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loganlermanstanaccount · 1 year

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Rigor Mortis (part 1)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Prologue, Part 2

summary: After the breakup, you move into a new place.

warnings: no warnings! cheeky bit of angst at the end

a/n: this is me admitting that realistically, miguel would be sick of our shit.

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

Join my taglists here <3

wc: 4.2k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

or in the cold, crisp morn:

"These are the keys," Your new landlord hands you the copies, clinking against each other as you transfer them to a dish by the door. Your first thought is that there seem to be too many for this modest apartment: of varying shapes and sizes, and at least half a dozen. He steps through a wide archway to the kitchen, eerily clean. It's not modern by any means, the top half of a hulking brownstone some time away from college.

It’s been… a trying summer. Moving halfway across the country with your boyfriend had seemed like a great idea at the time. Younger you (barely 2 years ago) had been enamoured with the promises of city life: fast-paced, bustling, and never a dull day. Naivete and big ideas that you'd been too stupid, or maybe too desperate, to let go of. After being locked in a loop of the same 3 or 4 places, the same dozen faces - in a place as big as this, mind you - maybe your ex-boyfriend had freed you. Forced you from that halfway-home; as cold and empty as it had become; and back out into the world.

The reality was less than ideal - apartment hopping across the city for the past 4 months or so. You’d seen it all: glorified shoeboxes, fancy duplexes, viewing sublet rooms that were at least a little illegal. A box within a box within a box; coat closets rented out for double your monthly take home; and you had just about given up.

So this place seemed like a godsend: a brownstone, tucked away. Its interior is dated, but gorgeous. It had character: quirks and rich history in the brick and mortar. A fireplace tucked into the corner, window alcoves, wood panelling. Yes, the wallpaper was slightly warped with damp but it’s affordable - a reasonably priced gem that had made you jump when you saw the ad. With the overexposed and pixelated images, they didn’t do it justice.

You pad into the kitchen, running your hands on the smooth countertops. They’re bare and spotless - suspiciously so. Not many personal items, no fridge magnets, photos; nary a blanket on the sofa or half eaten plate of toast on the worktop. It’s so clean it feels staged, and it makes you squint. Isn’t there meant to be…

“I let Miguel know… he must’ve cleaned up the place-”

“Miguel?”

“The other tenant.” He pauses, boots clicking on the grain of the floorboard. “I don’t think he’ll be back until later tonight. Should give you some time to settle in.”

Nodding, you give him a small smile, and he steps out of the apartment. Your apartment.

~~~

You fill the rest of day with unpacking, putting some life into the place. You’d visited not long ago, fantasising about how you’d decorate. Something about sharing an apartment with your boyfriend for the past 2 years had done something to you: flattening and squeezing into a space not built with you in mind. How Jamie didn't like things on the walls, or how he needed the space for his textbooks, so why don't you find somewhere else to put your little stories? If his desk took up half the front room, then that makes sense, he needs it for work. But God forbid you needed a quiet space to study; what if the guest bedroom has your shit everywhere when his friends come over? A million compromises that didn't seem much like compromises: you'd give an inch and he'd take a mile. And so, the space to spread your wings without knocking over a gaudy plaque or two was very much appreciated.

You want to walk around the neighbourhood, map out the convenience stores, bodegas, community hotspots and hubs. Where's the best place to get a drink? The cheapest meal? Your usual haunts were a fair distance away, so maybe you'll make the trek and pick up waffles from Pam's, as a treat. Tired already, you slump on the sofa - a tattered old thing that can clearly take a beating. Looking around the place, something settles solidly at your chest. Contentment, maybe, a strange feeling considering the past few months. This will do, you think. This will do.

Perhaps it's not a very feminist thought, but you're not thriving . Thriving felt presumptuous, and yet coping seemed too complete a word - its implication too tidy, too neat. A mess, before; better, now…? And it didn't quite span the width and depth of the past few months; how long it had taken for the numbness to make way to anger, hot and intense - its flame fueling many a long night. And yet, maybe coping was just the way to describe your foray into this new chapter: a new year, new apartment, and whatever that brings. You had forgotten what it felt like to be alone; not lonely, but with only your own self for company. Without the ache of another person, for the first time in a while.

…except, you had a roommate. Which you had known when signing the lease, of course, but it's taken some time to sink in. What that means for you - a new person to tiptoe around and appease - you're not too sure yet. What is he like? He's out late, so maybe a chronic partygoer - sloppy drunk and vivacious, the life of the party. He might clatter into the apartment, chattering and bubbly. What do you know about him? From the apartment, as is, it doesn't tell you much. At first glance, it had looked too clean, but not unreasonably so if he had anticipated your arrival. No, it was the lack of personal effects that confused you. How long has he been living here and there aren't any pictures or knick knacks? To clutter is to be human, you think. And with the front room as blank as it is, you wonder just what kind of man he is.

It's getting late. Naturally, you do some snooping, lazily padding around in search of life. Onwards and upwards, to new frontiers: the cupboards and drawers in your new apartment.

He likes coffee, you learn. There's a fancy machine on the kitchen counter, glossy and shiny and clearly taken care of. Little packets of beans and filters line the cupboards, all with names you can't quite pronounce. The fridge is similarly well-stocked, with none of the junk food you've gotten accustomed to in the past few months. Its innards are leafy green and plush; labelled tupperware with leftovers notwithstanding. All the spices in a tray above the oven and fancy knives on the wall tell you he likes to cook, or rather, he likes to eat well. The lack of junk would take some getting used to - maybe he's a health nut? The type to go on runs at the ass-crack of dawn, to blend oddly coloured smoothies, and "reflect" after a long day of… dog walking or something.

You move on to the living room, running a light hand over the deep walnut of a side table behind the sofa. Again, it's oddly bare. When you tug at the drawers, it's brassy handles are solid. Locked. Kneeling, you run a hand across the larger cupboard door at its base. You pull at it, and it pops open with a click. Inside, it seems empty, save for a dusty box nestled in the back corner. With your top half almost completely inside its depths, you move it into the light.

It's old, a battered shoebox adorned with coloured sharpie - shaky drawings of flowers blossoming from its sides. The cardboard crackles when you open it. It's full of junk, mostly: half-dead pens, broken crayons, dried flowers, and little plastic toys - the kind you get from cereal boxes and happy meals. And, there's something peeking out. Confused, you dig a little deeper, to uncover a pair of… soccer cleats? They're tiny, clearly for a kid but seem barely worn, with minimal scuffing on the plastic blades.

"What the fuck are you doing?" A voice from above rumbles, and your head snaps up like a rubber band. You hadn't noticed the door open, and you are met face to face with, who you assume to be, your roommate.

He doesn't shout: tall, broad, and back straight by the door. He's got a backpack slung over his shoulder, dressed in a crisp white shirt and slacks. His name was… Miguel? Miguel crosses his arms, brows furrowed in quiet rage. Fuck.

"I was just looking for.. uhh…"

You know how it looks. It's the worst time for your brain to go blank, and you're left holding the hypothetical bag. You stand up a little too quickly, and smack your knee on the lip of the table. Half of the box spills onto the floor and you dart downwards, embarrassed.

" Shit. Sorry, let me-"

He leaps towards the floor, and you're forced behind him, as he scrambles to put everything in its place. You start to help and he stops, stock-still. As if in slow motion, his head turns to the side and he gives you a look that could kill thousands. Retreating, you shrink back, only able to watch helplessly.

" Chica tonta... ¿se crió en un rancho? ¿qué clase de persona entra en casa de alguien y toca todas sus cosas?" He's muttering something under his breath - too fast and not saying anything you can understand. Pausing, he throws you a look. "...y luego me ve como si yo fuera el que está mal- ojos grandes y bonitos como de perrito pateado...oh dios mío.-"

[silly little girl… was she raised in a barn? what kind of person walks into someone's house and touches all of their stuff? // and she looks at me like I'm the one in the wrong - big, pretty eyes like a kicked puppy… oh my god-]

He's gentle with the box, the way he puts it in its place contrasting his mood a couple of seconds before. He closes up the door and you stumble to your feet. In the glow of halogen bulbs, he follows, arms crossed like a mother hen.

"I think… I think I'm your new roommate?" You say your name and stretch out a hand, but Miguel doesn't move. You watch as his eyes sweep over your body, shameless.

"Are you asking, or telling me?" He sighs, pinching at his temples.

"...Telling?" You offer him a weak smile, and he cracks.

Softening, ever so slightly, he grumbles. "I know. I know. Mr Estévez said you would be in tomorrow, though."

"I like to be early."

"Right. Well… don't do that. Again, I mean." He clears his throat. "Don't touch my shit either. It's too… fuck , it's too late for this. I'm going to bed."

He kicks off his shoes, and all you can do is watch as he saunters off; the door to his room shutting with a resounding slam .

~~~

His name is Miguel O'Hara - not that he told you that, or anything. He hasn't spoken to you much at all, leaving you to figure out who he is and what he does from vague clues around the apartment. You don't go snooping , learning quickly from previous mistakes; but his full name on a letter slotted through the mail was fair game, you think. The most you've gotten out of him were grunts and frustrated requests to keep to your shelf in the fridge.

Passive-aggressive wasn't in his vocabulary, you’re convinced. A plethora of dirty looks in his arsenal? Sure. Plenty of vulgar swears in Spanish? Absolutely. Miguel was not, however, passive-aggressive. Just… aggressive. Not angry, of course. Upfront. Abhorred any passivity and indolence: umm-ing and ahh-ing for the sake of it.

So naturally , you were sent to kill him.

You tiptoe around the apartment, avoiding him at all costs. At first, it wasn’t on purpose, just the awkwardness of your first meeting bleeding into the next week. But you dodge and weave like an expert boxer - particularly impressive in the small space. Miguel’s in the kitchen? Suddenly, you’re not very hungry. He’s curled up on the couch for a movie? Wow, look at the time: and you're heading to bed. You can’t read him very well, and don’t trust yourself enough to look him in the eye without fear of melting under his gaze. The few short interactions you have, you crumble; a brush against his shoulder in the kitchen, or legs against his on the dining table. Not that Miguel offers a peace branch, pursing his lips when you’d make eye contact, somewhat frustrated at your theatrics. Call it cliche: you’re avoiding confrontation at all costs. It manifests itself in peculiar ways: the Shower Incident being the most memorable.

The Shower Incident, aptly named, happened not too long ago. The apartment is old , as you soon learnt, coming with its own plethora of quirks. What you had first taken as character and charm - window seats and wood panelling - also came in the form of a building half falling apart. Creaky floorboards, leaky pipes, and a distinct lack of central heating. The discounted price, that had seemed like a bargain before, clearly lacked some creature comforts… like heating. And a working shower.

As you’d been in a rush, you clattered into the bathroom; stripping in no time at all. Bare feet on the tile, and you turn the knobs at the base of the shower unit. You’re not going to pretend you know how it works, just yet, but… it’s not rocket science, is it? The brassy spout sputters; but with no luck. Groaning from the pipes makes you jump, before huffing in frustration. This is not the time; late to yet another 9.00am? You want to be different this year: organised, put together, and on time to your lectures. On your tiptoes, you peer down the shower head hesitantly, like it’s the barrel of a loaded gun. With cruel irony, it sputters to life, sending a face-full of ice-cold water your way.There’s a scream, as you scramble at the handles, scurrying out of its brunt; desperately trying to turn it off.

Unbeknownst to you, Miguel leaps out of his room towards the shouting, with a fumble and clunk of his feet on wooden floor. He’s quick , hand hovering on the bathroom door before you can register it; his voice echoing outside.

“Are you…” There’s scuffling, which you can just about hear over the pounding of the water against tiles. “Are you okay, in there?”

You wince, stepping out of the shower – legs shaky like a baby deer – as you gurgle. “...Yeah?”

“Can I –” He clears his throat. “Are you.. clothed ? Can I come in?”

You scramble for something to cover yourself, settling for a plush towel on the rack. Wrapping yourself up, you brace yourself for the grimace that's sure to be on his face. Tentatively, you crack the door open. There Miguel is, face knitted with worry.

There's a flash of confusion at the scene, and then, what you think is relief. Relief you haven't cracked your head open, most likely: the blood would be hard to clean from the grout. You feel guilty, as you've probably broken it, or touched something you shouldn't. The shower is still on; sputtering, starting, and it becomes a strange sort of background music to your silent exchange.

"I don't know how to use the shower." You say with a small voice, guiltily.

" No me digas…" No shit, he mutters, face back to the furrowed brow you're starting to become more familiar with. He sighs, easing up. "You hurt?"

You shake your head, and swear you see a small smile on his face. You looked like a waterboarded rat, probably: big watery eyes and shaking with the sudden cold.

A mess , he thinks. But not a bad view.

He's still in workout clothes from his morning run, compression shirt and lazy shorts that hug his ass on; as he turns towards the shower. With some sense of shame, you try not to stare, to not watch the muscles of his back and arms flex as he angles the shower head away from his face. It's not enough that you've embarrassed yourself – twice, in the space of a couple of days – but the fact it was in front of your roommate, who is maybe the most beautiful person you've seen up close. Which, granted, narrows the field; but Miguel is gorgeous, a flash of pink tongue sticking out as he concentrates, wide palms toggling the dial.

"You need to be careful… push it in slightly when you turn the-" You crane your head towards his movements. "Come closer, or you won't see what I'm doing."

You move towards him, half naked and shivering, trying not to buckle with the heat of his body next to yours. This is what you get for not having spoken to a man since your ex: a tight coil at the base of your stomach for someone that you've done nothing but unwittingly terrorise for the past week.

He explains, patient and even-tempered; how to use the shower and you half-zone out to the low tone of his voice. There's no malice, or pomp in his words when there are a million things he could make fun of you for - that Jamie may have made fun of you for. You look up, at the sharp lines of his face, and chew at your lip, deep in thought.

"...and this side is for hot water. Next time, just ask me – instead of almost drowning."

You nod, embarrassed. "Sorry."

"...For what?" He says, softly. "Place is falling apart, anyway. It's not really your fault." You're convinced everything you touch in this house breaks, but with the way he looks at you, you believe him.

"Just ask me, next time." He echoes and makes for the door, stopping to drag his eyes up and down your frame. Oh… oh. You like that, the way he looks at you shamelessly, practically undressing you.

He smiles, amused at your deer-in-headlights expression.

"...I think that's mine."

He nods to the towel wrapped around your body and your eyes bulge out of their sockets. " Fuck , I didn't realise-"

He shrugs, noncommittal.

