the more friendly (if not the friendliest) of the Xhuman teens. She was definitely the most extroverted. Especially in the beginning. A lot of the Xteens were loners or generally stuck with one or two other characters to interact. April however, spoke with everyone thus giving everyone a reason to interact with each other in the story.

Compared to the rest of the Xteens, I think she had the most "normal" childhood. By that, I mean divorced parents, mostly raised by a single parent, moved because of their parent's work. That kind of stuff (from her POV at first). Others who discovered their abilities early in their backstory were subject to racism, bullying, being shunned, harassed in public, taken away by the government, and/or killed.

She wasn't consciously aware of her powers until the start of the RP. I was not very good at writing out combat/ fight scenes with my character in a balanced way (either god mode or weak and the RP didn't have stats, it was freeform). So because she learned of her powers much later than others, she was pretty weak with them. Physical fighting was average at the start. She did have power surges when she became distraught. In the beginning, she could only control water until a lucky roll from the mods and a very traumatic event, that she unlocked cyrokinesis. Due to other events during the RP before it suddenly died off, she obtained a 'break the cutie' trope under her belt and depression (or grieving). Depending on how things would've gone, there could've been a sanity slippage episode at some point.

There were perks with her powers. Underwater breathing, can handle the cold very well, and can turn her whole body to water and/or ice (hence the nickname Puddles). Those are the ones I can remember.

Her personality: when I say emotional, I mean she had pretty much all of her emotions on her sleeve. You knew when she was happy, sad, angry, etc. If I had to pick an alignment for her, I would say neutral/lawful good. She LOVES music. She was always ready to dance, sing, or play the piano (later on, she started learning acoustic guitar) when it came to music.

there is more of her backstory and events of the RP I'm not revealing because I want to weave it into whatever story I add her in and it would be post-events after what I could imagine more trauma that the mods had in store. For her, the rp was pretty much a trauma conga line.

#personal rambles #oc #rito oc #zora oc #legend of zelda #legend of zelda breath of the wild #legend of zelda tears of the kingdom #legend of zelda age of calamity #totk #botw #aoc #loz botw #loz totk #loz zora #loz zora oc #loz #breath of the wild #tears of the kingdom #age of calamity

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eyelovveu · 11 months ago

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hello! for the billford request could you do Bill seeing Ford again after leaving the theraprism? (whether he escaped of genuinely got better is up to you)

omg yes

I think bill would just randomly teleport to ford to tell him about his great achievements 😇🙏 and ford would definitely be shocked cuz he thought bill was dead

Bonus:

#gravity falls #the book of bill #bill cipher #stanford pines #billford #Tbh I don’t think bill would come back UNLESS he needed ford for something #If he does come back it would be to kill the pines with sharp objects #But…if he needed fords help again……..#I might play around with that idea later….……..

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bardicbird · 1 year ago

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Working on my own Disco Elysium skills! Individual art pieces and descriptions (in the style of the game) below the cut :]

DIALECTICS

Examine verbal landscapes. Get to the truth of the matter.

Cool for: Logicians, Philosophers, Asshole Devil’s Advocates

Dialetics urges you to look beyond the basics of conversation. It encourages you to discuss theories, truths and falsehoods, until you exhaust everyone around you with your sheer affinity for taking the most convoluted routes to your deductions—but, hey, it works! Those people are only *really* annoyed because you very accurately psychoanalyzed them.

At high levels, Dialectics will help you reason with even the most convoluted of situations. You will be an unstoppable detective, who may occasionally suffer from some unintended side effects such as: your brain and mouth moving too fast, overcomplicating little things, becoming an insufferable jerk, and joining your local debate team. With low levels of Dialectics, you’re going to have a difficult time seeing through both worldly and interpersonal deceptions. You may find yourself being taken advantage of.

EVOCATION

Recall emotions and imagery. Paint complete pictures of the past.

Cool for: Visualizers, Chronic Observers, Witnesses Of Crimes

Evocation allows you to call forth memories that may otherwise be lost in the recesses of your mind. Previous instances of sound, touch, taste, feeling, sight—all of these are at your beck and call: able to be summoned within and around you in a great miasma of experience. You will be able to relive important events, even those that were only mere seconds, and examine them closer to reveal what you couldn’t comprehend in the moment.

At high levels, Evocation will help you reimagine scenes that may have happened years ago, lasted the length of a blink—or, perhaps, even allow you to picture memories that you were not present for. You will find yourself constantly transported to the past: a single whiff of a familiar perfume enough to completely derail your senses. With low levels of Evocation, you’re going to have a hard time remembering simple conversations and potentially important visual details. You will have to rely on others in such scenarios.

