#bo is all nonsense

[shadyufo]

just a couple of big silly dogs

[googlein1942]

ive been so into rdr2 lately and i keep thinking about public nations verse where people making historical games/movies/shows/etc. consult nation people on historical tidbits and accuracy and whatnot, so queue Alfred “Favorite era of the US was the wild wild west” Jones finding his way to rockstar studios to help them out with the game accuracy/go on about whacky people he met during those days while the studio is just like write that down write that down

[creepswrites]

Dear, writter

May i've a request for Thomas hewitt, Bubba Sawyer,bo Sinclair, Lester Sinclair, and Vince Sinclair, With a hot wife fem reader, I want to see their life being a father to a hot fem reader. Because that is my dream. 💫Fluff💫

Please.... Your writing is so gorgeous 💋💋 master 🌹🌹🌹

Thank you so much

From your followers:

@kawaistrawberry21

awww i'm glad you like my writing!! hopefully you enjoy this :D

SLASHERS with a F! S/O who is their hot wife

THOMAS HEWITT

Everyone in town was shocked when you and Thomas got married

Thomas included but he never said anything about it

His family thought you were way out of his league, Hoyt was never afraid to comment on this to your face

But you love Thomas, he was a good man

So when he'd finally, finally, proposed to you, of course you'd said yes

When he found out you were having his child? He was over the moon

Luda May was almost as overjoyed, already making arrangements for the baby's room, making clothes, etc

She couldn't wait to be a grandmother and Thomas couldn't wait to be a father

When the baby's due date was getting closer, you could tell Thomas was nervous about if the baby would come out looking like him

But you reassured him that, no matter what your baby looked like, you would love it the same way you loved him

He was good with the baby, so gentle and patient, always happy to help when it cried

If Hoyt ever tried to give either of you a hard time, Thomas actually violently defended you, sometimes tossing Hoyt across the room with one arm

He'd never let anything hurt you or your baby

BUBBA SAWYER

Like Thomas, everyone was surprised when you and Bubba got married

Though his family were far more excited about it! After all, their brother was quite the catch

You got along well with his family even before you moved in, with Chop Top and Nubbins always commenting to Bubba how lucky he was to have such a hot wife

It always made your husband get all flustered, babbling soft nonsense. He was cute

When you got pregnant, Bubba and the Sawyer family were over the moon

Family was extremely important to them and they were happy for you and Bubba

When Nubbins made a very ugly little hat for the baby, you accepted it but told him gently it'd be too big for their head but that you'd grow into it. He was excited about that prospect

Chop Top and Drayton helped Bubba set up the nursery so you could just relax

And when the baby was born, Bubba was so scared of holding something so fragile and precious

But you helped him, guiding his arms to hold the baby, and he was in shock and awe

He'd never thought he'd get married, much less to someone as gorgeous as you, and have a child together

Bubba was a nervous father, usually letting your kid get away with anything so you had to be the rule-setter when it came to the kid

His brothers were menaces when it came to babysitting their niece or nephew

But both you and Bubba were happy. He'd protect you both, no matter what

BO SINCLAIR

Honestly? This was a major win in Bo's mind

If you think he doesn't show off for you, you're wrong. That man takes every opportunity to

He also definitely flexed to his brothers about scoring the hottest wife ever

Of course, his brothers were very nice and respectful with you, though Bo wouldn't let them be too friendly

He's got a jealousy streak

Whenever visitors arrive to Ambrose, he's always got his arm around you or bragging about you when you're not around

He's whipped, you've got him wrapped around your finger

But when you tell him your pregnant, you're shocked at how scared he becomes

Of course, he doesn't show it visibly, but you know your husband and you can tell when he's nervous about something

Eventually, when he starts trying to pull away from you, you corner him and make him talk

Some yelling and fighting ensues but he caves, confessing he's scared he wouldn't be a good father. I mean, he didn't exactly have the best role model and he didn't want you or your babies to suffer for it

But you reminded him you were in this together and he'd relax a little

You had twins, because of course you did, but this only seemed to make Bo all the more anxious

He didn't exactly... know what to do with a baby? He'd never really been around infants so he's looking to you for help on this one

When they're a bit older though, he'll let them hang out in the auto shop with him when he works

One day you come home to find him asleep on the couch with the twins curled up on his chest and you just melt

He's a good dad and a good husband

VINCENT SINCLAIR

Vincent was shocked you'd said yes when he proposed

He didn't consider himself attractive in the slightest but you said yes?!

I mean, you were stunning, he'd stared at you constantly even when you were dating and it certainly didn't stop when you were married

Bo and Lester were definitely jealous, teasing him to see him get flustered over how lucky he was

Unlike Bo, when he found out you were pregnant, he was excited

Nervous, absolutely, but everyone is nervous when they're having their first kid

He's so wary for you though, nearly had you on bedrest the entire pregnancy because he feared the worst

One time he caught you standing on a chair to reach something and he nearly had a conniption

But the twins came - because of course they were twins - and were healthy and beautiful

Vincent is so gentle with them, like they're the most precious things in the world to them

He makes little wax sculptures for their room to decorate it

Definitely encourages and supports creative hobbies for the kids! He gets them finger paints and crayons and the like

You've woken up in the night because of the babies crying but Vincent is already up, ready to help

Vincent's mastered carrying them both with an arm each and its very cute

Sometimes you catch him holding one of the twins and humming softly to them as they sleep in his arms, just swaying together in the kitchen

You feel so lucky but he feels even luckier to have you and your kids

LESTER SINCLAIR

Lester is by far the most... stable? So you'd been instantly drawn to that about him

He'd always get so flustered, bringing you flowers and blushing like a madman while you were dating

It took him the longest to propose to you though, he always felt like you were waaaay out of his league

Visitors came and would gawk at you and he'd feel a twinge of jealousy at the reminder that yeah, you could have anyone

But he did propose to you and you said yes because you wanted him, not anyone else

Neither of you had any shame in PDA, often holding hands or kissing in front of visitors

You lived with Lester and Jonesy in a little house on the outskirts of the town, surrounded by trees and very peaceful compared to the horrors of Ambrose

It had actually been Lester who suggested having a kid or two running around. After all, he had two older brothers so he was used to that business in a house with lots of people living in it

Over time, the two of you would have two kids, but they weren't twins

Lester was a good dad too! He was attentive and loving but he didn't let them get away with too much

He'd teach them how to shoot when they were a bit older because it was a fond memory he had with his own dad

Of course, Lester didn't have the best dad to draw comparison to

But at least he knew what not to do. Surely that counted for something?