"...Seems like you need it more than me, anyways."

~~~

It's a rough first couple of days, and then a week, and then two. The rhythm is all off: like the jerky stop and start of an old car. He wakes up early to go on runs at the ass-crack of dawn, and you stay up late to finish papers and assignments. He has a job, you think, darting out at the same time once or twice a week in smart clothing and a backpack. Sometimes, you catch him hunched over a laptop or scribbling something in a beat up old notebook. Maybe, he’s a student - even if he doesn’t seem quite like the fresh-faced 19 year olds you see around campus. Although, you suppose it’s not implausible; you were one of the older people in your classes, after all. It’s hard to imagine O’Hara, stony-faced and serious, at a… dorm party, or something. To be that carefree, he’d need to get rid of that stick up his ass, first.

You’ve got a day off from lectures, using the time to catch up on the reading you should’ve done over a hectic break. The list seems to go on and on, already, this early into the year. Internally, you’ve made a promise to be on top of it all - the little hiccup with Jamie, notwithstanding. You’d knuckle down this morning, reading ( scanning) and summarising ( liberal use of the copy-paste function) in preparation for the rest of the semester. Miguel’s locked up in his room, somewhere, so you use the opportunity to spread out onto the dining table.

There’s a knock at the door that makes you look up from the muddle of words on your screen.

When you open the door, there’s a woman there with a notebook in hand. She’s pretty, in a classic sort of way, ginger braids cropped to her shoulders and lips slathered with gloss. Her outfit is relaxed, but carefully curated: a tight jumper and long brown legs stretching out from a black skirt.

“Hi.” She says, visibly keening. It’s clear she wasn’t expecting you, but she quickly recovers and gives you a blinding smile.

“...Hi,” Honestly, you’re a little confused. You haven’t seen her around the complex before; so who she was, you hadn’t a clue. Too pretty to be a door-to-door salesman, and too hot to try to convert you to Mormonism, you think. Whatever that means.

You wait expectantly, as a beat passes.

“Oh!” She laughs, and it sounds like puppies and rainbows, much too bright and airy considering the time of day. It makes her next words even more of a shock. “I’m looking for Miguel.”

With her last words, she steps a little closer; scanning the apartment from her vantage point. Something in you bubbles up, but you try to choke down the laughter.

“You’re looking for...Miguel?” Even out of your own mouth, it sounds absurd . The man had no friends, as far as you could tell. He seemed like the type to lock himself away in his enclosure, only stepping out for work, school, the bare minimum. In the short week that’s passed, his ‘enrichment time’ had consisted of a dry documentary on spider mating cycles - which had been a shock to walk into, the first time.

So someone here, at the apartment? Looking for him? Fidgeting, you scratch at your neck. “Uhh, I ca-”

“Sorry about that, Jia. You can have a seat.” His voice comes from behind you, and Jia breezes into the apartment, perching on the sofa. Legs crossed, she reaches into her bag, taking out a laptop and a pen and paper. He’s changed out of his workout clothes, donned in a loose white sweater and casual trousers - relaxed, for once. With a limp thud, you close the door. There’s an odd feeling as you look around at the scene: tension, and you feel like you’re interrupting. Miguel clatters around in the kitchen, fumbling for mugs and coffee filters and God knows what else.

“...was it two sugars, or three?”

“Three!” She throws over her shoulder, tapping away at her open laptop. “I like it sweet, Miguel.”

You squint. He laughs : a small chuckle that comes with a heat at the base of your stomach. Your head almost aches, trying to recalibrate; reconcile with the version of the person you’ve barely seen around the apartment to now - present, engaged, and personable. Exasperated is the only word for it. Miguel O’Hara was, in fact, capable of joy. Dickhead.

He barely acknowledges you, but Jia does; batting her wispy eyelashes in your direction, curious. The tapping stops, and she curls the corner of her mouth up with a hint of a smile.

“You gonna introduce me?” She calls out to Miguel, and then smiles to you; warm and genuine. It makes you feel a little more at ease. You catch the end of a sigh coming from the kitchen.

“Jia, this is my roommate.” He glances up to gesture towards you. “...this is Jia. I… help her out with work, sometimes.”

From the couch, she rolls her eyes. “He’s too modest. He’s my tutor, technically.”

With that, your eyebrows shoot up. Of everything you’d imagined him doing, tutoring students wasn’t one of them - especially considering he seemed barely out of college himself.

“...Technically?”

“He doesn’t like to advertise it, because he’s picky with his clientele.” She giggles and he scoffs. You get the feeling there’s a joke flying over your head, just out of reach. “Word gets out on campus that Miguel’s tutoring again…”

“ Vale, vale ,” He grumbles, but his tone is good-natured and light. “S’enough, Jia.”

She gives you a wink, before turning towards her work.

You walk towards your things, still on the dining table. He’s got his head buried in a kitchen cabinet and you look on, wanting to ask a lot of things. The words seem to die in your throat: too big, too small, not the right shape. She's a stranger; that knows where the coffee’s kept and the best spot on the couch. That makes Miguel laugh . You want to ask him about the stranger in your home; but you’re too scared he’d turn and point the finger at you.

He walks to the couch, balancing two cups of coffee. You look back. Next to him, her presence is an oddity - a blip in his carefully crafted universe. With the warm sheen of familiarity, she nudges his shoulder. Taking careful sips, he pointedly ignores her, tapping a finger at her screen - as if to say, pay attention. She smiles, wide; an asteroid across the depths of space, dazzling and brilliant in the night sky.

The exchange… it makes you think. If Miguel is the Sun, and Jia, a bright body in orbit: what’s your place in this four-walled cosmos? Where do you belong?

Rigor Mortis Taglist: @bunnyrose01 @lavenderslemonade @tsukkie-daisuke @malxoxo @thekidscallmebosss @vvitcxen @theyoutubedork @doublevirgogirl @jnghs @taleiak @noblesavagex @cumikering @rebeccawinters @evanpetersrightbigtoe @saucypeanuttt @pix-stuff @maliarenee @truthuntolddd @honeycovered-bandaids @aiyaaayei @aeeliy @amplsblog @sikrettt @opuffmango @spear-bitch @maddielikesmoths @lemonpepsi @sweet-strawberryhoney @lacedinweb22 @bubbsby @jing5uan @ellaandorersoct @hibarbiesblog @valentxi @kittym1ka @delulu-dia @melovetitties @yohoe-hoe @acollectionofcells1 @froggi-mushroom @thund3rthighs

@teacoffeeflavored @chuuyara@qiapia@rotten-zombi3@bonbyon @tianyhi @noelsilly @frieddesigninspiringquotesslime @peachsteven @thesquidni@fatenpara @verr-uckt @kurakasabe @kamiko32 @mushy-mushroom04@izzys-hawttea@theandromedastar @wicked-futures @truthuntolddd @prettygirlpattinson @hellokittylover202 @angel-eyes05 @lacedinweb22 @starguiders @buggiecrawls @eugeab @tarjapearce @whoreloll @path0logicalpeoplepleaser @ancientbeing10 @shartythefarty@royalhearts

@bonthebunnie @natthernandez @strawberrymiguel @twwcs @mammonispunk @um-well @renn-pumkin-head @ietherealkistar @smallishbook

#miguel o'hara x reader #across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara #miguel o hara x reader #spiderman 2099 #spiderman 2099 x reader #eventual smut #angst #kat_writes😼

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bookshelf-dust · 1 year

Text

a little lovin’

billy hargrove x gn!reader

word count: 600

warnings: none

a/n: it’s late. i’m emotional. this is a little baby something that i wrote very fast. i don’t know. i just need a billy hug.

————

You creep down the hallway, socked feet making nary a noise. You avoid the floorboard that you know squeaks, leaving your approach totally silent. Your hands are even squeezing the sleeves of your sweater, emotion filling your ever vein. You’re almost bursting with it.

Billy is bent over the dresser you share, one of the top drawers pulled open. He’s rifling through it, maybe looking for socks of his own. You pause in the doorway, notice the jeans and shirt stacked on the bed behind him. He’s got work tomorrow.

He pulls out a belt and tosses it over his shoulder, the metal buckle clinking as it hits the soft of the mattress.

You inhale and move towards him, watching the way his arms move, catch that sliver of tummy exposed because the arm holes in his tank top are much too big.

You wrap your arms around Billy’s waist and give him a little squeeze. Just enough to let him know that you’re there.

Billy doesn’t jump or flinch. He isn’t startled. You’re a quiet person, and he’s learned to expect soundless appearances from you. It’s the contact that pulls at his heartstrings.

It’s not as though you never touch him, it’s only that it took you so long to get to this point. He knows it’s taking a lot for you to do it now.

Billy glances over his shoulder, a huff of a laugh leaving his mouth. “Hey, baby.”

He shuts the drawer and spins around, your arms still encircling him as he turns. Your face settles against his chest, just as it had between his shoulder blades.

He rubs up and down your spine, squeezes at your hips, lets his thumbs drag softly across the nape of your neck.

You let up a little and look up at him. The second his eyes lock with yours, you start to tear up, and suddenly Billy has gone blurry.

“Somethin’ wrong?” he asks, brow furrowing out of concern.

You’re quick to shake your head and blink away the tears before they can spill out.

“I love you. Just wanted to tell you.”

Billy’s lips tip down at the corners. You’re being so sweet to him.

“I love you too.”

Though he’s not sure what brought this on, Billy doesn’t ask questions.

Really you’re not sure either. You were on the couch, staring off into space, waiting for Billy to come and sit with you awhile. Your gaze had fallen on a picture frame settled on top of the tv, next to the antenna.

The image stuck inside was one of the two of you from your senior year, leaning against the Camaro. Max had taken it.

You started thinking about what Billy had been going through at the time, how strong he is, how much he deserves.

You felt overcome with love for your boy.

You lift your hands up and he immediately presses his palms to yours, knowing where this is going. “Too cold?”

Billy grins. “They’re fine.”

He always whines that your fingers are like ice, so you like to check. You don’t want to hurt him.

With his okay, you slip your hands underneath the thin and worn cotton of his shirt, fingers splaying out across his back.

“I love you,” you say again. “You’re my whole world, Billy.”

“Shit.” He holds onto you tighter and blinks hard. You’re making him emotional now. “I love you, baby. You’re everything.”

You kiss him on both cheeks and keep your eyes on his. You just wanted to tell him, to make sure he knew. And he does.

#billy hargrove #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove x gn!reader #billy hargrove x you #billy hargrove x y/n #billy hargrove x gender neutral reader #billy hargrove ficlet #billy hargrove fanfic #billy hargove imagine #billy hargrove fic #billy hargrove comfort

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khruschevshoe · 10 months

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OFMD Critique: Finales, Writing Backwards, and the Importance of Building Relationships

Continuing on the rambling meta bc it turns out there are a couple of people that responded well to my initial thoughts...

Am I the only one that felt like the OFMD Season 2 finale suffered from the exact same problem as the Game of Thrones or the How I Met Your Mother Season finales? Well, not exactly the same, but lemme explain.

The treatment of Izzy Hands in Season 2 of OFMD feels like when they sat down to write this season, they wrote his death scene first (for whatever reasons that might be, though likely for the sake of Ed's arc- we're not going to address my feelings on THAT rn), THEN backfilled his arc for the rest of the season based on that, but then didn't rewrite his death scene to address the stuff that organically happened when writing the rest of the season.

Like, for example, I've seen plenty of people point out that the deathbed apology from Izzy to Ed doesn't really work (I fed your darkness) both in regards to the sheer imbalance of damage shown onscreen between Ed and Izzy, but also doesn't work as a "putting Blackbeard behind us" scene when Izzy figuratively (and literally, if you count him as part of the group with the cannonball) killed his half of Blackbeard in the storm scene in 2x2, with whatever parts lingering in him killed with the unicorn scene in 2x4. After this point, his arc and his focus has very, very little to do with Blackbeard or hell, Ed in general besides the couple of comments made to Ed and Stede that cement that Izzy is happy that Ed moved on and found someone that makes him happy.

Izzy's arc has left Blackbeard behind already. He has already hit the emotional beat that the finale wants to retread.

And then the other part of his deathbed comments to Ed- "the crew loves you, Ed"- makes no sense from the Ed side of things. The show built up an arc for Izzy that would make people care when he died, but that arc was literally about the crew literally putting aside their differences/fear/distrust of each other to help, support, and accept Izzy as their figurehead, their protector, their friend, their recovery, their family, their (insert positive symbolism/metaphor for all of the VARIOUS implied flirtations here).

What did they have with Ed? Other than his moments with Stede and Fang, what relationships were built up before Izzy's death? Calypso's birthday included no scenes of the crew interacting with Ed other than the short Archie/Ed/Stede convo at the beginning. We get none of him talking to them when prepping for the party. He spends 2x7 and 2x8 with Stede, only having scenes with Stede, never building anything with the crew.

THE LAST SUBSTANTIAL INTERACTION ED HAS WITH THE CREW BEFORE IZZY DIES IS THE "INFLUENCER APOLOGY" IN 2X5 (other than with Fang in the boat). Holy shit, I didn't even realize that until I got to this point in the meta. I had realized that something felt wrong/off about the "the crew loves you line," but I thought that it was because 2x1-2x3 cast such a long shadow on the rest of the season that it was impossible to escape. No, there were cracks in the back half of the season as well.

All of which is to say: if you have to kill Izzy (which you really, really don't, btw, it makes little sense in a show where pretty much every character has survived a near death experience with nary a scratch, but for the sake of hypothetical), there is a way you can pull it off: you have the crew at Izzy's side as he dies instead of Ed. You have their relationship with Izzy at the forefront, because their relationship is the one that matters at this point in the narrative. You have Izzy die trying to save one of them, not by random gunshot.

And then after Izzy dies, you finally give the crew their agency back. You let Izzy's death be the last straw in THEIR arcs. You let them tell Ed that they cannot allow him to stay on the ship after everything. You let them tell him that they are putting their foot down, and he can go retire if he wants, but they will not let him destroy this crew anymore.

(Or, you know, you can have all of that with a death SCARE instead of an actual death, and allow Izzy to sail off into the sunset as a first mate instead of as a dead body. Because that would suit the tone of the show and the story better.)

But I have the feeling that point B (Izzy dying/his death scene) was the thing that was decided on first, and so the budget crunch/other factors may have led the writers into making the same mistake as so many before them have: writing point A out organically, and then failing to change Point B when it no longer fit the story they had written.

#izzy hands #ofmd critical #2x08 mermen #ofmd 2x08 #ed teach critical #meta #fix it #kind of #analysis #i know I'm rambling #calypsos birthday #we really ahould have taken the “red flags” episode title more seriously #ofmd meta

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shiftylinguini · 1 year

Text

Fuck I Can't Write Crisis Pack:

@phoebe-delia asked in response to this fun lil ask game:

Do you have any advice for getting out of a slump/getting writing confidence back? . (for the ask anything) Do you have any advice for getting out of a slump/getting writing confidence back?

Now THIS. This is a good question, and something that is very much on my mind and has been for a while, as I am currently absolutely in the midst of this and trying to army crawl my way out. I don't have any magic bullets (is that the saying? idk) but I have been here before and i do have a small arsenal of tips or methods that I find can help me.

Here is my Fuck I Can't Write Crisis Pack (In no particular order):

Write anything

This is hardly groundbreaking advice, and it's also the hardest thing to actually do (imo) so do not beat yourself up if it takes a while to get to this. Basically, write ANYTHING―it can be aimless, it can be pointless, it can be crap (crap is subjective!! don't let the brain gremlins win!!).

Don't think about posting it, don't worry about anyone else ever reading it, just fling a few words onto a page and feel the rusty faucet turn on, proving to yourself that it still works.

Try and sus out what it is that's blocking you

Again this one is hard and annoying but functional. Once you can put your finger on the particular reason you're staring at a flashing black line on a blank page it can help you kick that reason off your lawn and into the bin.