BODY OF LAWS

Know your rights. Remember fun courtroom trivia.

Cool for: Lawyers, Law-Evaders, Stick-In-The-Muds

Body Of Laws is responsible for your ability to follow the law at any given time—or don’t! Just because you know the rules doesn’t mean you have to play by them. Regardless, it certainly allows you to recall a, frankly, embarrassing amount of your government’s regulations, and may encourage you to ‘stay in your lane’, so to speak, regarding them. Governments aren’t the only entities that enact rules, though: you will also find yourself privy to understanding unspoken boundaries set by people, nature, and even your subconscious self.

At high levels, Body Of Laws will either make you an *extremely* insufferable goody-two-shoes, or a *wildly* effective cheat-of-the-system. You may end up feeling suffocated by all these restrictions you can so clearly see, causing you to become complicit with the movings of the machine—or potentially apathetic to why we need some of these restrictions in the first place. With low levels of Body Of Laws, you may find yourself accidentally violating boundaries you didn’t know existed—whether they be legal, personal, or cultural.

#WOW the quality is. Yikes. maybe i’ll fix that later idk i can’t be bothered #i have ideas for most of the rest of my skills which im very excited abt but i wanna finish up the logic set first #VERY excited for the one abt eloquent/charismatic speaking which is either going to be called loquacity or purple prose haven’t decided #leaning towards purple prose bc yknow. I’m a writer.#can you tell i love em dashes. can you tell.#EDIT: okay i played around w quality a little u might need to click for better bc its tumblr. also i still wanted to keep it a little #-crunchy. lmao #disco elysium art #disco elysium #disco elysium skills #my art #100+

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piecanl · 3 months ago

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Personally I am of the belief that ccTubbo should not log on the realm at all during his break to then return full force with trTubbo one month later knee-deep in world building lore, might just be me tho

#Considering he's burnt out on to even though he loves roleplaying it would be pretty neat #Little to no chance of it happening knowing what tubbo breaks are #But imagine he disappears for some reason one day and then like a month later shows up in spawn panting covered in blood #Saying some shit like “The Void is coming”#Like okaaaay queen it's time for psychological help #I JUST WANT HIS CONNECTION TO THE REALM ITSELF TO BE PLAYED AROUND WITH CMOOOON it's such a neat concept #Ngl cool fic idea might do saw this or if someone wants to do smth please do #Tubbo #the realm smp

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javierduffy · 7 months ago

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thoughts about johm marstlin

#i'm so insecure about my art atm in this community since i have no idea the atmosphere of it so i #might delete this later if i get in my head too much about it or it starts getting negative attention #he's so fun to draw though #i've been having lots of fun trying to stylize new characters since switching fandoms again #so :] yay for that and having fun and playing and drawing !!#also about the bow legged headcanon #javier is the same cuz hosea carried him around on his hip a lot as well as javi's mama back home in mexico #(and also kieran is too but that's cuz he's been riding horses SO much since he was so little but that's kinda irrelevant)#also my style is very inconsistent cux im just trying to have fun and be loose ! my digital drawings have been super stif lately tho ugh #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #john marston #rdr #red dead redemption #art #hero draws sometimes #image

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mixalicious · 8 months ago

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weird robot worm parasite creature whom i hate

very uninspired design i know i just really like the beanie baby worm 💔

#mixalicious #mixers ocs #my art #i might change the design some later #i just wanted to play around with some ideas i had a while back #bluh #robophilia #robotposting #its like a robot plush thing #dude y r there no sfw plushie tags hello #sfw interaction only #furry oc #sfw furry #yawn

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telesodalite · 6 months ago

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Woe, unfinished, mildly edited, fulfire fic tid-bits be upon you

Like a magnet, his optics kept drifting back to Misfire's face. His stupid, strangely charming face.

For a short while, after Clemency, it had been that face that haunted some of his nightmares. His recalls blurring the lines between the strange reality of Misfire's hands reaching into him to lock his fuel pump back into the very spot he'd pulled it from, and the fear that just as easily he could pull it out again. They had been bloody dreams. Dreams that had him startling awake, gripping his chest in the vain attempt to close what wasn't open, before spending the rest of the day avoiding Misfire's optics.

But now things were different. Not Misfire's face. No, that hadn't changed much. But Fulcrum's dreams had definitely changed. To say the least of what all rolled around in his processor as he slept nowadays.

Some of those newer dreams had crept to the forefront of his mind as he sat there on the couch, staring as the lights of the screen reflected dully across Misfire's plating in hazy blues and greys.