You'd come home from working a short shift to find Lester and the kids playing in the backyard, running about with Jonesy as they played soccer

Both you and Lester would do anything for your kids and you knew he'd do anything for you

[help-itrappedmyself]

Summoning Game Show 3

Masterpost

I got so inspired and had so much fun writing for part 2 I just kept going. I have determined that this 'fic' should be about 7 parts long total. And here's Part 3, because I'm enjoying the nonsense of this so much.

~~~~~

“Congratulations on successfully finishing the first challenge! You can make your way back to the main room to receive your clue.”

The screen changes once Nightwing is on the stage with them. It now shows what looks like a wheel of fortune puzzle. Three words, four letters, four letters, and seven letters.

“For your clue, you can choose a letter for the puzzle!” Danny explains. “Since there are four of you we will give you four letters automatically, and you each have the chance to earn an extra letter. For the freebies! E, the most common vowel in English.”

“Looks like no E’s in this puzzle.” Danny shrugs at the boys with a grin on his face. “For the next three letters, we have the three most common consonants: T, N, and S!”

“Three letters up, two N’s and one T.” Danny turns away from the screen to face Nightwing. “What letter would you like to choose?” Dick turns to look at Red and Jason “This portion is not collaborative.” Danny cuts in with a small frown, making everyone look back at him. “You earned the letter, you choose the letter. They only get to pick a letter after they’ve earned one.”

Nightwing grimaces slightly. “A?” 

“A!” Danny turns back to the screen.

“One A!” Danny turns back. “The next challenge is a sword fight against Fright Knight! Who would like to sword fight?”

Damian very quickly raised his hand. Tim almost wanted to smack him, but as similar as a bo staff can be, and as much as he doesn’t want Damian in danger, Damian does have the most extensive sword training amongst them.

Danny takes Damian to pick out his sword. “I see that you have a sword already, but the fight is to first blood and you can’t harm Fright Knight with that sword, so that’s kind of unfair. We need to get you a weapon that will actually be able to hit your opponent.” They leave through a side door, but they leave it open so everyone can see all the weapon racks and Danny as he shows Damian around.

Tim leans towards Dick and Jason as Dick takes his seat in the middle chair. “Cool, so our weapons can’t actually hurt them, good to know. What exactly are we going to be asking the King at the end of this?”

“What do you mean?” Dick asks.

“I think he means that if we want to get back to our dimension we don’t want to piss off everyone here by wasting their time.” Jason spits out, sitting up and turning towards them. “They didn’t seem to take too kindly to that idea earlier.”

Dick winces and nods. “We could ask him to deal with the cult that brought us here.”

“What if he kills all of them?” 

“Well, you clearly have an idea Red, why don’t you tell us instead of making us guess.” Jason complains.

“Diplomatic relations.” Red states. “New dimension, new culture. We’re here to learn, maybe we could ask to set up a meeting between the King and Batman, or the Justice League.”

“The whole point of this is to get a meeting, what do you think he’s going to do if we use this meeting to ask for a different meeting?”

“Jason has a point. Maybe we could just ask to set up a way to communicate between us?” Dick suggests.

“I have obtained a sufficient weapon.” Damian calls out as he and Danny approach. Danny comes up onto the stage, heading back to the podium, but Damian doesn’t waste his time going back up and instead waits by the short stairs for further instructions. He is holding a katana, similar to the one he is used to, but with a different grip and that is glowing.

“So, since you’re using a semi unfamiliar weapon, Fright Knight is not going to be allowed to use his Soul Shredder, just to make it fair. And just in case he draws first blood, we don’t want to accidentally send anybody to their nightmare dimension!” Danny chirps out cheerfully. “You will be fighting in here, just stay on the main floor and away from bystanders. Fight will immediately end at first blood, no maiming, no killing, no excessive force. No use of powers is permitted.”

Danny gestures to where Fright Knight is exiting the armory with a regular looking broadsword. “This is Fright Knight.” Fright Knight waves as he comes over, stopping next to Damian so they’re both standing beneath the stage.

“Are you both ready?” The two swordsmen take a few steps away from each other and take positions before nodding. “Begin!”

[actuallysaiyan]

I Think You're Holding The Heart Of Mine(Part Eleven)

warnings: smut, unprotected sex, slight breeding kink, proposal, Gojo and the students spy on the proposal word count: 1.8k pairings: Nanami Kento x Fem!Reader summary: Nanami and you get a night off after a few months of working hard, and even though Gojo and the students are spying on you, Kento proposes to you! a/n: One of the last chapters!! taglist: @beneathstarryskies @sparklynightm4re. @seireiteihellbutterfly

Masterlist

“Wait, are you suggesting what I think you are?” Kugisaki asks Megumi, who’s sitting in front of her.

Itadori cocks an eyebrow, “Uh…can you repeat your idea?”

The black-haired teen sighs. “We should plan a date for our sensei. Not Gojo, but you know…”

Since you and Nanami had returned from your mission, everyone got to see just how happier you two were. You both returned to being the cutesy couple that everyone had thought you were previously.

Things were a little more passionate. Kento still treated you as his work wife. Peeling oranges for you as a snack, bringing you lunch and coffee when you need it most, giving you a shoulder rub. You enjoyed teasing him lightly, making jokes with him, and returning the shoulder rubs.

But there was something different. You two had found a deep love and understanding. Truly, your relationship sparked even more than it ever had. And the teens had picked up on that rather quickly. Fushiguro had noticed just how happier Nanami-sensei seemed to be. Even around Gojo-sensei, Nanami was okay with dealing with the nonsense that came from the white-haired sorcerer.

That’s when Fushiguro had finally concluded that you and Nanami must have patched things up. He can see the pep in your step, and the way that Nanami seems to have mellowed out quite a bit. So he thinks about how he can get you two even closer.

It’s been quite a few weeks since the mission, and you and Kento have been closer than before. He spends time at your place, and you spend nights at his. You two make love every second you can, but you’ve both been quite busy nevertheless. Finding time to be intimate and dating can be difficult.

“Fushiguro, you think that Nanami-sensei wants to propose to her?” Itadori asks, his eyes wide.

Megumi shrugs, “Look, who knows. They have been close since they were our age.”

Kugisaki coos, “That’s so cute! A childhood romance! Oh I bet they’d make cute babies.”

Gojo pops his head into the room, his eyes alight with curiosity despite being covered. He had heard just a little bit of the conversation his students were having, but he knew he could easily help them.

“Did you say you think Nanami is going to propose to usagi-chan?!” Satoru asks them, sitting on one of the chairs.

Fushiguro sighs, “I don’t know. It seems like it could happen. I think maybe he’s ready to make that commitment with her.”

Nobara sighs dreamily, “This is too cute! Imagine if they really got married!”

Itadori rubs his chin, “I already thought they were married…”

Gojo claps his hands together, an idea forming inside his mind. He knows it’s going to require a lot of finessing, and a little bit of luck. But regardless, even if this plan doesn’t go exactly as planned, it should still be good.

“Gather round, youngsters. I have a good idea.”

All three of his students look at themselves for a moment, unsure of how to even respond. But then they realize that maybe Gojo-sensei will have an actual good idea for once.

“Okay so I’m thinking…”

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪

For the first time in two months, you and Nanami finally have a night off. You don’t know how you managed to do this, but you were both super giddy about it. Kento decided to make dinner reservations for the both of you, though strangely enough Gojo had surprised him with some already made for both of you.

“It’s my thank you to both of you. You both work so hard. Go have fun,”

Kento was skeptical about the whole ordeal, but for once he decided to let it go. He decided to just enjoy the little gift that was bestowed on you both.

“Get ready for seven, love.” Kento whispers in your ear.

You shiver, “I will. I’ll be all dolled up for you.”