And then, take it out of the bin and be kind to yourself about whatever that reason is. Maybe you feel shit because you're comparing yourself to others, your last fic felt like a lead balloon, you can't muster enthusiasm for what you once loved doing and fear that it's gone forever, you're projecting in a Tumblr post―whatever it is, it's something all the writers you admire and aspire to be like have felt, and been annoyed with themselves for, and so you can wrap it up in a blanket and put it on a shelf and be kind to it so it, (respectfully) shuts the fuck up.

(and remember, everyone feels insecure about their stuff. Like literally everyone, at some stage, feels like their stuff is rubbish)

Cheat on your OTP

Okay this one might not work for everyone, but it really does for me lol. Ruts (not the sexy kind) can often come with not wanting to engage in my usual ships, being annoyed by my lack of ability to fucking write them/anything/all my ideas taste like cardboard/bleh, and stepping out on them and reading something new can snap me out of it. Just, an injection of new ideas or scenarios or words or even just a little reprieve from being fed up with myself, which ideally, is why we're all here anyway.

(And then I come crawling back, and am welcomed with open arms haha)

In a similar vein:

Engage in media

This subtitle is genuinely terrible, i am sorry, LMAO, but essentially: find a piece of media that makes you go "oh, helLO sailor", unhinge your jaw like a snake, and consume it whole.

Let it nourish you, inspire you, excite you, making you feel SOMETHING, and then take that and think "fuck, what if i wrote bleepbloopblarp" and even if you write nary a single word, you've thought about it and that fucking counts.

It might be an album, a book, a song, a show, gifs of a hot person, the wikipedia summary of a movie, literally anything counts here if it makes you feel a twinge of creativity.

Ask yourself, what would Astolat do?

No for real. @candybarrnerd and I genuinely use this haha.

Worried your idea is stupid? Astolat would say write it.

Worried it's too weird? Nah, just write it.

It's dumb and no one will read it? Just write it for you *waggles eyebrows* (and then find out that yeah, nah, someone else will absolutely read this and be real fucking happy about it haha.)

Worried you're a one trick pony and have already written this fic before, like, and not even once before, and also you're projecting again in Tumblr post? WRITE IT AGAIN! As Astolat once said, "it's a fic so nice, I wrote it thrice".

It's good advice.

Make a friend or lean hard on the ones you have here

Misery loves company because it knows they'll come out of this together :). I know, I know, that's fucking NAFF, but fandom is all about finding like-minded freaks and blowing up their DMs because you saw a gif and now feel a kind of ways about it.

And lastly:

FUCK STATS!

I mean I love stats (yay validation!), but god can they make you feel like a worthless shit (hey where did my validation go :((( ). It can be really insidious, so piss that right off when it starts to fuck with your confidence or outlook on your own writing.

Hopefully there is something useful here, even if it's just looking at this advice and thinking "no that's shit, it's writing POISON" cos then you can maybe do the version you think is NOT shit, and that might work.

Good luck, fellow travelers!!

#thank you for this ask #this turned into projected cathrsis but i hope this helps if you are possibly feeling in a slump!!#on fic #writing #writing advice #our lord and saviour astolat #shifty turns an innocent ask into a therapy session #also is there a fucking name for the flashing space bar line on a word doc LMFAO there has to be right?? i do not know what it is

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mothwingwritings · 1 year

Note

Pls G and O for *ahem* the man who shall not be named ( yuujirou)🙏

I decided to do all the Yujiro asks in one fell swoop, so we can all suffer together as a family. :)

Warnings: I should only have to mention Yujiro Hanma at this point for you guys to know what you are getting into TBH but-mentions of abuse, noncon, reader being demeaned, beaten, and generally treated like garbage.

Game: Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?

The way Yujiro sees it, everything on this planet is for his amusement, and your existence is not exempt from that. In fact, you are arguably one of his favorite amusements, though he’d never tell you that himself.

That being said, that is all you will ever really amount to with the ogre-an enjoyable distraction to be used for his own pleasure. Everything he does to you, every way he tortures and fucks with you, is very much a fun little game to him. His affection for you only goes as far as you can keep his interest, and once/if you’ve lost all your charm, from that point on you are dead to him.

Yujiro is kind of a special case when it comes to ‘escaping’ him because he lets you roam free, so it’s not like there is any actual physical confinement you would need to break free from. The imprisonment comes from his overwhelming power and the fact that there is no place on earth that is safe from his reach, nowhere where his influence hasn’t extended. He can get through any security measure, travel easily to any country, and gain access to any information through his vast network of contacts. You have no way of competing against that, no way of taking security measures against someone so impossibly strong who has the world at their fingertips. You are a sitting duck, biding your time till he inevitably strikes again.

And yes, Yujiro does enjoy watching all the precautionary measures you take and safeguards you try to set up to protect yourself from him. It’s hilarious seeing the look on your face when he easily plows through each and every one of them to come and claim you.

Oppression: How many rights would they take away from their darling?

Honestly, none of them. One of the absolute worst things about Yujiro is that you have no clue when or how he will strike next. The man comes and goes as he pleases and does whatever tickles his fancy at any given time. It’s one of the perks of being the most powerful being on the planet, no one has the power to stop him from doing anything he sets his mind too.

Those whims translate over to you as well. You could go months or even years with nary a peep from Yujiro Hanma and then the next thing you know you’re being pulled off the street into some back alley to be brutally assaulted by the man himself. It may end there and you won’t see him for another long stretch of time (if ever again), or he may keep you by his side for several days to sate his boredom. You are constantly at his mercy. There is no way to protect yourself, no way of knowing when to even prepare for his arrival. Your entire life revolves around living in a constant state of dread, never truly knowing when, where, or how this man will come for you.

So all that said he doesn’t really take any rights away from you simply because he doesn’t need to. He’ll have you when he wants you, and when you’re with him your only concern and purpose is to please him in whatever way he desires. All the other side shit you have going on is inconsequential to him.

(The only time I think he may impose any kind of iron clad law on you is when you are with him, if you let your mind wander from him he WILL get pissed off and WILL punish you by keeping you quite literally locked by his side. How dare you be in his company and not show him complete reverence and respect? All your freedoms will be taken away the moment you lose focus, you won’t even be able to feed yourself or go to the bathroom without his consent/assistance. It’s horrific and demeaning, humiliating in ways unimaginable. Every moment of your life will be under Yujirou’s scrutiny for however long it takes until he’s satisfied. But even when his tyrannical presence is long gone, the mortification will linger indefinitely).

Hell: What would be their darling’s worst experience with them?

Every waking moment of everyday with Yujiro is the worst experience. If he’s not physically hurting you, he’s mentally abusing you. If he’s not touching or handling you inappropriately, he’s full on sexually assaulting you. Even when he is showing moments of ‘kindness’ it’s all just a ruse, another way to mess with you before he inevitably fucks you up in some way. The mental gymnastics this man puts you through on top of the physical duress he keeps your body under is horrendous and unbearable, he is a literal nightmare 24/7.

Never trust any praise, compliments, or benevolence he awards you-he’ll ultimately turn it against you and make you regret ever being so stupid to believe he could and would show you kindness.

Kisses: How do they act around or with their darling?

He’s almost always condescending and pompous. Yujiro is superior to you in every way and is not shy about reminding you of that. He expects you to do what he says when he says it, and doesn’t tolerate any lip or complaining about it (though he will sometimes find it humorous if you give a little back talk, depending on his mood). You feel like you are under some sort of regime when you are in his presence, his dominant presence leaving no room for debate. You are on constant alert, riddled with worry that you may say or do something that will set him off and begin the pattern of abuse all over again.

In certain rare instances he may open up to you or have a normal conversation where he isn’t being a smug jerk, but those are few and far between. He holds little to no respect for you and it’s painfully apparent in his mannerisms and way of speaking to you. You are his forced companion, glorified sex toy/punching bag, and your opinions and feelings don’t really matter. Just serve your purpose, know your place, and he will leave a satisfied man and you will (possibly) leave unscathed.

Affection: How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get?

I honestly don’t think Yujiro has the capacity to truly or selflessly love somebody, and as such he doesn’t experience affection in any normal sense of the word. At best he would have a warped sort of infatuation with you, any ‘affection’ he may direct your way a result of his twisted attraction to you (which is on par with most yanderes, but it’s a whole other level with Yujiro).

How he presents these feelings to you depends entirely on his mood. If he is feeling gracious he may take you out somewhere nice, like a classy restaurant or a high end hotel. He may even take you on a vacation somewhere exotic and exciting. While this may come off as a selfless act of benevolence, don’t get it twisted-Yujiro isn’t doing this as an act of charity. The only reason he’s letting you tag along on these outings is because he either expects something in return from you or he’s just bored and thinks having you around may help alleviate that. Either way, don’t expect smooth sailing when he shows these rare glimpses of goodwill, he will lord them over you and get payback for gifting your something so nice.

Most of the time though he’ll just show up out of the blue to terrorize you, have his way with you, and then leave. In his mind, that is a form of affection. He’s making time for you, isn’t he? He’s going out of his way to see you and give you his undivided attention, if anything you should feel grateful for that. It’s not his problem if you decide to be a little bitch and not appreciate that.

(I will say this though-I feel like if you proved yourself to Yujiro and he did grow to truly respect you, he would treat you much better. He wouldn’t be ‘nice’ by any stretch of the term, but he would take your opinions into account and speak to you on more equal footing. He would still do what he wants with you, but he would be much more willing to work with you and possibly even take into account some of your boundaries (though that is an incredibly large maybe). Your relationship would not get to this point quickly or easily, it would take years of abuse, torture, and anguish to get there. And I think half his new found respect would come from the fact that you survived all of his bs and made it that far. Congrats! You get the tiniest amount of appreciation as a reward for all your suffering. :) )

#i'm honestly a little surprised I didn't get more for Yujiro loool #enjoy and thank you all so much for the asks!!!#I always love writing for this asshole #yandere yujiro hanma #yujiro hanma x reader #yujiro x reader #yandere yujiro #yujiro hanma #yujiro hanma x y/n #yandere yujiro hanma x reader #yandere yujiro hanma x y/n #yandere x reader #yandere fics #yandere baki the grappler #yandere baki x reader #baki reader insert #baki the grappler x reader #baki the grappler #mothwingswritings

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r0und-4b0ut · 2 months

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hey chat h hey hey chat hey h

okay drops my cynonari hcs yayayayaya

i personally hc like. cyno as a transmasc bisexual and uh. tighnari as a panromantic asexual. thumbs up emoji.

as much as i love the whole "tighnari having 2 keep a close eye on cyno cause hes always getting hurt" thing i see it more as CYNO being worried about TIGHNARI. listen chat. tighnaris pretty chill. like. unfazed by p much everything. but he has a big ass mouth and its gonna get him in trouble someday i just fucking know it.

actually adding onto that. tighnari is so fucking like. unbothered by almost everything it scares cyno sometimes. like tighnari could be bleeding out and hes just like welp. guess ill just die. and cynos losing his shit in the background.

bc i fucking hate the heat cycle jokes that doesnt apply here lolz sorry chat no FREAKY hcs from me

it started off as friends with benefits. no i will not elaborate.

tighnari has like. those spots on his tail he just can not reach at all. so cyno brushes out his tail 4 him and in turn tighnari brushes cynos hair. like a little exchange :D (also cyno probably uses that fucking 13 in 1 body wash shit he has zero hygiene im sorry)

cyno can knit. tighnari can sew. together they make stuff for eachother and collei. they dont make hats that'll cover tighnaris ears for when it gets cold? cynos like nah dw babe i gotchu and pulls up with a specially made beanie 4 him the next day. cyno rips his cloak cause hes busy doing Bad Bitch shit?? tighnari whips out his sewing kit and is like cmere man i gotchu. next day cloak is fixed. collei grew out of her old clothes?? chat dw she has two badass dads who will cook somethin up 4 her in no time.

unpopular hc but tighnari really cant cook that well. seriously. "oh but hes the forest watcher!!!" yeah okay he just finds some fruit or something. "b-but in the game-" shhhhhh. he knows how to cook like very unseasoned fish and MAYBE some shitty soup. when cyno isnt home collei suffers tighnaris shitass cooking.

as much as they really wanna cuddle with eachother neither tighnari nor cyno are built for that. cynos a reckless sleeper (as in he cant stay fucking still) and tighnaris so full of fluff they both start sweating within the first five minutes. they literally can not sleep together. for their own sakes.

another unpopular hc. colleis closer to cyno than she is tighnari and it makes nari sad. she isnt scared of him or anything but he worries he isnt enough and cynos constant reminding him he is a Great Dad and that collei is just. a bit skittish

i am a firm believer in shapeshifter tighnari and cyno that can talk to animals so do with that what you will.

they accidentally indirectly proposed to eachother at the same time. hc says that tighnaris species gives flower crowns and leafs as a way of declaring love, and cyno didnt think tighnari would like a ring since A) he wears gloves and B) hes out doin stuff a lot and wouldnt want to loose it so. tighnari almost died trying to get desert flowers to make a flower crown for cyno and cyno bought him a small chain necklace with vines woven into it. and they basically kinda got engaged that way.

ya ithink thats like. it. 4 now. :D

#cynonari #cyno #tighnari #idfk what tags 2 put so you get those 3 #theyre so silly goober i love them

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honeyhotteoks · 2 years

Text

get close to me (c.jh) ~ kinktober week two

summary: you're pretty sure he hates you. and you know you hate him, until a night out turns upside down.

note: 18+ content, minors DNI. happy kinktober week two!! i'm so grateful for the positive response my first fic of the month received, and i hope you all like this one as well! it's my first time writing jongho like this, so i hope you feel like i captured him well! happy reading x

warnings: non idol!jongho, fem!reader, other members present or mentioned, public sex, exhibitionism, low key enemies to lovers, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), oral sex (m receiving), quickies, idiots talking past each other so much until they just have to make out. please let me know if i missed any.

pairings: jongho x reader

genre: smut smut smut

word count: 8.9K

my masterlist || read it on AO3!

At the bar your night starts fine, cocktails in thin little glasses with perfect curls of fruit that cost too much but taste just right. It’s payday, the Friday night ahead of you is long and the hangover tomorrow is already promising to be longer if you keep up this pace. You’re on your third drink, and desperate to find a dance floor when the night turns to shit.

You always find it hard to say no to Nari, so when she knocks back a shot of soju and tells you and Jisoo that her boyfriend and his friends are just down the road at karaoke and you should all go, you say yes. Before she picked up her phone, it really was all going perfectly.

“Come on,” Nari whines, tugging on your arm and dragging you towards the door as you toss the leather billfold back onto the bar, “you love Sannie, I know you do.”

Choi San is not the problem, he’s not the Choi you take issue with.

“Please,” Jisoo rolls her eyes, cutting into the middle of your attempt to communicate very sternly with your eyes to Nari that you don’t want to go. Jisoo hangs off your shoulder as you make it out into the street, “I want to go,”

“You just want to flirt with all of San’s friends again.” You roll your eyes.

“No,” Jisoo corrects, “I want to flirt with Mingi,”