The lighting made his colors seem muddy and faded, but Fulcrum didn't really care, nor did he care to think what it made himself look like. He was too busy bringing an empty engex can to his lips while he watched the crinkle of Misfire's nose as he barked a laugh at something Fulcrum didn't catch onscreen.

He'd started noticing it months ago, all the ways the silvery mesh of Misfire's face would scrunch up with his emotions. Those little crinkles along his optics and nose when he laughed or glared. The creases indented along his cheeks when he grinned. Fulcrum found himself quietly logging away these little details. Idle notes and observations that had suddenly started piling up in the corners of his processer.

He… He'd never really done that before? He'd never really noticed those sorts of things in other mechs.

The faces and expressions of his past colleagues never seemed terribly important. All the details of every smile and frown were never worth filing away, outside of few notable moments where those expressions reflected his work performance. But besides the smile that meant promotion, and the frown that meant he'd screwed up, nothing else was noticeable. Nothing was worth remembering.

But now the memory of every genuine laugh that bubbled out of Misfire sat comfortably besides memories of warm joyful optics that Fulcrum found himself collecting every time Crankcase cracked a rare half-smile for him, or when Krok placed a reassuring hand against his back, or the times Spinister spontaneously pointed out something odd but ultimately nice about his stupid frame.

He didn't really know why he was doing it, memorizing all these mundane little things, just to have them flit through his processer randomly. Maybe it was because those expressions, those details, felt… comforting? Comforting in such a strange and unfamiliar way. But, a good way. A good sort of strange, much like the mechs themselves.

He had stared for a long moment, the credits and their rolling tune playing somewhere in the background as Fulcrum stared back. But Misfire was never one for personable silence, even as the sound of some likely long dead Iaconian orchestra filled the room.

"What is it?" He asked, a small chuckle escaping him as he brought a hand to his face, "Don't tell me I've poured it all over myself again."

It had taken Fulcrum longer than usual to unstick his glossa from the roof of his mouth as he watched Misfire run a thumb over his lips, but eventually he had coughed out a small, choked, "No."

That had earned him an odd look at first, but with their fields loose and open, Fulcrum could almost feel the exact moment something clicked in Misfire's mind, as the idle comfortable static he projected in pulsing waves evened out into something openly curious and almost subdued.

It wasn't often Fulcrum felt him that clearly.

Misfire tended to keep his field fairly close, though, maybe not as close as the others did, what with how Crankcase kept an iron grip on his, and how Krok's always held an air of strained control, even when it slipped from him. But still, Misfire's was always hard to read, no matter the reach or depth of his field.

Even then and there, with it loose and unfiltered and buzzing with the engex running through his system, there was an ever present undertone of something indescribably jumbled about him, like too many feelings at once, each too vast and hurried for Fulcrum to really feel or understand.

It always seemed to stir the passive anxiety Fulcrum must've been forged with when Misfire's field brushed against his own. As facing the indescribable vague mess of Misfire felt like trying to untangle a pile of live-wires he couldn't even see.

It was almost frustrating in a sense, the need to try and sort and understand what wasn't even his to begin with. But at the same time it was almost exciting as well. It was like a game, like a puzzle he had yet to solve.

Finally letting his own can go tumbling to the floor to join Misfire's, Fulcrum had brought a hand to cover his face as he drew his legs up and leaned back against the arm of the couch, trying to suppress the fit as the sly look slipped from Misfire's face at the sounds.

While Fulcrum had laughed, and… snorted, embarrassingly, he had felt Misfire's field change again, brushing something fizzy and almost warm against his plating as Misfire's features softened.

"I'm looking at you," Fulcrum had said then between gulps of air, letting his hand fall from his face as he reached out to poke at Misfire's chest, "Dumbaft."

His finger had lingered over the thick plating there for maybe a little longer than necessary, drawing Misfire's attention as it slid down a little before pulling away.

Looking back up again with his helm angled slightly, Misfire had followed the sight of his hand leaving his plating to where Fulcrum let it fall between them.

"Wow…" Misfire had chuckled a little dryly, "I was gonna make it real easy for you. I was going to say something like, ''Do you like what you see?'' or-… or something like that. But now you've ruined it. Good job."

Meeting Fulcrum's optics again as he pulled his own hand back from Fulcrum's shoulder, he brought it to rest between them as well.

"And you're laughing at me," He said next, faking a small pout as his hand drifted closer to Fulcrum's, "Which totally ruins the whole vibe I was going for really. I mean, it's sort of hard to be all nice and suave-like when you're being laughed at. Total vibe killer. Bit of an ego killer too if I'm being honest. So thanks for that loser, thanks for saying I have a funny face."

With Misfire's fingers brushing distractingly past his own, Fulcrum didn't think before the words stumbled out of him.