And you weren’t lying. When he picks you up, his eyes widen and his cheeks redden. You were the epitome of beauty and loveliness. If Kento thought he couldn’t fall deeper for you, he was sorely wrong. He takes your hand in his as he guides you to the car.

“How beautiful you are,” he says as he helps you buckle in. Then he kisses you, “You put the stars to shame.”

You blush and look down, “That’s much too sweet.”

He gets into the driver’s seat, the smell of your perfume invading his senses. He has a bit of a hard time focusing on the road as you’re just a vision of heaven. Eventually, you two make it at the restaurant that Gojo had booked a seat for you both.

Once inside the restaurant and brought to your seats, you realized just how fancy this restaurant is. The lighting is low and dim, but just the perfect ambiance for couples. There was light romantic music playing in the background and Nanami decided to order a bottle of champagne.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” You ask as you reach over to take his hand in yours.

Nanami caresses your fingers, “It’s truly a blessing.”

You two fall into a comfortable chatter. It goes from childhood memories, to what’s going on at work and how the training of the teens is going, all the way to current events in the world. Everything feels so natural and relaxing. Then you watch as Nanami tenses up.

“Ken, honey…what’s the matter?”

Kento knew this was all too good to be true. Fanciest restaurant in town for you and him, that was too good to be true. At one of the booths nearby, he sees Itadori’s pink hair peeking up. Then the young man turns around and when he sees his mentor looking right at him, he’s quick to turn around. Nanami spots the whole group. Fushiguro, Gojo, Kugisaki and Itadori.

“It’s nothing,” but Nanami still feels tense.

You try to calm him down with more champagne. This was supposed to be a happy night. Kento had been planning on proposing to you, but when this opportunity fell into your laps, Kento realized it could be the perfect time to do so.

He then realizes that everyone is here to make sure he does this. They are making sure things go off without a hitch. No hiccups, no errors. Kento sighs as he tries to reason with himself. It wasn’t the worst thing in the world, as long as they didn’t interrupt.

“Darling,” Kento takes your hands across the table. “I have to tell you just how much I love you.”

Your eyes sparkle, “I love you too, Ken.”

His eyes are so dark with love right now. There’s a trace of lust in them too, but it’s all genuine affection for you. He brings one of your hands up to his lips and presses kisses to your knuckles.

“We’ve been so close since we were younger…and then I had to go and leave you. That was my biggest mistake,”

You hush him softly, “We both had things we had to work through.”

“I’m just so happy I can have you in my life again. When we both came back to work at Jujutsu Tech, it was one of the happiest days of my life.”

“Quit pushing, Itadori-kun!” Fushiguro whines, pushing the teen over.

“W-wait! I didn’t mean to push! I just adjusted my seating.”

Your eyes snap up to see the two students. Your eyes widened. Was this really happening right now? Kento’s eyes cloud over with stress and annoyance. Then you couldn’t help but burst out laughing.

“Why are they here?” You ask, cocking your head to the side so cutely.

Kento shrugs, “Wish I knew. I think this was a plan concocted by Gojo. He knew that I’d be—”

But then he stops himself. He was about to reveal his secret. You look at your lover even more confused than before. 

“Did he do it?! What did she say!?” Nobara asks, her eyes focused on the couple at the booth.

“I don’t think he did it. Sensei, can you hear?” Itadori asks.

Then it dawns on you and Nanami. Gojo is with the teens as well. He’s the one who orchestrated the whole affair. Kento looks like he’s about to lose his cool, but then he turns his attention to you.

“Nevermind anyone else. It’s just me and you. It’s always going to be that way, my darling.”

Then he pulls something from his pocket. He opens the little velvet box and your eyes widen. Your hands are shaking as Kento slides the box towards you.

“Will you be my bride? You’d make me the happiest man in the world.”

His words hang in the air as you try to calm yourself. You know you want to say yes and accept, but you’re overwhelmed with emotion.

“Will you be my real wife and not just my work wife?”

“Did it happen?! Did he ask her?!”

You look right at the group and your eyes tell them everything they need to know. You’re tearing up, unable to speak. Finally, you nod at Nanami.

“Yes, yes I’ll be your bride!”

Nanami comes over to your side of the booth, cupping your face in his hands. He kisses you over and over again before he slides the beautiful diamond ring on your finger.

“I couldn’t be happier.”

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪

Kento holds you so close as he pumps into you. Your fingers are intertwined with one hand. He keeps looking at the beautiful diamond on your finger. You were going to be his wife.

“Fuck—I…oh god, I love you.” He whimpers as he stills himself.

He’s buried so deep inside of you. For the first time in so long, he knows that he finally has you right where he needs you. His hands cup your face, caressing your cheeks so gently. Kento kisses you passionately and romantically, his own eyes filling up with tears.

“I will always love you,” he rubs his nose against yours. You feel one of his tears falling onto your cheek. “I will always keep you safe.”

Your legs wrap around him, pushing him in even deeper. Both of you moan loudly, holding onto each other even tighter. Your kisses turn more heated and hungrier as Kento begins to fuck you a little harder.

“I want a family with you,” he moans hoarsely. “Want to have a little baby with you.”

You gasp a little, your walls fluttering around his girth. Your juices dribble all over his shaft, making a small puddle underneath you. Kento growls in your ear.

“I’m going to get you pregnant.”

His hands caress your sides, making sure you feel so loved. He kisses you fiercely, his tongue tangling with yours. His thrusts are erratic, his hips slamming against yours. 

“I’m going to fill you up. Going to get you pregnant, honey.”

You cry out as your orgasm hits you hard, leaving you trembling and moaning his name like a desperate prayer. Kento is pulled into his peak as well, grunting and growling how you belong to him. His thick seed fills your cunt so much, it’s already dripping out.

He kisses you hungrily, “More. Let’s do it some more. I need to impregnate you now.”

[hexonthepeach]

perfume - k.dy

pairing: f4!nct doyoung x fem!reader (past johnny x reader mentions)

genre: hana yori dango/boys over flowers/meteor garden/f4 thailand reverse harem au (mild allusions and characterization only)

warnings:

bully-to-friends-to-lovers, established relationship, polyamory, dom!doyoung, glucose father adjacent, scent kink, control over food consumption/bathing (for scent kink purposes only), gratuitous use of the l-word by anti-romantics, angst/feelings, flashbacks and history

🔞 edging, cockwarming, orgasm denial, oral (m/f receiving), passionate sex, rough sex, spanking, creampie, bukkake, consensual negotiated kink (degradation, somnophilia), anal play (f receiving)

wordcount: 20k

author's note: this is a doyoung-centered continuation of my ongoing F4 au. it can stand on it's own but i recommend reading Dive for more context. Doyoung's role in the F4 is Sojirou Nishikado/So Yijung/Ximen/Kavin (playboy control freak) so this fic incorporates elements of his secondary romance within the original/adaptations, now with y/n.

read on AO3

fic headers / dividers credit to @ saradika + please do not repost

Freshman year, Kocher International. 

Head down in your books at lunch, trying so hard to escape scrutiny from above, you pretend to be no one. 

It shouldn't be hard to be nobody, otherwise ignored and immune to whatever social contract deliberates your life. In a better world you'd be invisible. It's a superpower you'd wish for much more over the usual playground answers of super speed or control of the weather. 

Let me be unobserved, you'd thought. Let me open a door and not worry about a bucket full of dirty mop water falling on my head or the inevitable posting of a grainy video of it, posted in a Telegram channel to fulfill some checklist made up by bored, rich monsters. 

Your four-generation-behind phone with its cracked screen proved useful in some regards; you never heard about these public pillories until some kind stranger sent you a screenshot of them, usually in the context of whatever plans they'd made to torture you again.

Every notification is already a pain, driving splintered glass into the pads of your fingers. Just now you're reading a text message from your father asking you to pick up more cheap instant noodles from the convenience store on your walk home to round out whatever scraps he's picked up from the local restaurant your mother bussed tables and cleaned dishes at when she needed extra money.