“Right,” You nudge her playfully with your shoulder, “of course, how could I forget.”

Jisoo’s nose scrunches up at your words, “Stop, I really like him,”

“Last month you came home singing someone else’s praises,” You smirk, letting Nari lead you both down the road, “which one was it?”

“Seonghwa,” She sighs, “and I mean, he’s great, look at him for God’s sake.”

Nari lets out a sharp laugh, “Seonghwa likes this girl at his work,”

“That’s beside the point,” Jisoo shakes her head, “no, I actually talked to Mingi last time. He’s kind of quiet sometimes but, I don’t know, I thought we hit it off a little.”

“Oh,” You twist to look at her face, “you’re serious?”

Jisoo, the historically bold flirt, seems to wilt a little under your direct gaze and shrugs, “I like him, okay?”

“Shit,” You stop dead, shrugging of her arm and sighing heavily, “you’re going to give me those eyes until I agree to wing woman you, aren’t you?”

“No,” Jisoo trails off, “but you know, you could just strike up a conversation.”

“And then leave?” You quirk an eyebrow.

“Exactly!” She claps her hands.

“I can’t believe you,” You sigh, “you can talk to every guy except this one?”

“He’s smart,” Jisoo chews her lip, “I always feel like I don’t know what to say.”

“Guys,” Nari groans, “are we going or not?”

Jisoo’s eyes soften, a pleading puppy pout, and you throw up your hands, “Let’s go and let’s sing our fucking hearts out.”

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” Jisoo throws her arms around you again, and you tug her along.

“You owe me,” You pat her arm, but you can’t help but smile at her.

Nari looks elated at the prospect of seeing her boyfriend, still in the glowy honeymoon period of the first year, but she is right, you do like San. Out of any guy she’s dated, he’s far and away the best one and looks at Nari like she’s something to be treasured. You may not love all his friends, but he gets a pass for treating her so right.

At the karaoke bar, San meets you out front with a grin and a little haze of alcohol in his eyes, pulling his girlfriend in for a kiss.

“We made it,” Nari grins, “are you ready to be wowed, baby?”

“Always, jagi,” San cups her cheek, and you would roll your eyes at how tooth-rottingly sweet it all is except you know he means it.

“Let’s do this,” You cut in, shaking Jisoo off.

“Hey y/n,” San gives you a grin, “Jisoo, you both look great,”

“Thank you, San,” Jisoo smiles, “now tell me who’s here,”

“Who are you looking for?” San narrows his eyes as he pulls open the door for you.

“Nobody,” She answers immediately.

“Mingi,” You tell him.

“Hey!” Jisoo slaps your arm, “Not cool,”

“If anyone is going to help besides me, it’s San,” You point out.

San laughs, sharp and with a shake of his head, “I’m staying out of this one,”

“Good idea,” Nari leans into him.

San directs you all towards one of the large, private rooms and opens the door, the sound of a packed room immediately greeting you. Your stomach is tense and full of knots, but you follow him in.

For a minute, you think he isn’t here and your shoulders relax immediately. You scan the dark karaoke room and when you find Choi Jongho missing, the night starts to seem a bit brighter.

“Alright, let’s go,” You pull Jisoo by the hand and slot yourselves deftly between Mingi and Yunho as all the guys greet you and offer drinks. Wooyoung is mid-song, so you keep quiet but say your hellos and tune into the performance.

When he finishes with a flourish and there’s a brief break in performances, you nudge Mingi and turn to him, feeling Jisoo paying close attention at your side, “Mingi,” you get his attention, “how’s the album?”

“Ah!” His smile goes wide, “It’s great! Finally almost there,”

“Are you still keeping it locked away or can someone other than Yunho and Hongjoong hear it?” You tease him a little.

Mingi laughs, “No, no, I think it’s just about ready,”

“Hmm,” You smile, “because Jisoo was telling me,”

Light spills into the room from outside when someone opens the door and you know who it is before you can even turn your head, your words dying in your throat.

“Where’s the music?” Jongho says, “I left for five minutes,”

You turn to look and your jaw tightens. He looks crisp and clean like he always does, well fitting trousers and a perfectly cut jacket to fit his broad shoulders. As always, he says hello to the room but doesn’t spare a single glance in your direction.

“You were saying something about Jisoo?” Mingi’s voice drags you back.

“Oh!” You nod, now acutely aware of how Jisoo’s hand is tight on your leg, “Right, I was saying that she was just telling me she really wants to hear your music.”

“You do?” Mingi’s eyes dart to Jisoo’s, and you’re immediately forgotten.

“Yeah,” She grins next to you, “I’d love to hear your work,”

It’s easy now that the ice is broken to step away, and you slip out from between them under the guise of grabbing a drink from the table. You collapse next to Nari, who’s watching San, Wooyoung, and Jongho flip through the catalog of karaoke music.

“Get ready,” You elbow Nari and gesture towards Jisoo and Mingi, who have slid together easily like you were never there, “he’s definitely into her.”

“Oh boy,” Nari grimaces, “they’ll be a pair.”

“If they don’t kill each other,” You note.

“If they don’t kill each other.” She nods, taking a swift swig of her beer.

Music starts, and the attention breaks, everyone shifting around with renewed drinks to see what’s next. Jongho takes the hand mic from San and your teeth lock together. A deep ballad begins, a love song from the late nineties you haven’t heard since your parents used to play it when you were young.

His voice is perfect, which you already know, but it still annoys you every time nonetheless, every honeyed saranghe twisting the knot tighter inside you.

San claps when Jongho begins really singing, a deep supportive shout, “Choi Jongho!” The rest of the boys respond to the call, various hype noises and cheers.

Karaoke is supposed to be fun, and in your opinion everyone should be pretty bad at singing to even the playing field. If you’re as good of a singer as Jongho you’re not supposed to belt it out, you’re supposed to sheepishly agree to take the mic and then do something comedic instead. You’re not supposed to look handsome and talented at karaoke, that’s just not the point.

You knock back a shot of soju, and as the energy in the room racks up higher, he gets more theatrical, turning towards Nari first and taking her hand, singing to her like she’s his great long lost love. San dies laughing at the joke, and Nari plays along, feigning a swoon. As he moves into the second chorus, he crosses the room and sweeps Jisoo up, spinning her with ease like a ballroom dancer until he guides her back to the arm of the sofa by Mingi.

You watch as Jisoo stumbles a little, and Mingi braces her easily with one hand on her back and the other catching her hand. If Jongho were a little less self involved, you might interpret that as an intentional maneuver to get Mingi and Jisoo closer.

You reach for another drink and when he turns to you, extending out a hand and gesturing you towards him, you have the sudden urge to slap him. He’s ignored you for months, so casual and cold, always looking past your eyes to meet one of his friends instead. Embarrassed anger curls in your belly and you wave him off with a tight smile. Jongho’s eyes narrow for just a moment, beckoning you, and you look away. You don’t look up as he drags Wooyoung away from Yeosang’s side to spin him around, still singing passionately and with fervor.

You keep your eyes down, nervous energy flickering under your skin and you bounce your leg as you wait out the end of the song. When he’s done, everyone claps, and so do you, but you keep your eyes away and breath steady through your nose. You really don’t know why he dislikes you so much, but ever since the beginning it’s been palpable. The way he usually avoids your eyes, talks past you and not to you, always finds something to study on his phone instead of participating with you. The way he sang to you feels like a painful dig. If he hates you so much, you can hate him right back.

The night continues, Mingi singing a ballad, and San and Yunho taking a duet. You do your best to be present, and to ignore the way you feel like eyes are boring into you. When Jisoo finally exclaims that what the night needs is dancing, you jump on it, desperate to get out of this tiny room.

In the club you can finally relax, let yourself slip into the crowd and just focus on the music. Nari and San latch onto each other immediately, and you watch as Mingi tugs Jisoo out onto the dance floor too, using the crowded floor as an excuse to sidle close to her back and wrap his arms around her. The other boys move for drinks, spreading out to find dance partners of their own, and you do the same.

Sinking into the crowd, you move to the music.

When a hand coasts up your hip, settling on your waist, you turn your head and find an unfamiliar stranger. He’s a bit taller than you, good looking and well dressed, and it catches you completely off guard.

“Alone?” The man asks, and normally you’d say no. Normally you’d walk away and find your friends, but the tense knot of irritation in your chest changes your mind.

“Maybe,” You smile.

“Need a dance partner?” He steps a little closer, the heat of his chest on the bare skin of your back where your dress parts open.

“Maybe,” You repeat.

He presses against you, his hand sliding further to cup your hip fully and he drops his lips to your ear, “Need a drink, beautiful?”

“That I do need,” You nod.

“I’ll be right back then,” He steps back, “what’s your drink?”

He’s cute enough and charming enough, but there’s not a chance in hell you’re letting any man you just met get you a drink from the bar. You shake your head and smile, “I got it, what’s yours?”

He smiles, appreciative, his eyes flicking over you, “Vodka soda,”

“Got it,” You keep it light, flirty.

“Here,” He reaches into his jacket pocket for his wallet and you wave him off.

“I got it,” You assure him, “just don’t run off.”

“Definitely not,” His lip quirks into a smile, “I’ll get the next one.”

“Deal,”

You can feel the way he watches you walk away, and for a minute you thank yourself for wearing this dress. Champagne and satin, the front dipping into a cowl, and the rest of it clinging to your curves in just the right ways. Nari and Jisoo had practically forced you into buying it, but now that you’re here you’re grateful for it.

You squeeze through the crowd towards the bar, trying to locate the right little gap to push yourself through and catch the attention of the bartender. There’s a gap between two groups, tight, but it’ll do and you turn yourself sideways to fit as best you can between them.

The bartender who catches your eye holds up a hand, gesturing for your order as they tip a cocktail shaker back.

“Vodka soda and a gin and tonic,” You order, raising your voice up for the bartender to hear you over the group of loud men to your right.

The bartender nods, shouts out your total, and rushes to the other side of the bar. You turn, still squished between bodies, and fish through your purse for the cash you have tucked into the side.

“Do you know him?” His voice startles you and you jump, “sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” Jongho presses closer so you can hear him more clearly over the loudness of the club.

“What?” Your head snaps up.

“The guy you were dancing with,” Jongho clarifies, “do you know him?”

“Not really,” You shake your head, quickly counting bills and snapping your purse closed, “why?”

“You looked close,” He observes, and it’s a little startling all of a sudden how long he’s been holding your eye contact.

A little angry flame sparks inside you, “So?” you bite back.

“I’m just checking on you,” He leans in, “you had a couple of drinks at kareoke,”

“You’re checking in on me?” You can’t even hide the irritated incredulity in your tone, “Why?”

“Hey!” The bartender behind you catches your attention, repeating your total again and you twist away from Jongho to reach over and pass off the bills.

You’re mid-lift of the drinks on the bar when the man to your right stumbles back with a laugh, knocking directly into your hands. The drinks tip instantly, over half of each of them spilling directly down your front. The icy cold hits you abruptly and you yelp in surprise, “Hey! Come on!”

The man barely glances back, and you’re left with nothing but two nearly empty glasses and an incredibly wet front. You drop the glasses back on the bar and reach for a small stack of cocktail napkins but from the sopping wet feeling of the fabric you know it’s fully unsalvageable.

Jongho jumps forward quickly, and you don’t know what he’s doing at first, but he steps close and stands tall, perfectly square with your front, and he tucks you into him. “Here,” He shrugs his blazer off and drops it around your shoulders, “don’t worry.”

As he pulls the blazer over you, you look down and blush scarlet. The dress that was already thin and revealing is now relatively see through, and the cold snap of ice down your chest has your nipples standing hard at attention. “Oh my god,” You tug his jacket closed around you even though you haven’t even put your arms through the sleeves, “this is just perfect.”

“Here,” He wraps an arm around your shoulders, “there’s a restroom near the back sidewall,”

“Thanks,” You manage, the feeling of his hand on your shoulder heavy and warm.

“It’s fine,” He assures, and you’ve never heard his voice so soft in tone, not an ounce of teasing.

Jongho stretches out his other arm to make a barrier, pushing through the tight throng of people and keeping you tucked into his side. He walks with purpose, knowing exactly the most efficient route through and around to get you towards the back restrooms.

“Here,” He says as you make it out of the thickest part of people packed together, “they’re just there,”

You follow the direction of his hand, and you duck out from under his arm to rush forwards, pushing through the door of the restroom. It’s blissfully empty, and you lock the door behind you and shrug off Jongho’s jacket with a heavy sigh so you can assess the damage.

It’s most definitely worse than you even thought a moment ago. Once you see yourself in the wide mirror above the sinks, your blush darkens and you clap a hand over your mouth. The fabric clings to every inch of you, all the way down your front, and you can clearly see the dark shadow of your areolas and even make out the lines of your panties where the dress sticks to your hips.

Checking the door once more to ensure that it is locked and you won’t be interrupted, you pull your dress up over your head and ring it out into the sink, getting as much of the liquid out as possible. Once the fabric is mostly just damp to the touch, you situate yourself in front of the warm hand dryer and do your best. All you can think about while the warm air passes over the fabric is how Jongho had seen you.

It’s embarrassing to say the least, but the way he stepped close to you and kept you from view flickers through your mind. His hand anchored on your lower back to pull you into him until he figured out what to do and gave you his jacket. You’ve never heard his voice so gentle, or felt his touch like that before.

It takes time for the dress to dry, but eventually it’s a little less obviously soaked and just a little damp to the touch, like taking clothes out of the dryer too early. You slip the dress back on, and while it isn’t completely back to normal, it’s less see through. You pull Jonho’s jacket back on and make sure it’s covering the parts of you that are still a little exposed.

When you pull the door open, you don’t expect to see him still here. Jongho leans against the opposite wall, scrolling on his phone, but when he hears the sound of the door his head snaps up.

“Any better?” He asks, realizing you’re still wearing his jacket.

“A little,” You nod, “but not great. Do you mind if I hang onto your jacket for a little longer?”

He shakes his head, “Keep it,”

“Thanks,” You chew the inside of your lip, not sure where to go from here, especially now that he’s being so nice to you.

“Do you want to go back out there? Get another drink?” He asks, glancing over to the dance floor.

“Um,” You honestly can’t think of anything worse at the moment, the tone of the night is completely different now, “not really.”

“Should I take you home?” He offers, taking another step closer.

“You don’t have to do that,” You assure him, “I can just wait a bit for Nari and Jisoo to tire themselves out. I just don’t know that I’m up for dancing now,”

He swallows, tight and a little nervous looking, but finally he sighs and says, “I know a spot that’s a little more quiet if you want?”

“Oh,” You follow the glance of his eyes towards the end of the hall past the restrooms, “sure, I guess that beats sitting at the bar.”

He smiles, wide, his eyes crinkling up and you’re a little struck. He’s never smiled at you like that, only his friends, and you suddenly have no idea what he’s thinking. “Come this way,” He gestures for you to follow, and you do.

He leads you down the dim hall, until you reach a metal staircase cordoned off with a velvet rope, a sign hanging over the front that reads Employees Only. He unclips it with ease, “They haven’t re-opened the top floor since quarantine ended,” he explains, “I don’t think they have the headcount to maintain it, and no one really checks.”

“How do you even know this is here?” You hesitate by the foot of the stairs.

“I used to come here years ago, it was the VIP section.” He says simply, like that’s all the information you need.

Your eyes widen, “VIP?”

“You know how Wooyoung makes friends with everyone?” He gestures for you to fill in the blanks.

“Got it,” You smile, glancing up the steps, “but are you sure we won’t get in trouble?”

“I wouldn’t put you in trouble,” Jongho waves you up, “but if we stand here long enough someone’s bound to see us.”

“Right,” You jog forwards and up the steps, Jongho chuckling behind you as he secures the no entry rope and follows you up the steps.