"I like your face."

It came out almost matter of fact sounding, Fulcrum's laughter having died down while Misfire complained about it. But at the same time the words felt so simple, they came out so easily, and in a weird way they felt nice to say. But Misfire's optics had widened in surprise, his frame frozen and his field suddenly struck quiet, and despite the engex numbing his usual nerves, Fulcrum felt a sudden pang of anxiety because of it.

The silence in Misfire's field was terribly alien. It felt wrong, and something in Fulcrum spiraled to think he had caused it. But slowly, almost as if it were creeping forward, an odd almost scrutinizing uncertainty fanned outward in a careful wave. Misfire moved with it, leaning closer as he searched Fulcrum's expression for something.

"Oh yeah?" He'd said lowly then, and that sly look returned. But that vague uncertainty didn't fade with it, if anything, Fulcrum felt it strengthen. Caught between what he saw, in Misfire's easy smile and dimmed optics, and what he felt, in the growing hollow distance within their fields, Fulcrum found himself frowning and pulling back.

Growing frustrated with himself, and wanting that feeling back, he had pushed forward, shifting onto his knees as he reached for Misfire's face before the other could pull away from him entirely.

"I like your face." He said firmly, maybe too firmly. His expression still drawn into a frown as he pressed his fingers into Misfire's helm, brushing his thumbs across the silver mesh he'd been staring so intently at before. "I like your optics, and your nose. I- I like the way you smile. When you really smile, and when you laugh. I do. I'm not lying."

And oh there it was again, that little curl of warmth in Misfire's field. Almost a tangible thing, like a brush of ventilation, but Misfire wasn't venting. His mouth hung open ever so slightly, but no breath left him as he stared at Fulcrum with widening optics.

Spurred on by that tiny bloom of warmth, Fulcrum chased after it with slightly slurred words and clumsy hands as he tried to fix whatever he'd done wrong, hoping with each word that Misfire might soften and smile again.

"I like your expressions, and- and I like your voice," He said, glancing down at Misfire's parted lips, and laughing softly, nervously, as he continued, "Even when you say something so stupid. I like- I like the way it sounds. I like your accent, I like the way it makes your words sound. I- I like your- your mouth?"

Once more that weird but nice feeling settled in Fulcrum's chest. Those simple words felt good to say. It felt like a weight off his shoulders, like an admission he'd been waiting to say. About what and why? He wasn't really sure. But the warmth grew, and Misfire took a sharp vent inwards, and that felt right, so Fulcrum kept on.

"I like your helm," He said with a smile, reaching up to brush his fingers over the jutting finials there, before dropping his hands to settle lightly over Misfire's chest. "I like your frame, the colors of it. I like your-"

Before he could finish, Misfire was surging forward, knocking their helms together and nearly bruising the mesh of their noses as he tried for, and just barely missed, Fulcrum's lips.

👁👁👍

#just gonna go ahead and share this before i think too hard about it and chicken out lol #idk. this has been sitting unfinished for a while now. but i'm fond of it and keep going back to re-read it. so?? yeah. idk #maybe i'll get around to finishing it. i like writing out all the like. sensory stuff with this. lots of neat stuff to try with em fields #also fulc being a very earnest drunk lol. and mis trying to be all casual and smooth despite balking in the face of it bcs he's a hot mess #i dunno. i think the og idea behind this was kinda turning the reassurance around to mis. just sorta breaking him down with nice words #fulc is usually on the receiving end of comfort and reassurance. not always. but enough so that it had me thinking bout it other ways round #idk. ultimately its like. just slapping mis with a mild praise kink and seeing what happens when fulc just says nice things to him #the bar is so low for them. fulc is like 'i like your face' with conviction and mis is half-way to keeling over bcs. damn. he needed that #my fav flavor of this is just them approaching romance from two drastically different angles. not on the same page. different books lol #mis plays it all like a surface level game. he's just trying to keep things light and airy. but fulc is going right for the kill #also hitting fulc with the demi romantic/sexual beam adds another fun layer to it all-#-this isnt his playing field. but he's sure as hell winning without really knowing why #ok. i've been up for way too long. was on sick dog duty overnight. its like 8am now and i haven't slept a wink lol #so if there's errors or smth sounds off. idk. pretend you didn't see it. ill fix it later. or i wont. idk. toodles <333 #(also this is barely the tip of the iceberg fic wise. depending on how i feel bout this after a nap? might share bits of the big ghost fic-#(-cause that ones at like. 24k-ish now??? and thats only the 1st chap and half of the 2nd. its the fulc sees ghosts concept on steroids)#fulfire #my writing

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