"Why is Saint Kim watching you?" your friend asks across the table. She's been looking up at the room this entire time, unable to give you even a moment of her attention or assistance to finish the English homework you'd been working on. You'd been rushing all day to finish it before afternoon class, after a late morning of delivery driving for your family's drycleaning business.

"Are you sure it's not the Devil?" you ask, parsing through the lines of a book you'd bought secondhand, trying to match verse for verse.

"No," she says, shaking her head when you finally look up. "Don't react. He's coming this way."

"Shit," you say under your breath, eyes flicking to your untouched lunch. "I need you to leave now. Take these trays and dump them and I'll meet you outside of 4th. If I make it."

You don't look up from your book as you mutter, but you follow her path and her hesitancy as she internally debates whether to heed your warning or watch from a safe distance.

Your handwriting becomes a scrawl of nonsense you have to cross out in sharp lines. You begin the verse again, holding your breath as you will your entire body and mind back to a manufactured calm. 

If you can't be invisible, you can at least play your role. You're copacetic by the time you see the tips of polished black wingtips beside you, before you hear the Saint clear his throat.

“Y/N.”

He drops a familiar, school-mandated clear cosmetics bag next to your ratty backpack. The already embarrassing stash of tampons and old chapstick has a new bounty including a "used" pregnancy test stick with a second line drawn in with pink gel pen jumbled into its contents.

"You left this . . ." he says, not finishing the sentence to indicate where he'd found it. You immediately hear a titter. Your flock of spectators is growing by the second and the useful idiot at its center seems wholly unconcerned.

"Thanks," you say, not bothering to look up or to even hide the bag. You keep writing, blindly, the English words just rounded shapes flowing from your shaking hand. 

Their kind fed off attention, your only defense is to starve them of it.

The Saint clears his throat, again. Apparently he’s not just unconcerned, he’s also unwilling to leave.

"Aren't you grateful Doie found it before someone else did?" You don’t have to look up to know it's Miranda who’s asked, glimpsing her manicure as she picks up your bag, green gems shining on perfectly-tipped nails. 

"Oh this must not be hers. I didn't think she could afford this."

You think she might be diving into the stash for one of the Lilies' pointed additions but no–you watch in horror as she plucks out the bottle of perfume you'd been carrying with you since your parents had gifted you a single, tiny box last Christmas. 

"Chanel?" she says, laughing. "No wonder you smell like my grandma."

"Probably a knock-off," another of the Lilies says. Ginger, by the sound of her grating voice. Her handwriting on the board in homeroom listing out your abortions is as familiar as the pink gel pen script on the extra large foil condom with xoxo slut written on it staring at you through the plastic.

"Definitely a knock-off. You have a nose, don't you, Doie?"

You look up, finally, at Saint Kim. He's alone for once–the other one, the Devil Kim that shadows him is still up on the second level, leaning on the railing over his shoulder. You watch the Saint’s small mouth turn into a moue of distaste, nose wrinkling at the proffered bottle.

"Authentic," he says, capping it before offering it back to you. Your field of vision is obstructed by that veined, pale hand–fingernails as perfectly groomed as the rich girls who surround him.

You reach up to take your most prized possession back only to find he doesn't let go, holding tight when you try to pluck it from his fingers.

"You should know . . . " he says, sniffing slightly.

You look up at him with alarm blazing in your eyes. Every word Kim Doyoung says to you writes your next damnation. You should ignore him, run, anything–but you can't look away once you've met his assessing gaze, his tall frame limned in the fluorescent cafeteria lights like he's carrying his own personal halo. 

Even seeing him at a distance every day can't depreciate how ethereally handsome he is. You know better than to swoon at that elegant face, night-black hair pushed away from his forehead. Beneath his family’s charities and his PR-scripted concern you know he’s just another ungodly creation birthed of nepotism and curated genes.

He leans in, carefully, musical voice a whisper. 

"You should know it doesn't suit you."

The laughter that follows is deafening.

No, you think. He's just as soulless as the rest of them.

“What do you mean actually sleep?" you ask, coyly, unbuttoning your romper. "Like after we . . . ?"

"I've managed 6 hours of sleep in 36 hours, y/n–” Doyoung seems to hesitate, dark eyebrows raising, hand pushing his hair back from his pale forehead. He snaps his laptop closed, at last, shoving it to the farthest edge of the bedside table.

No–you think–not hesitation. 

Frustration.

You've seen this man before. 

All work and no play made Saint Kim into a Prince of Hell. He'd spent the first 8 hours of your date day half-present–the other in the 4 hours of sleep he's gotten since some crisis at his family’s headquarters in London that usurped your vacation. 

A whole 2 days in which he hasn't held you at all. His rules, his chance, but you can't help but wonder what has him so clenched that he's barely even touched you since your date began at 6 am Bangkok time.

You'd taken two extra strength melatonin and slept like the dead, anticipating his early-riser schedule. Only you and God had to know you'd fallen asleep next to your day tour fit ready to be fucked in it. 

You’d made yourself so pretty only to find him in the kitchen hunched over his phone, laptop softly pinging with notifications. Doyoung had still been dressed in the clothes you'd seen him in the night before, ending his conference call to laser in on you hovering in the kitchen.

"Are you upset?" Doyoung asked.

"No," you'd lied, pushing the piece of paper he'd left the staff on the counter, his English handwriting crisp and formal. "What’s this?" 

"We have a few dietary restrictions today," he’d said. 

"Are you saying I am what I eat?" You’d asked, taking a bite of a plump strawberry. "Is this some kind of prep?"

"It's for the date," he'd said, resigned. "Just be patient with me."

Then he'd smiled, disarming you with a casualness you hadn’t seen on him in a long time, rubbing his eyes blearily under his thick glasses. 

"Can we go back to sleep?"

And so you'd settled into his grasp on your made bed, scrolling Insta and waiting for the inevitable alarm–which turned out just to be Jungwoo delivering two iced Americanos in some gambit of checking your progress.

"Missed the floating market opening?" Jungwoo asked, eyebrows raised at the sight of Doyoung face first in a pillow.

You'd silently mouthed your thanks, leaving the drinks to sweat on the bedside table as you changed into your second outfit of the day, occasionally drifting in to check on your sleeping beauty.

It was a rare delight to have him so vulnerable beside you, blanket rucked up beneath his chin and his white teeth visible past the sweet curves of his mouth. Without consciousness your partner for the day is just Kim Doyoung, the gentler side of the same creature who you knew would often choose a couch to watch serial television with you over a day trip if you wanted it. 

But this was different.

Now instead of using his precious time to fulfill what you'd felt promised in his casual brushes against your back when you'd finally traveled out, or the way he'd stroked your leg at brunch under the table (every bite chosen by him, of course), you're being railroaded into lying still while he sleeps. 

Again.

You continue undressing, letting him drink in the sight of the lingerie set he’d left in your room. You knew it was custom made by the way it lifted each curve he’d already had access to, tailored for you as if every millimeter of your body was to account for.

Doyoung's cheeks are hollowed, lip chewed. He pulls his glasses down and regards you even more as you continue to undress yourself.

"You do know what the word 'nap' means, don't you?"

"I'm not the one who hasn't slept," you say. "At least let me get comfortable."

His stare pierces into you as you turn around, stripping for utility rather than give him a show he clearly hasn’t earned. You check yourself in the floor-length mirror beside the bathroom, viewing yourself through his eyes as you pluck the lace over your curves to sit just right. 

“Do you like it?” you ask.

You may as well be speaking to the floor when you turn around, finding him buried in the pillows only by the dark fall of his hair.

“You can’t be that tired,” you say. 

You're used to taking a late afternoon siesta in peak summer but you're far too excited to even consider sleep right now. For one, it's sweltering–windows open to allow the noises of hawkers and traffic not far off to drift in.