When you finally hit the landing, you can see why he brought you up here. The landing is long and wide, a full balcony overlooking the club but somewhat quieter and divorced from the bustle below. The lights are dim, probably intentionally kept low since the floor isn’t being used, and rows of long, plush couches and tables line the wall opposite to the railing.

“Nice, right?” He says, drawing you further into the space.

“Definitely,” You agree.

Silence hangs between you, and while Jongho approaches the railing, you keep a bit of distance and sit on one of the couches, watching him as he checks down over the railing and the people below. You’re still cold, especially up here without the warm crush of bodies, and you tuck Jongho’s jacket around you a little more tightly.

“Is your dress ruined?” Jongho asks, his voice still soft as he takes a seat next to you, leaving several inches between you.

“No,” You tell him, “I can get it cleaned, I think.”

“That’s good,” He smiles a little, “it looks very good on you.”

Your stomach flips at his words, “Thanks,”

“Are you cold?” He asks.

The words slip out before you can stop them, “Why are you being so nice to me right now?”

His brow furrows, “I’m always nice?”

“You’re never nice.”

“What?” His mouth drops, “You’re the one who’s never nice.”

“That’s only because you clearly don’t like me.” You state it simply, like a fact.

“I like you,” He responds.

Confusion floods you, a curl of anger deep inside you, “You never talk to me.”

“We’re talking right now,” He counters, an unexpected edge to his voice as he meets your level of tension.

“No,” You shake your head, pushing yourself up off the couch to step away from him, “you talk to people around me. You don’t look at me. You don’t say hi to me, you don’t smile at me, you don’t joke around with me, you basically treat me like I don’t exist.”

“y/n,” His voice is soft, if a little shaky.

“That’s fine,” You press on, “if you and I don’t get along, that’s fine. We can see each other from time to time with friends and you can do your thing and I’ll do mine, but please don’t lie to me and make this awkward. I appreciate you helping me out tonight, you’re a decent guy, but,”

His face scrunches at your words and he stands, “A decent guy,” He shakes his head, “y/n, you’ve got this all wrong.”

“Sure I do,” You sigh, “It’s really not worth it, Jongho, honestly. Maybe I should just get a cab,”

“No,” He grabs your hand as you move to walk towards the stairs again, “no, please wait.”

“What?” You turn on your heel, exasperated.

“God,” He rolls his eyes, “can you just listen for two seconds?”

“I’m leaving,” You pull your hand out of his grip and shrug off his jacket, tossing it to him and turning again, not even waiting to see if he caught it.

As you hit the top stair his words stop you, “I do like you, I don’t know how to talk to you.”

You look back at him, frozen, jacket hanging from his fingertips and a stricken expression on his face. You step back up and hold his gaze, “What does that mean?”

“It means I like you,” Jongho repeats, swallowing hard, “a lot. But you’re loud, and you’re opinionated, and you're very protective of your friends, and I just didn’t know how to talk to you.”

“I’m loud?” You ask evenly, “You like me but I’m too much, is that it?”

“That came out wrong,” He admits, tossing his jacket back on the couch and running a hand over his face, “listen, please,”

“I’m listening now,” You tell him, but you keep your hand on the railing of the stairs, ready to dash down them at any moment.

“You haven’t let a single one of us near you,” Jongho presses, “San and Nari have been dating for months, I don’t know if any of us even have your phone number.”

Your stomach twists up at his words, and you cross your arms over your chest, “I don’t know what that has to do with you being an asshole to me,”

“You’re hard to get close to,” He says, taking another step or two forwards, but making sure he doesn't rush you away, “at least for me. That doesn’t mean I don’t like you, or wouldn’t like to try.”

“I thought you hated me,” You press again.

“I’m sorry for that,” He says immediately, his face softening, “I know I can be cold sometimes.”

“Well,” You were waiting for him to say but, for him to shrug things off, but he’s right. He can be cold, you know that all too well.

“It takes me a long time to warm up to people,” He admits, “but I liked you when I met you. I just didn’t know what to say to you, and then I thought it was you who didn’t like me very much.”

“So, this is my fault?” Your hand slips off the railing.

“No!” He insists, frustrated now, “I’m sorry,” He repeats.

Something he said a moment ago is stuck inside you, like a thorn or a bad song, and you take a step towards him, “I’m not hard to get close to.”

“Harder than you think,” Jongho says, his jaw setting hard.

“If you had just talked to me, or looked at me for a single second,” You step close, getting into his space and looking up at him, “but I think you judged me.”

“And you didn’t judge me?” Jongho scoffs, “I heard you.”

“Heard me when?”

“What was the word you used?” Jongho’s angry now, a moment ago apologetic and ready to let it all be water under the bridge, and he steps toe to toe with you, “Self aggrandizing.”

You remember the moment, a few months ago on the balcony of San’s apartment while you talked to Jisoo. You had thought he didn’t hear you, but as usual, you’re wrong. There’s no turning back now though, while you’re getting it all off your chest, “Well maybe you are.”

“And you’re not hard to get close to,” He shakes his head.

“Why are we even talking anymore?” You bite, “This clearly isn’t helping.” You push away from him, but his strong hand closes over your forearm and pulls you back into his chest.

Jongho catches your jaw with his hand, and pulls you up to secure his mouth to yours. You’re stifling - his mouth hot and your body pressed tight against his now as he stumbles back with you in his hands, kissing you hungrily all the while. Your brain stays frozen, but when he groans softly against your lips and tightens his hand on your hip you crumble into him.

Something else takes over your brain, someone that isn’t you. There’s no world in which you would be kissing Choi Jongho and loving it, but you do, and you are. You lock your hands behind his neck and meet his kisses, his tongue probing yours and you moan sharply when your back connects with the supporting beam behind you.

Jongho’s fingers slide up your back, dipping under the strap of your dress, his mouth moving down your jaw and his breath warm down your throat.

You gasp as he leans further into you, “I thought you were mad at me,”

“Oh, I am,” He says between kisses down your neck, “but you’re fucking killing me tonight,”

A hot strike of need lances down your body and you grip onto his shoulders as he sucks on your pulsepoint, “Tonight?”

“Always,” He says, “but this dress?”

“Fuck,” Your eyes slip closed as he works his way back up to your lips.

“And you looked so fucking gorgeous giving me hell,” He says, diving back to your mouth.

“What is happening?” You mumble against him.

He breaks the kiss with a sigh, and his forehead leans on yours as he catches his breath. His thumb strokes across your neck where he holds you and finally he says, “I said I do like you,”

“Oh,” Your voice is small.

“I don’t know how to talk to you,” He reiterates, “because every time I look at you and even think about opening my mouth I want to tell you how insane you make me.”

“You what?”

His hands hold you close, and you watch his eyes slip closed, “You make me crazy,” he admits, “every time I see you I want to drag you off somewhere and fuck you until you can’t walk,”

Your breath hitches at his words, a rush of warmth through your belly at the thought. “That’s why you couldn’t talk to me?”

“This is the first conversation we’ve ever properly had,” He chuckles, “and listen to me.”

“Oh,”

“Every time you talk to my friends or some guy in a bar,” His hands tighten on you.

Your body moves before your brain, but when his mouth is back on yours, and you pull him closer, it all feels right. “Don’t stop,” You pant against his mouth between kisses.

“Come here,” He dips, reaching down and hoisting you up in one fluid motion, keeping your back pinned on the wall and settling your legs around his waist. You whine at the sudden press of his body between your legs, your dress ruched up around your hips. “Fuck,” He sighs, “I knew you would sound so pretty,”

Your brain is dizzy, foggy and light and you cling onto him, one hand popping the topmost button on his shirt. “Jongho,” You groan, and he presses further against you, his hard cock now nestled tight against your clit.

“Do you want me?” He says in your ear between kisses, “Or should we stop?”

“More,” You nod, your head falling back to the wall.

“Are you sure?” His hand presses up under your dress and cups your backside.

Your hips jerk, rocking against him and he groans, but you pant out, “Yes, fuck,”

“You’re mine, then,” He kisses you fast, and then drops you back down to your feet, not even giving you a second to realize what’s coming next. He turns you with ease, and crowds you forwards against the railing, his lips trailing over your neck again and his hands roaming over your body.

Twenty minutes ago, you really thought you hated him. You were so sure you had him pinned - every little smug thing about him from the way his lip twitches whenever you say anything to the way he crosses his legs and rests his hands on his knee. The way he’s too smart, reads too much, sings too well when all you’re doing is going out for some drunk karaoke on a Saturday night. Twenty minutes ago before he had your legs around his waist, you were pretty sure you’d never, ever let him touch you.

But being sure and being where you are now, are two very different things.

His body presses up against yours, pinning you into the balcony railing, and you’re grateful it’s dark up here because if it wasn’t you’re pretty sure everyone below you would be able to see. Your breathing tightens as he slides his hands over your bare hips, flipping the back of your dress up to give him the access he needs.

“Jongo,” Your voice is breathy and hushed when he cups the curve of your ass in his warm hand, “god, what are we doing?”

“Fucking,” His laps latch onto your bare shoulder, one hand spreading wide over your stomach, “I thought that was clear.”

“Oh my god,” Your body trembles, deep anticipation running through you and now that he’s touching you, you hope he never stops.

“Changing your mind?” His hands still and he lifts his lips.

“What?” You turn your head towards him, slivers of his face light up with every pulsing color that illuminates the dark club.

“What, what?” He locks eyes with you.

“If you want to fuck me, you should just fuck me.” You can’t help but push his buttons, the fight between you fully unfinished.

A smile pulls at the corner of his lips, that look you just hate, hated, a feeling you can’t quite work out now that his hot hands are on you. His fingers hook into the top of your thong and he tugs down, pushing them down so they fall to catch around your ankles. “Be quiet,” He murmurs, and you feel him unbuttoning his trousers behind you, the zipper pulling along the soft flesh of your ass.

He chuckles when you jump in his arms at the cool sensation of the metal, and he repositions himself just far enough so he can slip a hand behind you.

Your core tenses as he maneuvers you with ease, and he drags his hand over the swell of your backside until he reaches under, his middle finger sinking into your folds with expert direction.

“Cute,” He kisses your shoulder tenderly, a stark contrast to his teasing tone, “is this all for me?”

“Shut up,” You groan, but you slide your stance a little wider for him.

“Mm,” He kisses across your shoulders, rocking his hand back and forth, “not yet,”

“Jongho,” You gasp as he presses down on your clit, “we don’t have a lot of time, they’ll notice we’re gone,”

“So?” He murmurs.

“What if they look for us?” Your hands tighten on the railing as pleasure bubbles inside you.

“No one’s going to come up here,” He assures you.

“What if they can see us?” You lean back into his touch, your hips jerking into his hand.

“So let them see,” He pushes your legs open wider, “now stop worrying and let me fuck you,”

Your core flutters and spasms, and you grip onto the railing as you watch the crowd below. Were you friends there somewhere or did they go home? If they glance up at the balcony would they see you? How much would they see? Do you even care?

“Please,” You push yourself back into him, throwing caution out the window and arching your back.

“Perfect,” He sighs, and you’re about to protest when his fingers slip away from your clit, but when his hands lock down on your hips and you feel his tongue sink between your folds, dipping deep into your aching entrance you shudder a groan and drop your head.

He’s on his knees now between your legs, holding you open wide and tilted up so he can lap strong stripes up the length of you.

You moan, tight, losing control as Jongho delivers a strong suck to your clit and you feel a puff of warm air as he sighs into you. He lifts his mouth to murmur, “You taste like heaven,”

You grip the railing, leaning over it now and losing control, your eyes unfocused and only seeing the wash of colorful lights, his tongue lapping at you as the music thrums through your chest. You didn’t know he could be like this at all, always seeming so buttoned up he was almost prudish, but you’ve never been so happy to be wrong.

Jongho separates your folds with his index and middle fingers, his opposite hand kneading the soft flesh of your ass, and he picks up the pace, working you with strong flicks and sucks so expertly that you can’t quite believe who you have between your legs.

“Jongho,” You gasp, dropping your head to your forearms, “please, please,”

Your body grows hotter, tense curls of pleasure bubbling up in your core and you bite down on your forearm to keep from crying out as he feels you start to shake and doubles down. His hand on your ass grips tight, and when his tongue passes over your clit in just the right way and he feels you jerk, he circles his tongue back on the spot and sucks hard.

Heat floods your chests, and with your free arm you reach back and grip his hand where he holds you, silently begging him not to change a thing. With just a little more, you’ll be putty in his hands. Jongho doesn’t falter, listening to your steady pants and whines, and when he presses closer your body snaps apart for him. Your knees buckle in and you hang onto the railing for support as you come hard and shaking, your dress slipping back down over your ass as you ride it out.

Behind you, Jongho quickly fishes a condom out of the inside pocket of his jacket and hurries back to you. As your breathing evens out, he lifts your hips and brings your legs back up so that you’re back in an almost ninety degree position, presented and ready for him.

“Fuck,” He sighs as he pushes your dress back up and caresses your hips, “you’re so beautiful,”

His voice is warm and low, and he drags his hand up and down your back. You’re pretty sure you’ll start to melt if he doesn’t touch you again and you push up to hold the railing and turn your head towards him, “Jongho,”

“Hmm?” He looks up from your body and meets your eyes.

“Touch me,” You push your hips back into him, the head of his cock bumping you, “fuck me,”

He licks his lips and swallows hard, shifting his hands to hold your hips firmly, “Come up a little,” he says, stepping close and you groan as his cock passes over your folds.

You’re already in heels, but his hips are still a little higher than yours, so you press up on your tiptoes, heels rising out of your shoes and leaving your leaning most of your weight on the railing. The adjustment leaves you in the perfect spot, and he settles himself between your legs, guiding his cock to your wet entrance.

“Fuck,” he breathes as he presses himself forwards, slowly sinking his cock inside you, “y/n,”

Your mouth drops open as he pushes in, stretching you perfectly and filling you just right. “Oh my god,” Your head hangs down as you focus on the feeling.

You can feel that he started off with control, but the deeper inside you he moves, the tighter his hands get on your hips and you can hear a groan on his lips. With a sharp jut of his hips he thrusts deeply inside you now, and you bite your lip to keep yourself from crying out.

“You’re so,” Jongho pants, picking up the pace of his thrusts and surging in and out of your tight channel with every rolling rock of his hips, “y/n,”

His hips connect with yours in time with the thrumming bass and you grip down hard on the railing, hands shaking and body aching as you try to hold yourself up for him. “Harder,” you beg him, “more,”

Jongho’s hand claps down on your shoulder, holding you in a vice grip, and he uses the leverage on your body to bounce you steadily on his cock. He pulls you back to meet every forward snap of his hips and you whine tightly in his grip. Where some men hear harder and speed up, Jongho reads your needs perfectly. He keeps his pace but with every move he connects with firm snaps, a hard drumbeat of his hips on yours.

“Yes, yes,” You moan, the expanding knot of pleasure building as his cockhead pounds again and again into the perfect spot inside you.

“I want to feel you,” He pants, “are you close?”

You nod, frantic and with a whine, and when you feel his hand leave your shoulder you’re startled that the pace might change when you’re so close, but it does for the better. He leans over you, reaching around and locking his fingers down onto your swollen clit, rubbing circles fast and hard into your nub as he keeps his hips jutting into you. Your orgasm crests, fast and sudden, and you can feel yourself close to tumbling straight over the edge.

“Don’t stop,” You beg him, “please, please,”

He presses a little harder, “Come on my cock, baby, come for me,”

The music cuts low as a song blends into another and your mouth falls open, your orgasm washing over you at his words. You hold yourself as silent as possible, just heavy breath fluttering out of you while you tighten your hands on the railing, your walls spasming around his hard length.

He pushes into you fully and holds you tight down on his cock, holding you up now as your legs shake, “Shh, shh,” he soothes you, “there you go, fuck, there you go,”

A tight whine leaves you as the music picks back up, “Jongho,”

“Mhm,” His hands coast over your skin, soft and gentle now as you recover. After a moment he slips his cock out of you and you shudder, and he takes the back of your dress and smooths it down to cover you again, “here, come here,”

You’re still collapsed against the railing, but you let him pull you up into him, kissing you softly and caressing your back. He holds you while your brain clears, and you sigh against him, “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” you nuzzle into him.

“Us at all or up here?” He glances over the side down at the throng of bodies.

“Both,” You kiss him again.

“Hmm,” He squeezes your arms and nods, “I’m not done with you yet,”

You smile, and shake your head, “It’s my turn,”

“Oh?” He teases.

“Yeah,” You pull away from him, your legs finally solid under you and you push him backwards until his back connects with the supporting beam he had hoisted you up against earlier.

He chuckles at your sudden pushiness and smiles, “Where are we going?”

“Right here,” You shrug, flirting now fully, and you can barely believe that the man who you hated at the beginning of the night has turned out to be the man in front of you now. The man making you come twice in a fast and dizzy rush, the man whose cock was about to be down your throat.

“Mhm,” He murmurs, watching you carefully.

His eyes widen when you slide down to your knees, your hands running down his thighs to steady you. With sure hands you roll the condom off and drop it to the side, taking his hot length in your hand and stroking, getting accustomed to the feeling of him.

“Oh fuck,” He leans back on the beam and runs a hand through his hair, “y/n,”

“Yeah?” You grip him a little more, stroking steadily and letting your hand sweep up and over the smooth velvet of his cockhead, collecting the beads of precum with your thumb to stroke along the bottom of his shaft.

“God,” He mutters, eyes on you.

“Watch me,” You tighten your hands on his thighs, and look up at him as you run your tongue over the head of his cock, soft flicks at first and then a steady drag of your tongue up the length of him.

“Mm,” He leans forward, “wait,”

You rock back, dropping your hands away, confusion flooding you, “What?”

“Here,” He pulls the straps of your dress free, dropping them over your shoulders and revealing your breasts and you watch him bite his lip and sigh at the sight of you.

“Oh,” You smile, “so that’s what you want.”

Jongho swallows, watching you with wide eyes, pupils blown wide and looking hungry.

You slide the straps down and let your dress pool at your waist, naked now from the hips up, and you drag your hands up your sides, cupping your breasts and pinching your hard nipples. He leans back against the wall, watching, and his cock twitches, desperate for something to touch it.

It feels like something’s possessing you, doing this out in the open, a breath away from someone just wondering where you are and looking up to the balcony, but you can’t stop yourself. After months of wishing he would spare you a single glance, you’re starving for the way his eyes stay focused on you, studying your every move. You rock back from your knees and settle on the cold concrete floor, separating your legs wide and easing back onto your elbows.

“Do you like to watch?” Your brow quirks up, and you continue teasing your nipples for his eyes.

He nods, wetting his lips again and bringing his hand to his cock, stroking it slowly.

“You do,” You sigh, dragging the hem of your dress up and sinking your fingers into your wet core, “have you been watching me this whole time?”

He nods again, matching the pace of his hand to yours as you start to slowly sink two fingers inside yourself, bobbing them in and out.

“Why tonight?” You ask, moaning a little at the heat stirring inside you again.

“I don’t know,” He groans, “I just couldn’t ignore it anymore,”

You let him watch you a little longer, alternating between thrusting your fingers and circling your clit, kneading your breast with your opposite hand and panting a little wantonly, just for him. His cock is desperately hard, leaking and red, and you decide finally that it’s time to stop teasing him.

In one fluid motion you push back up to your knees and push his hand away from his cock, wetting your lips as you do and sinking your mouth down over him as far as you can, your nose pressed up against his pubic bone as you take him, his cock heavy on your tongue and bumping the back of your throat.

“Fuck, fuck,” He shudders, “y/n,”

“Mhm,” You murmur around him, gripping onto his thighs as you start to drag your head back and forth, using the pressure of your tongue to tighten the feeling for him.

“Yes,” He urges you, his hands sweeping your hair back and gathering it at the back of your head, holding you steady, “fuck, you’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen,”

A flutter runs through you, his words making you blush and while you work him, you return your hands to yourself, teasing your nipples and making sure he can see as you flick your clit. You’re taking him home, there’s no question. You want him for dinner and dessert, you want him for breakfast, you want him until you can’t stand the sight of him anymore.

“God,” You hear him groan above you, and you up your pace, bobbing your head now at a fast clip and moaning around his cock in your mouth. Hollowing out your cheeks and sucking, taking him deep. His hands grip your hair harder and you feel his hips jerking, and from the sound of his little hissing pants he’s close.

You suck hard, applying more pressure with your tongue and he curses, trying to pull you off him, but you make a noise of protest and sink further down onto him, gripping his thighs and letting him thrust himself into your mouth twice more before he groans and releases, hot and salty down the back of your throat. You steady your breathing, swallowing every drop until you’re sure he’s satisfied and then you let his cock slip out of your warm mouth.

Jongho leans back against the beam, shaking and his hands still locked in your hair, sweat slipping down his temples. You sit back on your heels, his hands falling away from you as do and you watch him above you. It’s the calmest you’ve ever seen him, a small smile on his lips and a serene expression on his face. With a deep sigh he comes back to reality, and drags a hand through his hair to smooth it back into place before pulling his trousers back up and securing his belt.

He smiles warmly at you when he crouches down, kissing you softly and pulling the top of your dress back up to its proper place, “You alright?”

“Mhm,” You assure him, “you?”

“I’m great,” He grins, and his smile sends a fluttering warmth through you.

“Yeah?”

“You’re perfect,” He kisses you again, “I’m so sorry I was an ass, you’re perfect,”

His words are tender, and so are his hands and you melt under his attention, “It doesn’t matter, I don’t care,”

He chuckles against your mouth and shakes his head, “It does,” he sighs, “but it doesn’t have to tonight,”

He’s right of course, and when the hazy glow of your orgasms clear and you’re back to real life you might feel differently, but right now you want nothing more than to curl up on his lap and breathe in the scent of his cologne. Jongho finally breaks the kiss and looks you over, checking the time on his watch, “We should get back,”

“Jongho,” You catch his hand, keeping him close.

“Yeah?” His eyes are soft, a little hopeful, and you never want him to stop looking at you like that.

“Can you just take me home, please?” You squeeze his hand, “I’ll text them and tell them I wasn’t feeling well or something, can you just…”

“Whatever you want,” He assures you, assuaging your sudden nerves, “here,”

You watch as he finds his phone, sending a series of texts and ordering you both an Uber. He stands, offering you his hands and helping you backup your feet, straightening your dress again and then dropping his jacket back over your shoulders, “Are you hungry?”

“So hungry,” You smile.

“You want to get dinner?” He smooths your hair down and sweeps his thumb under one of your eyes to clear away the smudged mascara, “Maybe we can start over.”

“I think I’d like that,” You murmur.

“Alright then,” He grins. He buttons his jacket around you once your arms are in the sleeves, and then finishes straightening himself out. He grabs your purse that lays discarded on the ground and passes it to you, and then with a laugh he takes your panties that never made it back on and tucks them into his trouser pockets.

Your eyebrows raise and you blush.

He pulls you in, kissing you again and squeezing the soft swell of your ass, “I might want you again, these will just be in the way,”

“Oh my god,” You sigh against his mouth, “why haven’t we been doing this the whole time?”

“I’m an idiot,” He says, like it’s obvious.

“Ah,” You tease, “right, of course.”

“Come on,” He checks his phone and sees the Uber only a minute or two away, “let’s get out of here.”

“Jongho,” You catch his hand as you descend the stairs.

“Hmm?” He smiles back at you, so much more at ease now that the wall of ice between you is broken.

“Let’s order in,”

He tugs you into his arms, kissing your temple as you stumble out into the night air. To anyone watching you’d look like a couple, lovers who can’t keep their hands to themselves, the rest of the world faded away around them. No one would know at the start of the night you’d barely spoken to each other, that the tension between you was so thick you could have cut it. Jongho keeps a hand on you while you wait, through the drive to your apartment, all through dinner, and he sinks back into you the moment it’s done. Now that he’s touching you, it feels like he may never stop, and if you're being honest, you really don’t mind.

the third installment of kinktober will be up next tuesday.... thank you all for reading x

💌 taglist - @x0cherrytattoo0x @just-here-to-read-01 @simeonswhore @rielleluvs @ourbabies-bts @mingkiyoo @belletiny @moonseonghwa @jwying @treasure-jackpot @thirstiny @whatudowhennooneseesyou @seonghwaxtoothless @matzstars @lenireads @parkthothwa8 @halotopicecream @8tinytings @kiwibaekie @sunasleftball @tannie13 @camilacastro @phoenix-karma @atinymonbebestay @kpopslittles1ut @lucentchan @seobtak @jlm92 @side-angel @mywooyo @halesandy @sophxom @lydiairl @seokjins-condoms @y2keigo @kpoplover718 @heart-coiored @blckbianxious @oippang @atinytease @minkysmilk @becauseiloveyunho @asjkdk

#ateez kinktober #kinktober 2022 #ateez smut #ateez #ateez fic #ateez ff #choi jongho #jongho #jongho x reader #jongho smut #jongho fic #honeyhotteoks fics

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littleevothings · 4 months

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I don't want to spoil things for myself but I am curious of the motivations of Lamb's betrayal. To be honest, pretty sick and everyone depicting Lamb as some innocent little victim and Narinder being this crude, liar, since he's never lied to the Lamb (Player) in game so trust me, this is a hella nice change of pace compared to the rest of the fandom who wants to imagine themselves as a Deceived Hero when they're totally not lol

But that does leave the question of; What is Lamb's motivation? I don't get the impression its out of love or a desire to keep Narinder for themselves, but it also doesn't feel.... sinister like he plans to force Nari in the coal mines for all eternity. What is it they're seeking? Very much curious.

Holy shit my actions have an impact on the world wow this game is so immersive So glad you enjoyed the series so far! :DD

There used to be an entire essay here about the lamb's motivation. And while it doesn't spoil too much, I'd rather let it be revealed in the story itself :)

#answered asks #perfect death au #cult of the lamb #cult of the lamb fanart #cotl #cotl fanart

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formula-fun · 6 months

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YES!! We need a pacific rim fic!! Think about the potential! Training since childhood Max and Charles are so competitive and thinking they'll pilot different jaegers and race for the kill counts BUT turns out they're the most drift compatible pair.

yess???? it could be so so good! i like the idea of everyone knowing they're compatible super early on but them being completely resistant to it and lowkey a little stupid. like every time they spar they try to fight super dirty and aggressively to prove they hate each other and it would never work, but in reality the program directors are watching like....inchresting......such similar styles...... and then they do a drift test when they're like 16 or sth and it goes horribly because they both bring a bunch of baggage into it and its VERY dramatic and they both end up getting benched for like a year and a half because they're seen as too volatile. eventually they get paired with other people but it doesn't really work out because they're still connected a little bit and can't help but compare their new partners to each other, and their new partners can obvs feel that so it's like drifting with maxandcharles instead of just one person, which is super distracting. and meanwhile max and charles have picked up each other's memories and habits and favorite foods and shit like that and it's becoming super annoying for everyone around them to hear them complain all the time (who liked vanilla ice cream first? point of contention) and over time the things they fought over become running jokes and they finally realize it's actually kind of nice to have someone around who understands you that easily. just in time for them to hop in a jaeger and kill some aliens

like tbh it could be an entire fic about the academy, theres so much there. there could be nary a single kaiju in this entire fucking thing. a love letter to the drift and all that it represents

#i actually have a lot of thoughts on this wow #thanks anon dsfksdkfjksjf #writing tag #pacrim au

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finalfrontierpublishing · 1 year

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It slipped my mind that I kind of promised a making-of post - sorry @notabuddhist, who so kindly gave me permission to bind One of Many Great Fires for @pleasantboatpress!

I've tried to include as many making-of photos but sometimes i am just a shit photo taker so I am very sorry in advance.

Step 1: Stitch a text block and planning, Endband making

Anyone who knows me knows I love a good rounded book. I started rounding books from my third bind and haven't looked back.

I took a little while to get to this as it required colour printing and I don't have a colour printer at home. I finally got off my ass close to the end of Binderary and went to the printer I usually go to to print my coloured prints - luckily they didn't read my gay porn or ask me about it, though I've been getting increasingly pointed questions about what exactly i'm making.

glue round number 1 and trim with my guillotine, and then i take my trusty hammer to the spine to do some rounding.

So, okay, anyone who's read this fic knows it takes place on Vulcan. And i've seen enough imagery on star trek to know Vulcan is endless red sand and heat and oh boy, i feel hot just thinking about it.

I knew red would be a colour that fit thematically and I had recently found lovely marbled paper that really looked so much like the gas giant appearance of Jupiter but red. I then pulled out my trusty colibri cranberry bookcloth to do a couple of colour match checks- i love colibri and will never not recommend it.

Usually at this point, I do my endbands - and I did a simple two colour front bead endband because when i started this, that was all I knew how to do.

Step 2: Case making

I recently found out that what i usually do for books is called the square back bradel bind (though technically this is not square back), but you get my meaning.

Case is made, and then glued to bookcloth. Look at those crisp edges, yum yum. I'm generally a messy glue user, so you can see all the bits of paper stuck to the back of the half-done case, also with big F and Bs drawn on them because i never remember which side i want the front and back to be. The case looks pretty good with nary a glue stain. (I did a good job with glue management this time, phew)

Step 3: Decorative steps

My usual go-to is HTV because I'm not quite adept at other arty decorative methods like paint or usage of the foil quill. I decided to go with vulcan calligraphy on the back - with a river binding strip of marble paper in the middle. To make it look extra fancy, i made little silver HTV strips to border the river binding strip, though it warped a little from the heat because it was so ridiculously thin.

Step 4: Casing in

No photos of this because i'm usually hopping on one foot doing things on speedmode with PVA.

Shall pay tax with this photo - I love taking photos of my bookshelf and I really loved the burst of colour of the bookshelf after Binderary'23 was over.

I have made something like 21 case binds, but nearly 30 book binds (inclusive of coptic and stab) in total. that's a pretty decent number for someone who's only been binding for the last 9 months.

#bookbinding #fanbinding #my books #renegade bindery #process pics #bookbinding process #star trek #kirk/spock #spirk

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scorpius-major · 2 years

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#and they were roommates

Ft: Tighnari, ayato, scaramouche, and gn!reader

Modern Au!

In which they are your roommate and hijinks ensue gn!reader but like hints to perfume and “girly” things ig. Also mentions of a concussion and the reader getting whacked with a chair.

Tighnari

The plant mom roommate