Second, you've never been more turned on in your life. 

You can still feel the tingling in your toes from when he’d slipped his hand up under the hem of your shorts, teasing at the velvety smooth skin on your inner thigh as you tried not to choke on your mimosa.

You make your way to the bed languidly, crawling up the thick white duvet with a teasing smile.

"Just stay on your side of the bed, please," Doyoung says.

"Oh," you say, collapsing on top of the covers beside him. "Well you're no fun." 

"And you're impatient and uncouth," he retorts in a way that makes you wonder if he really means it. 

"Will you at least hold onto me?"

"Too hot." He rolls on his back, flapping his half-buttoned shirt in the breeze from the fans. You sigh dramatically, collapsing into the pillows in the middle of the bed. 

"You should get naked, then.” You say. “Don't be modest on my account."

He opens one eye to glare at you, finding you relaxed and inviting beside him. His throat bobs, gaze flicking to the ceiling.

"That year of celibacy really took a toll on you, didn't it? Two hours. Indulge me."

"Please, sir," you whisper. "I've been such a good girl."

It had been a stipulation of the F4’s latest deal–24 hours for you to recover from your first night before the gauntlet began. Doyoung had been more than strict about the terms, leaving you your own set of instructions including–not surprisingly–not touching yourself.

Under normal circumstances you wouldn’t think about masturbation constantly, at all hours of the day. He may as well have told you to try not to think about a white bear for how powerful the intrusive thought had taken over since then.

"You'll get your reward. Later," he says. He's an impassable wall, stretched out beside you, so you content yourself with staring at his profile. Even under these oppressive circumstances you appreciate the light dusting of freckles on his cheek brought out by the sun, the dark lashes dusting his cheeks over the slight bluish marks of sleep deprivation.

"Yes, sir."

It only takes a few minutes for him to snap at you again.

"Stop that," 

"Stop what?" 

"Getting so handsy."

You hadn’t even realized your hand had drifted over the plane of his belly under his white shirt, too absorbed with watching the muscles in his cheek spasm as you inched nearer. 

"Can I help it when you're right there?" you ask. "I thought this was your–"

Doyoung rolls you before you can slither any closer, pressing your back into the sheets with his hands on your wrists, knees digging into your thighs. 

If the intention was to get you to stop being uncomfortably turned on it has the opposite effect: you let out a moan of pleasure, legs twisting together for friction. He slams them shut between his own, groin pressed into yours.

He's as hard as you hoped, and you lift up into him to let him know you know it.

"If you don't behave I'll have to cancel this," he warns directly in your ear, sounding as choked as you feel. "I thought you were already trained." 

"Trained to fight back," you correct, pressing against him with your own strength.

"That's not trained," he says, lifting up. "I'll blame your lack of experience and experienced partners. Nothing we can't work on. Until then you'll follow my rules or I pull you from the game. Understood?" 

You let a few beats pass, accepting there's no way out and you don't have anything to throw back at him.

"Yes, sir," you pout.

"Now that's a good girl," he says.

Just as quickly as you were taken down you're let go, inhaling deeply now that you're not being pressed into the soft bed. 

"You really don't want to play with me before you sleep?" you ask, brushing your lips against his chin as he crouches over you. You’d be a liar if you didn’t say you enjoyed the way his nostrils flare a bit, working his pink bottom lip between his teeth. Whatever arbitrary rules he’d set for your time together you can tell he’s at least regretting it right now, stiff length brushing against your bare leg as you lift your knee to test it. 

“Are you trying to make me punish you?” he asks, voice husky. 

"I thought you liked it when I was a brat," you say, cocking your head. 

Doyoung sighs, eyes half-lidded. "I do. But not when you're using it to avoid intimacy."

Your throat clenches, a hard knot forming in it you can't seem to swallow as your face gets even hotter.

“What are you talking about?” you ask. 

“I think you know what I mean,” he continues. “It’s not like we both don’t have a habit of using sex as a distraction from anything emotionally challenging.”

You gape up at him in disbelief. 

Of course you’d never been able to hide that aspect of your last relationship with him when he’d often been right outside the door. All of the F4 knew how many times your arguments with he-who-should-not-be-named-especially-not-while-in-bed-with-his-best-friend had ended in you shutting him up by any means necessary. Not that you didn’t enjoy it at the time–but rather you understood it wasn’t the most healthy template for a relationship. 

"I thought this wasn't going to be about feelings," you blurt out.

“Proving my point.”

Doyoung tsks, tapping your cheek with his fingers–nowhere near a slap but just as effective, soothing the spot with his thumb. Soon he’s brushing your tears away when they inevitably spring up and you have to turn to hide their seep into the mass of pillows.

"If I wanted therapy I wouldn't be here, Kim Doyoung," you say, trying to bury your face in the piles of soft down. 

“Shh, silly girl,” He gently pulls you out from hiding, soothing you with a warm kiss against your forehead when you stop struggling and let him hold you, releasing that surge of emotion and writing it off to hormones and the sting of rejection.

“You know I’m speaking to myself here, too,” he states softly. “Bear with me, I’m learning.” 

"Do you even really like me?" you ask, face pressed into his chest. 

It’s horrible to admit this specific insecurity but you can’t help it. Being abandoned multiple times in your life when you’d finally, finally let your walls down would damage anyone’s trust. You’d hoped this day with him would be easy and carefree and light, not dimmed by the shadows of your anti-romantic histories. 

"I adore you, actually." He settles partially on top of you, leg wrapped over yours as he props himself up on his elbow. "Which is why I want to start this right. You wanted the F4 boyfriend experience. This is mine."

"Last I checked you’ve never seriously dated anyone," you groan, sniffling. 

"Last I checked, neither have you." 

Well, that connects. You swallow your fears, relaxing into the cage of his embrace, retreating a little from the vulnerability of being exposed.

"What kind of girlfriend experience were you expecting, then?"

A lazy smile gusts across his features. You can't help but find it a bit sinister after being handled so indelicately. 

“I don’t always know what’s going on in that empty little head of yours." He accompanies his statement with a brush of his thumb across your flushed cheek, tracing your semi-parted lips in a way that sends sparks down to your core. 

"I’d like to stop guessing and actually get you to let me treat you the way you want to be treated. Have you ever asked yourself what you want?"

You panic a little, considering his words. Living with disappointment had made this question a hard one to even consider. 

"I just want a good time. Isn't that what you want, too?"

Doyoung seems to ignore your ask, drifting into a relaxed state against the pillows. His hand traces the hairline at your temple. "You know I worry about you. All the time, actually.” 

His voice is lower, a little wistful, and it’s doing just as much as the slight brushes of his fingertips to make you throb all over again. A lack of sleep must have made him delusional, you think. This is not the Kim Doyoung you know.

“You’re always thinking of how to take care of the people around you, I think you’ve forgotten how to relax and let other people take care of you.”

"Is that why you're always involving yourself in my business?" you ask, matching his tone in how breathless you are. You expect a quip, not the sincerity written on his face when he swoops in to press a gentle kiss against your lips, too fleeting to be anything but sweet and sincere. 

“What do you think I’ve been trying to do all this time? It certainly wasn’t just to get into your pants. I want you. All of you.” 

You're taken aback by his honesty. You'd always suspected his constant meddling in your affairs came from a place of interest but you'd never wanted to give him too much of a response–maybe a little afraid his fickle nature and fear of commitment would mean he’d give up on your friendship, too. 

Another thing you knew about Saint Kim: he had a tendency to run like a frightened rabbit at the first sign of emotional neediness in his partners. You'd never given him reason to believe you expected anything from him, but you'd also stopped fighting him on giving you what he desired to give.

It wasn’t just presents or expensive experiences, of course. He’d found out quickly those weren’t welcome without some cajoling. No–his art was in knowing what you needed even before you realized it, nudging it across your path. 

You’d figured out his deviousness after the umpteenth time someone was charitable at your little florist shop part time job, offering to fix your scooter in exchange for a nice arrangement for a proposal. As soon as you’d seen the fully restored bike outside and the customer didn’t return your texts you’d called Doyoung, completely unsurprised to find he was at the coffee shop next door, waiting to pick up his flowers.

“Stop being so nice to me,” you’d said. “It makes me uncomfortable.”

“What makes you think I’m giving you charity,” he’d responded, dropping a department store bag and your own custom coffee order on the counter. “You’ll wear this when I come to pick you up tonight at closing, including the jewelry and perfume. I need you to play your part again. The flowers are a consolation for the heart we’re breaking.”

He’d enlisted you as his defacto “new girlfriend” for the more difficult separations, and though you’d gotten your share of a glass of expensive wine thrown in your face more often than he ever experienced it (his type always went after the easier target) it wasn’t like he didn’t have a replacement dress ready and a nice dinner waiting after you’d cleaned off the Chateau Lafitte Rothschild. 

You have to face the fact that no matter how many times he’d treated you like his girlfriend, you’d never actually expected him to want you to be one. 

“I’ve waited a very long time for this, Y/N. Which is why I want our first time together–alone," he adds quickly. "–To be special."

It's difficult to believe him but you're spellbound all the same, watching pink dust his cheeks and his ears turn a shade darker as he most likely realizes how ridiculous it is considering him fucking you senseless the other night with the help of two other men. 

But you can empathize with his anxiety. Yesterday's Thai massage he'd arranged had helped you work out the flight or fight of anticipating being alone with him. It’s back now, but different. The way he's looking at you makes you feel infinitely naked, infinitely unlocked.

"What do you mean special?" you ask, wary, hoping to see some glimmer of uncertainty or falsehood in his gaze. You want to believe it's a lie or just some artful prank, trying to ignore your heart flip-flopping in your chest. 

It’s a mistake to let him see you squirm considering it’s Doyoung’s drug of choice–his lips twist into another menacing grin as he plays with the charm on your necklace. Another of his little gifts.

"Do you think you can handle it?" Doyoung asks, dripping self-satisfaction. “Or are you going to chicken out on me?”

You turn over so he can't see your expression, realizing he’s throwing your own words from the night before right back at you.

"I haven’t decided if I want to date you, yet,” you say. 

"Maybe not," he says. "But you'll have to pardon me for wanting to show you this good time you supposedly want while also treating you decently. Unless we're no longer friends?"

"We are," you say, biting your lip, "even if you enjoy torturing me."

"Torture?" He laughs, breathy. 

"Metaphorically speaking."

"You have no idea, do you?" You can feel the edge of his glasses as he bites the place where your clavicle connects to your shoulder, his hand snaking around your bare middle.

"You could show me," you invite, mid-gasp, as your body responds to his long-awaited touch. His fingers are almost cool in contrast to the heat in the room, tracing circles in your skin that have you squirming. 

"Is that a challenge?" he asks.

Why not?

"We don't have to have sex," you offer. "Maybe you could just–"

"Shh," he says, fingers skimming lower. "My terms. Are you going to stay quiet for me?"

You nod into the comforter, breath hitching as he touches you through the thin layer of your underwear, veined hand flexing as he molds the damp fabric to your body. It's such a delicate pressure but he's already memorized your shape, index finger sinking into your folds, gently rubbing a ring around your throbbing clit.

You're sticky and swelling with each pass, entranced by how good he is at teasing you, cherishing the way he sucks in his breath when he pushes into the indent of your hole.

“Doie,” you whine, leaning back into him, trying to get him to kiss you as he laughs into your hair. 

“Quiet,” he reminds you, kissing your cheek and teasing the seat of your underwear where they're soaked the most. "You want to take these off?" 

You shake your head, sensing it would be too easy of you to give in.

"That wasn't a question," he says, tugging down the band, leaving them trapped tight around your thighs. "I don't want you to wear them until I tell you that you can." 

You feel your core clench at the way his voice cracks, his fingers sliding back up to slowly and delicately draw a thread of moisture from your bared slit. You whine a little when he stops touching you, bringing his fingertip to your lips.

"Taste it." 

You let your mouth fall open, let him run it over your tongue, beginning from the middle and swirling over it. 

"Describe it," he murmurs. "If I like your answer, maybe I'll indulge you more." 

"Salt," you say, immediately. 

He tugs your hair, making you meet his eyes. 

"Have I taught you anything? I want specific notes. Flavors." 

You're transported back to the time he'd taken you to your first (and last) wine tasting. Spitting into a bucket and being lectured about body and tannins and soil conditions was the last thing you'd wanted to do after an hours-long trip to a vineyard but you'd indulged him, allowed one glass of what he considered the only drinkable wine on the premises. 

An unrefined palette, he'd called you. 

"Fruity and floral," you make up. "A nice lingering finish. Want a taste?" 

He looks down at you behind his glasses, equal parts amused and unimpressed. "Did you use the soap I asked you to?" 

Your brain glitches at that. Had you? You'd been in such a rush to go out–

You gasp when he palms your breast, squeezing the meat of it through the breathable fabric of your matching bra.

"I'll take that as a no," he says. "I guess you're not ready." 

He rolls off of you, leaving you in a lurch as you realize your legs are locked together by your underwear. You move to remove them, taking off your bra as well to avoid the awkwardness of being partially dressed.

By the time you're done you realize he's on his back, the hand that had been stroking you buried in his loose khakis. 

"What are you doing?" you ask, more than a little pissed off at the sight of him masturbating as if you aren't ready and willing to assist beside him. 

"Getting ready for our date. You can watch. No touching." He cracks an eye to look at you before closing it again. "Either of us."

"Are you edging me, Kim Doyoung?" Your menacing tone is entirely natural.

He hums a bit, working himself at a more punishing pace, knuckles peeking out from under his boxer briefs with each full pass over his length.

"Can't even look at me? Afraid you'll lose control?" You sidle down on the bed, beside his tensed thigh. You can smell a bit of the ozone on him from a morning in the sun, your knees knocking into his calves when you move over him.

"I don't trust you," he says, voice deeper than you've ever heard it.

"Is it touching if you finish on my face?" you ask when he finally blinks up at your presence, hovering over him with your breasts dangerously close to his clothed thighs.

"Absolutely not."

"Not touching–"

"Just. Watch," he orders.

He pulls himself free from his pants, surprising you with how dark and weeping his tip is as his thumb encircles it. Pools of white precum spatter on his lean, pale belly, your head dipping dangerously close–

"I said watch." He grabs at your hair, denied when you bend up again, showing him your dirty tongue.

He groans, fingers clenching air. "You were put on this earth to test me, weren't you?"

Still, he doesn't break his attention on the way you roll the drops you'd licked from his clean skin in your mouth, swallowing once you've fully enjoyed the taste.

"A little sweet you say," teasing him. "Drinking pineapple juice?"

"Brat," Doyoung says, but he's almost gone–eyes dark with desire, gently gripping your skull as you continue to ease in.

You're a master at following his lead, blowing a breath over the spot you'd licked, and then his length until his movements slow, cherishing the way you hold your mouth over his cock.

"If you can't give me what I want, then at least give me a taste," you say, sticking out your tongue in offering. You love the way he responds to the sight, needy and losing it when you hold eye contact, drilling into him.

"No," he echoes, weakly. He's too smart to push into your open mouth, instead driving his hips up to fuck his fist as you watch his glasses slide down his nose, eyes clenching shut. 

"You're no fun," you say. "Just a little swallow can't hurt?"