Tighnari is THE plant roommate. Everywhere you look there’s just a potted plant. You’ll see the most exotic plants too. AND HES SO CALM ABOUT IT. like he keeps his one endangered plant in the house and you’re just like “isnt that endangered?” He pauses, mumbles “yes” and leaves the room. He takes hella good care of them tho. Nari ALWAYS uses fresh herbs and spices when he cooks. He saw store bought spices in the cabinet and literally threw them OUT THE WINDOW. Rachel Ray who? Bro got a mortar and pestle and cracks fresh pepper. But the apartment always be smelling HEAVENLY. All that basil and mint be workin wonders for air. HES SO NEAT TOO. like bro is always tidying up when he has free time. He’s also very passive when it comes to you cleaning. “Hmmm when’s the last time you tidied your room?” Nari also helps you with with anything! Work projects or uni work he’s down to do anything with you. Even if you’re not in a relationship, he’s very domestic and cuddly! Whenever you both have free time expect late nights in and movie nights! But he’s a great roommate 9/10

Ayato

The “you’re rich why the hell do you need a roommate” roommate

There’s legit no reason why this man needs a roommate. He’s rich. Sometimes you secretly think it’s because he’s a little lonely, but he always denies it. Sometimes you don’t see him around the house. Oh yeah and it’s supposed to be an “apartment” but it’s the size of a middle class townhome. He’ll always say he’s going to “clean the apartment” SIR THAT HOUSE IS PROBABY WORTH MORE THAN MY LIFE. But the house is fr ALWAYS tidy. He will not allow the house to be messy at ALL. Unlike Nari, ayato is not passive at all. He will legit just say “go clean your room now”. Like he’s your mom. And you clean it, because he’s lowkey scary. Not even to mention the fact that the entire house is decked out with designer furniture. Gucci throw pillows, and blankets that probably costs an entire college tuition. But he always spoils you! Looked at a perfume for more than two seconds? Bam it’s on your bed the next morning. Said how you were gonna buy a watch? Well now you have a Rolex. Ayato is another one who likes to cook, but he just doesn’t have much time for it. Although whenever you eat out expect high end restaurants. He says “dw, just dress casually” AND HE SHOWS UP IN A SUIT. so you’re just sitting there in like the most upscale establishment in jeans and a tshirt. Another great roommate 8.5/10

Scaramouche

the “wait I have a roommate?” roommate

Honestly neither one of y’all knew the other existed. For like the first 6 months you thought you were living alone. He did too. It wasnt until he caught you making pudding in the kitchen at 3am. It was a pretty awkward situation tbh. Like imagine your minding your own damn business in the kitchen whippin up some delicious ass pudding and this random 5’3 dude comes downstairs. Tbh I’d panic too. Y’all fr never met before. The landlord was like pretty brief and said “oh yeah btw you have a roommate” and legit that was it. So you’re bout to put the pudding in the fridge and BRO JUST HITS YOU WITH A CHAIR. FULL FORCE ON SOME WWE SHIT. you probably had a concussion but you were more concerned about why there’s a dude with a bowl cut standing in your kitchen. in the midst of all the chaos somebody ends up saying “who tf are you???” And by grace you both say “I live here who tf are you??” At the exact same time. Then you’re both just stand there like🧍🏾‍♀️🤨. Or well he’s standing and you’re sitting bc you fell over from the chair. You both clear some stuff up. The both of you make a collective decision to blame everything on the landlord. You had a roommate for 6 months and didn’t know? The fuckin landlord man. You spilled the delectable pudding on the floor? It’s that damn landlord again. This bohemian rhapsody mf wanna start talkin shit so you bring up his relationship with his mother and he starts crying? ITS THE GOD FORSAKEN LANDLORD AGAIN. You two got this like rivalry going on. On small stuff too. Who can eat their bowl of fruit loops faster. He beats your ass in Mario kart? He will not shut up about it for the next year. You beat his ass in super smash bros? You hold it against him for the next 2 years. He’s surprisingly very neat too. I feel like he can’t cook for shit tho LMAO. Bro probably burnt tf outta pasta and never cooked it again. He leaves all the cooking to you and Uber eats. 7/10 roommate.

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i-mybrunettelady · 3 months

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welcome home, nyra

Summary: Alysannyra makes an attempt at reclaiming her body for herself. Content warnings: Masturbation, Light Masochism Spoilers: Path of Fire Note: Minors DNI. This is Explicit mode. 18+ please. Also implied Trammander!

It’s funny, Nyra sometimes thinks, how she’s faced monsters and dragons and gods, yet it took her years to just sit before a mirror naked. She knows how to find humor in various things now. She always has, in hindsight. She simply did not have the means to make her humor funny to everyone else before.

Her body is not something she finds funny, though. Her story is far from a fucking joke and it’s all there, on her skin, in every bump, line and burn. It’s in the way she moves, the way she exists in this world. So yeah, maybe the fact that she’s afraid of her own bare reflection is embarrassing and shameful and funny, but the body it shows is very much not.

Who are you trying to convince, Ainsaph? You’re the only person who will ever laugh at you.

She kicks her foot in the water and frowns. She knows that, and yet. And yet! Face your enemy and all that shit, but facing yourself is harder than it looks. It’s funny. It’s funny. It’s so hilariously funny she forgets to laugh. Nary a giggle in sight.

She isn’t flinching, though. That’s good. There isn’t peace when she looks at herself, but there isn’t disgust either. The reminders of what she’s been through aren’t as sharp. That’s good. Little progress is progress too, right? Nyra cringes. Is this how bad she is at being kind to herself? She feels like a little girl, staring up at Forgal all indignant and awkward. Is she being indignant right now? Actually indignant, of all things?

She buries her face in her hands and laughs. Her life plays before her eyes in all its violent glory, as if she’s dying on the hill of… Manors in Divinity’s Reach, in her own private bathroom, in an estate with her own chapel, and she’s taking her last breaths, wheezing and coughing like an old guy with a lung disease.

“Take care of yourselves, children,” she croaks aloud, imagining her 12 cats somewhere in the manor, and she knows Aurene can hear her, wherever she is right now. “Your grandpa will pray to Dwayna for you..”

The image sends her shaking from laughter on the edge of the bathtub, one foot in the fresh smelling water, and she’s the only thing echoing in the whole room and the sound reflects back. She stops laughing one wrong move later as she’s falling in the tub, ass hitting the edge at a weird angle. Suddenly she finds herself doing a half-split above water, with what’s likely a sad, angry bruise on her ass and her shoulders slump forward.

“For fuck’s sake,” Nyra cackles, straightening herself again. “Wouldn’t be the first ass bruise.” She tilts her body and head to look. The throbbing place looks red. “Yeah, that’s gonna bruise. Great job, Nyra. Great job indeed.”

Admittedly, she does look good like this. The thought startles her. It’s been ages since she last thought of herself as attractive. She knows she is, but it’s different when you hear it from other people and when you think that yourself. She watches the shape and width of her hips, the deceptive softness of her belly, the sheer size of her thighs. Someone should fuck me, she thinks. Hands on my hips, as fast or slow as I want to.

She sees the curly hairs on the unscarred parts of her legs. When she stands normally again, she follows the line of the scars, from her feet and above, to the messy hairs between her legs that extend to her belly and point toward the scar that stayed after Balthazar severed her spine years ago. She died that day. But she isn’t dead. All she has now is a gnarly, faded line that’s mirrored on her lower back. She isn't flinching. Part of her wants to touch it.

So she does. She rubs a circle on one random spot, hyperfocused on the intercession between the normal flesh of her fingers and her burned knuckles. It feels like a scar. It feels like death. She can’t say she likes it, but it’s a part of her, the same way her eyes are.

She takes a deep breath. Her hand stops moving and rests above her cunt, a shiny, white nail in the midst of brown, coarse hair. She raises her gaze to look above that still, to the sagginess and scars on her breasts, the burns on her arms. Her hair, wavy and in disarray, falls on her back. Not half bad, she decides with a strange thrill and pressure under her skin. Not half bad at all.

Nyra slides a free hand up to her areola, and sharply takes a breath in. It feels good, a tease. She loves a good tease. She glides her fingers over the scar on her right breast. Finally, a true Ascalonian, she thinks. I even have charr claw scars now! Maybe the Separatists will stop trying to kill me now.

No such luck. But a girl can dream, yeah? She cups her breast, feels its weight in her palm. It would’ve been great if Trahearne was there to do this for her. She misses the suction of his mouth around her nipple. But he’s away on business in the Grove, so she must take matters into her own hands. The one positioned on her pubes tugs softly at the hairs there. The sharp pain adds to the physical sensation of having a body.

What a dream, to not be a physical being. Unfortunately, Nyra’s never had the pleasure. Even before the scars, she was aware she was bigger and stronger than most human girls(and some boys) and that she could take things twice her size in combat. Movement feels good, exertion feels even better; her physicality always informed how she interacted with the world.

She was fine with it, until Balthazar killed her. She was fine with this hairy, muscular, pale killing machine, that’s now looking less than stellar but it works. She should be dead, yet here she is, feeling her own wetness with her fingers, watching her own face go red with heat. Her fingers should not be able to make full range of motion yet they do.

Why the fuck should she care if she has scars? She refuses to let her rational mind answer that. This sense of power feels better than anything it could ever provide. It feels as if she has Trahearne on his knees before her, looking up with his one eye, awaiting the chance to just get his mouth on her.

She digs her nails - manicured and firm, longer than she usually wears them - into the soft skin on the side of her cunt. The scratch feels exquisite, and her fingers inch closer and closer to her wetness yet again. Nyra watches the minimal expressions on her face, eyes set on where the wet sounds of sliding in and out are coming from. The length of the nails doesn’t feel as comfortable as it should, but she likes it. She likes the discomfort. It makes her grunt and breathe heavily.

She doesn’t question why that is. It’s probably another one of her little idiosyncrasies. Getting off on pain isn’t something a lot of people do, and yet, neither is killing gods and dragons.

Her free hand comes to grasp her nipple and press it between her thumb and forefinger. She makes a choked noise at the back of her throat. The thumb between her legs digs through the folds - much to Nyra’s small amusement - and finds her clit. It’s a little clumsy, and her hand is weirdly stretched, but she somehow manages to both slide in and out and play with her clit. It’s a talent she’d forgotten she had.

And it’s good, it hurts a little, but it hurts so well she rests her bruised ass on the cold edge of the bathtub and closes her eyes, to enjoy the process. She has no patience for stopping before she comes, not when she’s riding this power trip, not this time, and she allows the sensation to build and build until it crests. Only sound Nyra makes is a groan at the back of her throat as she slides down to the floor, breathless. She then dares to look at the mirror again.

The face that stares back is red like a ripe tomato, the fingers sticky and wet before her eyes. She’s shaking a little with the aftershocks, still trying to catch her breath. The scars are still there, glaring from the reflection, but somehow, it doesn’t matter like it used to. The bathroom is quiet and large, too large for Nyra and her reflection only, yet she feels like she’s the gravity in the room, sitting naked on the floor, radiant in the afterglow of an orgasm.

It’s been a while since he last thought of herself as radiant.

Welcome home, Nyra.

#gw2 #inspo birb has come to town #alysannyra #gw2 fic #gw2 writing #my writing #trammander #please do not perceive me #i wanted to get nyra smut out there for so long #and this is what made it out #so please. respect the minors dni thing #and mind the tags #desire wars #nsft

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natriae · 1 year

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Have you and all the other stupid ass child porn loving loser ass bitches ever thought minor characters don’t and won’t age as you do because y’all ugly desperate no pussy/dick getting having no hoes asses just because y’all can’t get a partner doesn’t mean it’s somehow fictional minors fault you like minor dick/pussy (and no the “they look like adults” argument don’t work because one they 14-17 not 7 what the fuck they supposed to look like two good job on using Paedophilia logic) so I hope you and all the other brain dead (unfortunately not literally) bitches die or get bullied so bad y’all kill yourself y’all 🤝 trump wanting to fuck kids

good fucking bye lets decode this

so you think saying something to me hidden behind the anonymous is gonna affect me

your first point: never once have i written smut abt a minor character i dont explicitly state it (cuz i feel like that would be obviously by my 'will not write') but i do usually hint at *cough cough* MSBY, The adlers, Japan national team

just say you dont read my fics and go

^^ those screenshot are from the wiki fandom that show their ages so yes they do age (at least in haikyuu) also if you read the manga you would know

next your second point :

"y'all ugly desperate no pussy/dick getting having no hoes asses just because y'all can't get a partner doesn't mean it's somehow fictional minors fault you like minor dick/pussy" all i really need to say is PLEASE PLEASE pay attention in english class... if your an adult writting this 1) get a life , 2) please get a tutor or some shit

also my sex life is not at all your information, maybe i dont have one because i'm more focused on my college education ( i think you should too) and learning to speak to people like a normal human being. also i have so many moots that are in extremely happy relationships also the fact that you even begin to think id sexualize minors is fucking weird i think you might be the one that likes minors (please get therapy)

n e way your next point:

""they look like adults" argument don't work because one they 14-17 not 7 what the fuck they supposed to look like two good job on using Paedophilia logic)

i very much agree with this statement ( a little fyi, if your gonna call people pedophiles at least spell it right ... it also would be pedophilic in the context you are using) to continue anyone who uses this logic is weird af and it is pedophilic (i just have nothing else to say cuz im disgusted with someone even using that argument

your final statement

" so I hope you and all the other brain dead (unfortunately not literally) bitches die or get bullied so bad y'all kill yourself y'all"

idk abt anyone else but my doctor says i'm not brain dead🤷‍♀️

also the fact that once again you tell people on the internet to k!ll themselves and then hide behind the anonymous is laughable but whatever helps you sleep at night

also the fact that you think everyone cares abt trump, spoiler alert! some of us, like me, don't live in the states

wow that was a funny one to wake up too <3 i hope this ask has a very good day!!

lots of love,

Nari <3

#haikyuu #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #ushijima x reader #atsumu x reader #suna x reader #sakusa x reader #some people hurt my head #naritalks #haikyuu fluff #silly ask

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spontaneousglitterbees · 2 years

Text

Stop It. Get Some Help.

[AU Masterpost]

“I know you’re there, Momota. Not sure what part of ‘I-can-smell-deception-fifteen-miles-out’ you still aren’t getting.”

Kaito sighs, shoulders slumped as he slinks into Kokichi’s line of sight.

“Do you really have nothing better to do than stalk little ol’ me? Would it help if I set off a skylight every time your favorite damsel’s in distress? Everyone already knows about your hero complex, but I didn’t take you for an exhibitionist too,” Kokichi sneers, leaning on his cane. He twists his left hand around the grip idly.

“Damn it, Ouma, can you just let someone care about you for five minutes?”

“It was ONE TIME!” Kokichi shouts, a little shocked by the way his voice reverberates down the hall. It’s more than their class now. Eyes on him, eyes he doesn’t know; eyes he can verify are really there this time. They stare, and he stares back. Needlepoints of pain prick into his nerves, each momentary glance searing his spine. He shakes his head, rounding the corner, walking away. He would at least try to run, had he not just had a very unpleasant, very public reminder of why he shouldn’t. “I didn’t ask you to care about me.”

Kaito scoffs, picking up pace in pursuit. He never can leave well-enough alone, can he?

“Yeah, I know, you’d rather choke, threats’n scary noises. I’ve met you. And I can speak Kokichi well enough to know the closest translation of ‘maybe I can fall back on my friends occasionally’ seems to be 'I need you to kill me, Kaito, it’ll be great! Swearsies.'”

Ouma pauses, feigning deep thought. Both hands stay glued to the head of his cane; he shifts all his weight onto it, daring to lean forward. If it has to be there, he may as well make it a part of his mannerisms. He’d much rather look a top-hat and waistcoat away from vaudeville than vulnerable. It’s go big or go home, as they say, and it’s not like Class 79 even has that much choice anymore. He tilts his head, even without a curious finger to the corner of his lip.

“So mean, Momota-chan,” he frowns a bit too big for his face, nary a crease toward the eyes. Fake? Yes, but more importantly deliberate. “A real hero wouldn’t be so chipper! You’re supposed to get all Dark and Broody about it,” he shrugs, contempt dripping from every syllable. The mask of carefree indifference has flown from his face, and rather than pick up its scattered shards Kokichi decides to walk a little faster. Maybe if he rambles on enough, Kaito will lose interest and leave him be.

“About how deeply it damaged your soul, forever, to have to get blood on your hands, and how much Pain it puts you in to know you’ve taken a life, and once a quorum of girls and at least a good fourth of the guys are throwing themselves at you, THEN you can think about the monster you had to slay to make it happen. Haven’t you ever read a book? Ever? I seriously think it might not have happened, ever.”

Ouma glances to his side.

Shit.

Kaito isn’t sure precisely when they took a turn in the opposite direction of their next class (and, in fact, towards a wing of the school that’s near-empty at this hour.) He is sure, however, it doesn’t matter in the slightest. “Aren’t you bored of that line yet?”

“Which one?” Kokichi asks, a small lilt at the end of the phrase covering up just how hard he’s breathing.

Not that Momota is doing any better. Dumbass.

“Harping on about exactly how stupid you think I am! Which is rich, by the way, considering I got tailored to advance space travel and they made you an actual clown,” he huffs, crossing his arms. Despite all better instincts telling him not to engage, maybe even to bail completely, Kaito Momota doubles down. He slides down the wall of the elevator’s enclave where Kokichi’s decided to set up shop, landing not five feet from the boy picking at the various stickers wrapped around his cane.

“You bet they did~!” Kokichi smiles as usual, though the mischief and malice are replaced with. With.

… pity?

Something with a bitter aftertaste, the matching laugh clawing its way out from his throat.

“Certified Clown Around Town, thanks much. It’s good to be appreciated, you should try it sometime!” violet eyes widen, coming into focus for the first time this whole conversation exclusively to unnerve Kaito. It may have even worked a week ago, but now?

Now Kaito has seen what those eyes really look like as they stare death in the face. This is less than child’s play, as far as threats go. It would be insulting, really, had he not noticed that Kokichi only looks away to conceal how big his pupils have gotten. “Oh, I do. All the time.”

“Sidekicks are subordinates, they don’t count! Of course they’ll kiss the ground you walk on, they’re obsessed with you,” Kokichi huffs, this strangled nishishishishi into the side of his hand. “They wouldn’t put up with you otherwise!”

“… Co-dependent, maybe, but it’s not like that’s their fault.” Kaito sighs. The concession comes quickly; a peace offering in the form of self-awareness he’s been building lately.

“Yeah, 'cuz it’s yours~!” Kokichi cracks himself up, holding his forehead.

A flat palm turns into a fist, white at the knuckles. Eyes dulled, staring straight ahead, his voice comes to tremble. “But that’s a lie. At most you enable them, I think, which. There’s really nothin’ like the feeling of having your team here’n-now’n-all-together, is there?” He half-mumbles, not particularly concerned with being heard. “They need space. You are supposed to be the space expert, at least, so really we’ve got nobody better to play the part, do we.” Under his breath, he mouths: “I’d be a hypocrite, telling you not to chase that feeling.”

Kaito sits up a little bit straighter. It feels uncanny, seeing his friend so. Empty. Like a stage spot-lit before the set has been built, walking in on rehearsal while the actors still have their scripts in-hand. When Kokichi is lost in thought— genuinely lost in thought, without an escape route in mind— his ‘true’ self shines through a bit. It has only ever seemed cold, calculating, unfeeling in the split-second glances he’s caught through the crack in the wall of artifice between them, but the look on Kokichi’s face now, it’s… wistful. Longing. More human than Kaito wanted to admit to himself. The hangar was not a fluke. Kokichi Ouma, for all his insistence otherwise, is as much a scared, lonely kid as any of them.

Now they have to find a way to live with that.

He does not know if the people Kokichi misses are out there, somewhere, in that wide, wild world outside. He does not know if they ever existed. He is certain that Kokichi doesn't want to.

A long silence passes between them.

Kaito Momota, Luminary of the Stars and typically-reasonably-punctual student, half-considers taking Kokichi by the shoulder, helping him up, and walking them both back to class. Really, he thinks to himself. What was he even doing out here—

Of course, then he takes a look at Kokichi, and that plan is instantly scrapped.

“Kichi. Hey, Kokichi. You okay, dude?”

Of course not, but it feels wrong not to ask.

" 'o’wway," he mumbles, voice hitching, shoulders heaving with the slightest breath. Rather than merely distant, his eyes seem glassy, too used to this by now to show anything but numb.

“Hell no! Kichi, are you— stupid question, damn it, where were you going?” Kaito will never hear the end of it if Kokichi wakes up outside one of his 'safe zone’s. Kokichi, at least, takes a good few seconds too long to register first the question, then that Kaito noticed enough of his habits to ask.

“Dorm,” comes the answer, too meek not to have an immediate backpedal to re-assert himself. Yet here we are.

“Wh— Kichi the dorms aren’t anywhere close to here, did you f—”

“I TOOK A WRONG TURN!” Kokichi screams, the sound bouncing from wall-to-wall of this abandoned corridor. He crosses his arms over his head, face blocked by his elbows. "ALRIGHT? I just, wanted, to get where people aren’t, and I shortcut through here all the time even if it's a longer walk because nobody’s in my way, and then you show up —!"

The tears pricking the corners of his eyes look unnatural on him. They seem real, haphazard and unintentional, a byproduct of Too Much happening at once. Kaito is the only witness. Even that, to Kokichi, is too much.

“Okay. Okay, got it, I’ll take off in a minute, just hang on. I’ll get you to Tsumiki, she’ll know what to—”

“NO!!”

Well. That settles that.

“ 'm not, fucking, I-I-I-don’t need you, Momota,” he heaves as he suddenly insists on climbing back up to standing, slamming the elevator button with the base of his palm. “Will you quit babysitting me if I pinkie swear not to do anything stupid? …Unless it’s really funny?”

Kokichi does not wait for an answer, practically throwing himself into the elevator and pressing the ‘Close Door’ button as hard as he can. Naturally, the door takes its sweet time closing, Kaito trailing behind the boy.

Unsurprising. Still, he’s a little disappointed.

The door shuts before them with a solid k-Klang. Even fully expecting it, Ouma winces a little. To his mild shock, Kaito does too.

“… H-eh. You’re just that dedicated to playing hooky with me, huh Momo-chan?” Kokichi smiles, and it is obviously forced. But it’s no longer Kaito he’s trying to convince, is it?

Oh good, he’s Momo-chan again. Step in the right direction. “Hmm, maybe. I take my job very seriously now, SHSL Babysitter’s got to play the part.”

Wrong thing to say, apparently, a crestfallen Ouma smashing every floor button on the control panel with a swipe of his hand. This should be a while.

“What! You started it, are you going to get on my case about being ‘clever enough to come up with your own jokes’ next, or something?” Kaito shrugs, rolling his eyes as he leans against the wall of the elevator. “Shuichi and Maki-Roll will have notes, so. You’ve got me captive. Revenge is right there.”

“It’s a joke to you?”

Kokichi sounds too small. Disbelief creeps in, tinging the words with the reek of honest confusion, of dread.

The incessant ding! vv-ack, vAHvUmp, whrrrr… ding! of an elevator systematically checking every, single, floor of the building for a new occupant is even worse than the thick silence between them. Blissfully, nobody walks on.

Kaito is the one to break the tension.

“… Yeah? I mean, that you’d need a babysitter, the whole. That shit’s as real as mine, and it’s not fun, it’s a couple steps too far to heckle you for that.”

Kokichi looks as though he could spit in his face and at least try to crush him under the heel of a light-up tennis shoe. “Liar.”

“What?”

“Which word didn’t you understand?”

“The only one y— lie about what! Has anyone been giving you shit for it, seriously? I’ll punch’em!”

"See?" says Ouma, explaining nothing.

Well. Until the clueless look on Momota’s face chips at him enough to admit, “I see what you’re doing here. You, my guy, are caught up in some classic double-think. It’s a breed of lie powerful enough to snare you no matter how smart you are, if you aren’t careful.”

Kaito opens his mouth to object, but. Seeing the floor number tick over with its high-pitched 'ding!', he decides there might be some benefit to playing along after all.

“… You’ve really never…?” Kokichi’s brow furrows, leaning his right shoulder heavily against the wall. He does not let his back touch the metal. “It’s when you’re convinced to believe two things that directly contradict each other at the same time. Usually it’s a side-effect of propaganda, indoctrinating people into the Ideology of Whatever and all that, squash any questions before they’re asked. But you can totally do it with petty stuff too!”

Kaito looks him up and down. “You might be the only guy I know that’s actually bothered to read that book,” he halfheartedly laughs, in desperate want of a distraction.

“Mm, not at all, Momo-chan! Why would I bore myself with a dull, super-grody old book with a bunch of questionable bits from just after the second time the world shit itself within a century, a book that codified a lot about how people talk about political machinations and just the idea of a surveillance state, let alone the nightmarish panopticon we trade ourselves for now because they’re occasionally kind of fun! The screens couldn’t actually see you back when he wrote about it, Kaito. And you know what people did?”

Kaito, holding an arm out for a Kokichi that both A) takes it to re-balance himself and B) is very put out that he has to take it to re-balance himself, speaks matter-of-factly where Ouma cuts the rope on the rant. “Absolutely f–”

“They did ABSOLUTELY FUCKALL, KAITO, path of least resistance, going along with the rules of a game they did not mean to get into, but they also failed to stop, and they had to just sit and take it. None of it mattered. Even, when they thought they got out, n-none of it…” Hic.

The elevator door opens, landing the pair on the rooftop level. Only the sound of the wind rustling plant life around the greenhouse greets them up here, bright blue sky stinging both of their eyes emerging from the soft incandescent light of the elevator.

The real sky, this time. No LCD panels in sight.

“Mm-hmm. No need for an Ultimate Supreme Leader, whatever that means anymore, to look into somethin’ like that.”

Kaito lets the thought conclude, a little guilty now for bringing it up. For running away from what’s uncomfortable to know, again. Like a coward. We’re both cowards.

“Okay.”

“That’s all you have to say?”

“What do you expect me to say?” Kaito shakes his head. “And you still haven’t answered me.”

“I’m headed. Right, here.” Ouma smirks, feet planted in the middle of the path.

“About the doublethink, Kichi, figured I should consult the expert.”

The boy considers this a moment, tapping his cane nervously when it should be helping him stand.

“… Come on, Kaito, you’re not totally braindead! It’s obvious.” Kokichi shrugs, or does his best to, closing his eyes and taking in real, fresh air, for the first time in [he doesn’t know how long. Too long.] Cheery as usual. Except… “You just look at yourself for a sec’n play spot-the-difference, Saihara’s probably got you cross-examined down to the bone! So what if you say that your sidekicks need to be more independent, it’s still more convenient to take their notes for granted while you go off on some Quest for all the Nothing it’ll net you. Heck, maybe you do want to care about the guy you voted for in every trial, just to send a message! But if you really think I’ll buy that you doubted for a second that this. Whatever this is, is anything but your self-aggrandizing attempt to convince yourself you’re still needed, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Kokichi laughs. Not his over-the-top Saturday-morning-supervillain Maniacal Laughter, but this subdued puff of air through his nose that nearly makes him choke. The only thing keeping him up (and awake) at this point, swaying as he may, appears to be pure adrenaline and spite. Kaito has to physically hold himself back from trying to catch Kokichi and carry him.

" ,,, Okay. Maybe I. Do, like to feel needed. That’s the truth. That doesn’t mean that’s all, Kichi, things are always more complicated than that."

Kokichi’s eyes narrow, pouring over Kaito’s features for any trace of insincerity. Considering how blurry his vision is getting, it doesn’t really help.

“You know what?” Kokichi interjects. “You’re right!”

“… I’m right?”

“Of course you are! Silly Momo-chan, you’re a literal rocket scientist, after all, and it’s not like a confluence of factors’ll get past someone that sharp! But it’s not like those factors are ' more complicated than that’, not really. Even an idiot would notice I’m struggling just to exist half the time! That I am small, and I am fragile, and I might keel over if the wind blows too hard, that I wasn’t supposed to be here, or be anywhere besides splattered between two metal slabs locked together for eternity, I’m weak, Kaito Momota, and you’re a damn vulture that just can’t let this broken bird be, now can you?”

That smile. That face, the Kokichi he still sees in his nightmares re-emerges, expression cast in shadow by the halo of the sun overhead. Of course he’s been flippant with his health, with himself. Of course it took a few weeks of trial and error for him to finally relent, get a cane, and of course he immediately took a shine to bruising shins with it. It doesn’t matter to him, because Kokichi Ouma considers himself a wraith bound to haunt this school. Because Kokichi Ouma is and should be dead.

“… wasn’t winning enough for you?”

The question is so soft it aches in his chest. A pain to give. A pain to receive.

The thin, curling leaves of a peach tree overhead rustle in the wind.

Kaito turns around.

“Alright. You know where to find me.”

They are both well aware that, wherever that place may be, there was no chance of Ouma getting there any time soon.

Kaito does not look back. He does not leave, either.

“S-So mean, Momo-chan,” Kokichi laughs, its latter half morphing into a sob. “A-At least be mad at me. Yell at me. Something, I’m Liar Supreme! King of the Shitheads! Can’t I at least keep that?”

Kaito sighs. “I didn’t win, Kichi. Not the game. Not even against the obstacle they made you into, let alone you. I-I.” Kaito reaches for better, clearer words, but he settles for close-enough. “I didn’t know, that you felt that way. And maybe you’ll believe me, maybe you won’t, but. I don’t, see you like that. I wanna say you’re one of the strongest guys I’ve ever met, but you are absolutely gonna call me out on that, so let’s go with. Resilient. That fair?”

Tears soaking into the dirt below, Kokichi steps with his cane to slowly get himself back in Kaito’s line of sight. “That’s. Definitely a new one.”

“And exactly the kind of thing you want in a leader. Or. I would. You roll with the punches like nothing I’ve ever seen! You got a concussion, then punched, shot twice, bled out, got poisoned, and the only thing that could put you down had to crush you completely just so you wouldn’t pick right back up! That’s gotta be at least a couple reasonable places to die, and you didn’t, just to stick it to the killing game. Legendary levels of petty. Honestly, Kichi, I probably could walk away and know that you’d be fine, because you’re you. You scrape by like that. I just think you shouldn’t have to. I need to get better at listening when I hear ‘no’, but. You need to know I won’t think any less of you if you say anything else. Okay?”

Kokichi nods. His face is buried in his scarf; saying the word yes out loud is still a bit beyond him, for the moment. So is ‘letting Kaito see his face while he processes possibly the nicest thing anyone has ever said to him’. Rather than force himself to speak in the watery, weeping tone he loathes when he lacks the careful control to turn it off at will, he lunges forward.

Kokichi hugs Kaito as tightly as he can.

“… Holy shit, Kichi, how long has it been this bad?” Kaito gasps, only now permitted to see that, while he knew Kokichi was having a bad snit, he’s likely going to actually faint once the adrenaline wears off.

“Been worse,” the boy shrugs into Kaito’s side. He’s been at least vaguely aware he was going to crash for a while, now, doing his best to push it out of his mind.

To lie to himself that he isn’t scared.

“Momo-chan?” Kokichi asks, the fight fading from his voice. Kaito taps his shoulder to acknowledge so that Kokichi can keep his eyes shielded from the light. “Can we see some stars? This one’s too, too try-hard, y. Yeah?”

Kaito, for a moment, is flummoxed. Stars? It’s mid-afternoon, what could you possibly—

His lab. The astrophysics lab, on the roof, in the observatory. Bound to be close enough to empty while it’s too bright to see anything.

A safe zone.

“Can I—?”

“Yeah,” Kokichi concedes with a whisper. “Please.”

#danganronpa #dr #new danganronpa v3 #ndrv3 #danganronpa v3 #drv3 #kokichi ouma #ouma kokichi #kokichi oma #oma kokichi #kaito momota #momota kaito #oumota #fic #glitz dr comics #at least in the same world #Talent Acquisition Project Pilot AU #TAPP AU #writing

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