"No. Don't want to ruin it," he says cryptically, making a choked noise as you brush his fingers with your nose and he has to pull you away.

"I promise you it . . . It will be worth it," he manages. His jaw clenches as his movements relax, finally in control of you both.

"It better be," you say. 

You lower your lashes as your eyes flick between his cock and his face, stretching out your tongue to the point that drool begins to drip down your chin, splashing on his whitened knuckles and the tight stretch of his balls peeking out from his underwear. He bites his lip, breath holding as he starts to spiral.

The first thick rope of white rockets up his half-bared chest. Soon he's spurting even more, cum reaching his rucked up shirt, a little getting on his glasses. 

He's so out of it he doesn't fight as you wrest out of his limp hold. You clean up the sticky mess on his skin with your tongue, his abdominal muscles twitching under the light flicks and drags. 

"Want to give me some notes?" you ask, straddling him without resting any weight down, taking off his glasses. This time when you move to kiss him he rises weakly to meet you, lips parting to accept what you haven't swallowed. 

In truth, he tastes wonderful. Coffee, a little menthol from toothpaste and a hint of the watermelon you'd shared earlier mix beneath the coat of his spend.

He licks into your mouth until you moan, your body throbbing with unfulfilled pleasure. You follow him as he sinks back into the pillows, enjoying having him at your disposal, your core leaving wet trails on his thigh when you brush against the fabric.

"I'm going to wait until you're asleep and use you if you don't help me get off," you threaten, pressing soft kisses to his slack face. It’s no use. Doyoung has passed out again, lower teeth visible as he snores softly, forehead sheened with drying sweat.

Fuck it, you think. 

You ooze off of him to take your second cold shower of the day, and maybe get acquainted with one of the fancy showerheads in his massive walk-in while you use his special soap. 

It's not–technically–touching yourself.

Your mystery destination isn't an unknown–it's in every tourist booklet and blog you'd skimmed before your trip, thinking you'd be on your own to find a good spot to traverse to. But it still takes your breath away the moment the car door opens in the sprawl of motorbikes and delivery trucks and Doyoung takes your hand to pull you into Paradise.

Pak Khlong Talat is a bustle of energy well after dark, the time you know its treasures are delivered fresh and unbloomed, wrapped in newspaper and steeped in crushed ice. For as far as you can see the market sprawls along Chak Phet road, but even more overwhelming than the sights and sounds is the scent. 

Jasmine, roses, lavender. Thousands upon thousands of blooms strung up and tended to by night owl vendors, delicate arrangements hand-sewed by artisans streetside into garlands so well-crafted Doyoung has to tug you to keep you moving, onwards to some other unspoken destination. 

"I was worried you might hate flowers after working with them for so long. I take it you like it?" he asks, indulging you when you ask if you can take his picture at a particularly lovely hang of garlands, the purple-blue light perfect for the film you'd loaded into your father's old camera. Photography had never been your craft, but after your dad had passed you'd made an effort to capture more of your memories, cherishing what you'd taken for granted before.

“It’s perfect,” you say, admiring him through the viewfinder. "But can you look like you're having fun?" 

Your model is stiff, mouth a moue as he checks the street for other observers or a possible collision with a laden handcart. 

"Fun?" Doyoung asks, and you snap his picture on the offbeat, enjoying his look of surprise. 

“Like you've taken your date to one of the most romantic places on earth, after buttering her up with a night cruise of Chao Praya and finally letting her eat real food." 

He sniffs at a fall of marigolds, a smug look on his face that you commit to film, right before he sneezes. 

"For the record, we're eating after this. Som tam hardly counts as a meal, I just didn’t want that drink going to your head." 

You're shepherded through the vast warehouse of the main market, to an adjacent street, and into a non-descript building painted in a funereal white.

"Are we even allowed to be here?" you ask, once the key code is entered and you enter the strange business. 

"I called in a favor," he says, taking your hand, leading you up a metal staircase past a simple storefront of dried blooms and shelves laden with boxes and bottles alike.

An apothecary? An alchemist's shop? The purpose of the space eludes you.

"An atelier," Doyoung explains. "One of the most sought out in the world."

There's the distant hum of the city outside and a central air you're unused to in this climate but the upstairs is quiet–by all accounts either an office or a laboratory, or a mixture of both. The central working area is a chaotic but organized space filled with tables of glassware and dried floral arrangements contrasting potted orchids, small beakers of coffee beans littered amidst rows of labeled brown bottles.

"So this is how they make perfume," you say, inspecting a stoppered bottle labeled "Gerianol 10%".

"Not just any perfume. The best. Here." Doyoung leads you to a much less cluttered workstation, the desk arranged with the lights still on, a note detailing some instruction you can barely read before he slips it into the pocket of his slim-tailored pants. Beneath it is a notebook, scrawled with a perfect cursive English you recognize from the cards he’d included in boxes or bags whenever he’d bothered to claim their contents. 

"Sit," he instructs. You think he means the comfortable chair but before you can sit down he presses you to the desk, caging you in. 

"Sit," he repeats, hands on your hips through your slinky skirt, lifting you to the bench. You scoot back, carefully, the white blooms of some exotic flower brushing against your cheek until he can move the vase a careful distance. 

"Do you understand what we’re doing here?"

You can't possibly know what he means, eye level with the graceful column of his neck and his exposed collarbone beneath his translucent button-down, drowning in the melange of scents but most especially his clean, neutral cologne. 

"No," you say, honestly, heart beating fast. 

He picks up a corked flask from some kind of metal scale, dipping a thin thread of paper into it to waft it a fair distance from your nose.

"Before we came here--before you even agreed to this trip–I sent instructions to my friend for a specialty blend of their creation. It took quite a bit of back-and-forth–I even visited here last month to take a private class and make sure we prepared the base and middle to your standards."

"For me?" 

You feel dizzy, reaching out to take the sample and smell it again, his hand capturing your own before you can bring it too close to your nose. He wafts it for you, expectant as you absorb the details.

Indeed, it smells divine–exactly the kind of warm, bright notes that make your heart feel at ease. There’s something floral and citrus worked in, not too heavy, the finish leaving you with an impression of a lazy summer afternoon. 

“It’s beautiful,” you say. “Did you make this to match what you knew I liked?”

"Yes.” Doyoung exhales, looking almost sheepish. "I had some references. That cheap shampoo you never stop buying, the Lush exfoliator with the orange blossom, even–" he shudders a bit– "that awful Chanel you doused yourself in, in high-school."

"Coco Mademoiselle," you say. "It's been years since I–"

"It didn't suit you," he says, standing up to sample another bottle from the neat row. 

Something dawns on you, a distant memory locking into place.

"It was you," you gasp in realization. "You're the one who got rid of it. I should have known when you tried to give me that bottle of Jo Malone–"

“It had already turned. You need to store your scents away from direct light.”

“It was a keepsake!” There were very few possessions from your youth that you’d been able to hold onto–not only because your parents had been barely able to afford your school uniforms, much less gifts. What little you’d had was lost when your house was destroyed by the men your father owed money to, this small thing neglected in the destruction.

“It didn't suit you because it wasn't made for you," he continues. "You wore it because you thought it would make you fit in, when you should have made what you wore wear you–"

"Please, stop."

You have to bite your lip to the point of pain, remembering how excited you'd been to unwrap that tiny bit of luxury your parents had saved up to buy you, your mother sure the brand name would save you from another day of humiliation. You didn’t have the heart to tell them that the cutout ad from the magazine on your wall was for the model, not the actual perfume, but you felt loved by the gesture all the same.

Hundreds of thousands of won an ounce for it to only turn on your skin, well before afternoons spent on the basketball court under the thankless sun. That memento had aged from pink to a sickly rose unused on your cosmetic shelf, a totem from a time when you imagined yourself belonging. Before it had disappeared, like so many other things.

You can't remember the last time you'd worn anything, had never even gone near that section of a department store after the humiliation of being made fun of for smelling cheap.

“My dad skipped lunches and my mom worked double shifts to get that for Christmas my first year in Kocher,” you say. “Mira was the brand ambassador for that campaign, you know.”

Mira had been your idol even before you won the scholarship she’d established to attend Kocher. Perfect, beautiful, but most of all the first girl in their sphere to show you genuine kindness.

"It must be so easy for you," you say, wiping your face. You rarely cried these days but that memory was particularly painful, a reminder of how often you’d assumed Doyoung found you just as offensive. Not just your scent, you thought, but you.

Something to be tolerated. Below his regard. 

"Whatever you want, you can have. Whatever you don't like, you can get rid of. I'm sorry, I don't live in your world. I can’t just throw something away when it’s not useful."

"No," he says, quietly, abandoning his explanation. "That was thoughtless of me. I can replace it–"

“Can you?” You glare up at him. “Is this what you really want? To dress me up like your perfect doll and feed me from your hand so I’m more able to suit you?

Doyoung looks like he's going to be ill, every design in his head unraveling before your eyes. You’d feel sorry for him if you didn't know this was a lesson worth imparting.

"Don't ever offer to replace what you don’t know the true value of," you say, voice trembling.

There's a weighted silence as he considers his next words. You still haven't slipped away from him, choosing to hold your ground. How many times had you been forced to be the antagonist in some fruitless class warfare, unresolved? But then you also had a habit of finding battles in peacetime. 

You pluck the newest scent strip from his frozen hand and waft it between you, at the designated distance.

“Thank god this smells nothing like it,” you murmur. You offer him a wry smile, anger fading. “I couldn’t stand it.”

You feel Doyoung’s relief as he collapses against you, forehead against your hair as his arms wrap tight around your middle. You relax after a bit, cheek pressed to his collarbone as you breathe in his unique scent–a little like fresh laundry left out in the sun.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “All these promises and plans and stupid details and at the end of the day I really . . . Don't know what I'm doing."

"I really don’t know what you’re doing, either," you say. "But I like that you try.”

"You do?" The hope in his voice makes your iciness melt a bit. You let your hands twine around his neck, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease with the gesture.

“I know it’s not easy for me to admit but I do appreciate everything you do for me, Doie,” you say. 

He doesn’t respond in words but you savor the shift in his demeanor, like a weight has been lifted from him. You think even he didn’t know it was there. You ignore the glassiness in his eyes when he pulls back, choosing to look at his notes instead.

“Are these all the ingredients?” you ask, working out a few of the more familiar words. “What’s op–?”

“First things first,” he says, rolling up his sleeves.  "Did you touch yourself?" 

"No," you say, surprised by the shift. "I followed your instructions. No products with scents. No underwear."

You spread your thighs to make your point. His hands hike your skirt up, over the breadth of skin to your hips and then to the curl of your belly, his breath hitching as he finds you already glossy.

It had been a bit of a gambit considering your riverside excursion but he'd allowed you a lemongrass-based repellent–the scent of which is still clinging to your bare skin as he kneels down to press a kiss to where his fingers had traced earlier.

You jerk a bit, conscientious of the workspace as he spreads you, just that light touch making your nipples harden beneath your thin shirt and bra.  

“Are we allowed to–”

“Shh. Relax and try not to spill anything,” he interrupts, breath cooling your wetness. “I just need some inspiration.”

“What?” 

"You’re so good already," he says into your sex, spreading you so he can lightly tongue at your skin. “Perfect little flower just for me.”

After waiting so long, you're torn between begging and shoving his teasing licks away, hand threading through his raven hair as the notebook slips from your hand.

"Kim Doyoung–” you gasp as he spears his tongue through your upper folds, nose nudging the sensitive bud. “–if this is another round of teasing I will murd–”  

You yelp as he hunches down to wrap your legs around his shoulders, hands re-occupied by exposing you as you try to stay upright. 

“Don’t worry. You can come like this. I want to know if you taste different after.”

You don't know what he means until his mouth closes over your clit, sucking just right. You jolt, pinched on the meat of your thigh until you can relax again, making little mewls as he rolls his thumbs alongside the point of contact.

“I want you inside of me,” you beg, feeling that fluttering sensation that heralds a build-up. “I wanted to come with you inside me.” 

“Soon. Just need to be good while I sample you.” 

“Sample?” Your hand sinks into his hair in panic, tugging, but Doyoung is too lost alternating between suckling at your sex and palpating you with a circling thumb, his beautiful hands gripping your thighs to keep you spread.

“Drip for me, first.” 

“I don't think I can–”

“You giving up already?” Doyoung scoffs, smirking up at you with reddened lips, tongue-tip darting against your clit. Every brush of soft muscle makes you spasm a bit, belly tightening unfulfilled.

You shake your head, panting. “I just . . . Doie I want you inside me.” 

“You can relax and take it,” he says, tongue wrapping around your labia, sucking slightly. Your head is buzzing, every stray thought removed by his exploration of you.

“Relax. If you don't I'll just have to try until you're begging for me to stop.” 

“No, please, Doie. I'll be good,” you plead. “Just . . . need something inside. Hurts so bad being empty.”

“Hand me a pipette.”

“What?”

“The one that looks like an eyedropper,” he says, hand open to accept like he’s performing surgery. You fight to find the right glassware with his mouth still on you, efforts more focused and intense as your legs tense with each hit. You find the rubber-stoppered glass cylinder, stomach dropping. 

“Is this safe?” You ask, gripping his mussed hair tighter when he pulls away for a moment.

“If you hold still, yes,” he taunts. You seize when you first feel the tip slip inside you. The glass is cool but warms to your body heat quickly, too slim to feel anything.

“Good girl,” he says. “You’re even pushing this out, you must be so tight.”

“I am. Too tight,” you groan. “Please don’t tease me anymore.”

He ignores you, focusing on his work, pulling the instrument free when he’s satisfied.

“Not bad,” he says, dropping it on the desk beside you before he’s back on his knees with his nose buried in your cunt. “Bet you can do better than that.”

“No, please, I need you–”

“Then drip for me,” he laughs into your leg, tracing the wetness down the crease in your thigh. You tense your hold on the desk’s edge when you feel his tongue prod at your entrance, muscle breaching your hole to lick into you. He makes a satisfied noise in the back of his throat that has you plummeting just as he resumes stroking your clit through the slippery coat of your arousal. 

Finally, you think, feeling the advent of tears for how wound tight you are, how desperate you are to feel him give you just one more point of contact with the ache inside.

“Oh god, don’t stop, please don’t stop,” you repeat, the noises obscene as he drinks you in, other hand on your hip to hold you against his face. It’s not even the stimulation that makes you begin to come but the audible groan he releases as he feels you quake against his mouth, heels snagging on his shirt when the first wave breaks and those little tics inside you turn into powerful contractions around his tongue-tip taking everything you can give him. 

He keeps licking you even when you’re begging for him to stop, nose tracing down to catch a stray drop from the back of your knee with a playful dart of his tongue. 

“Was it worth it?” you ask, folding over him as he wipes his mouth clean in your drenched skirt. You know it’s just the start but you already feel wrung out and feather-light, wicking away the sweat that’s beaded on your own face despite the cool, dry air of the room. 

“Hmm?” he hums a bit, disentangling to stand up and hold your face in his hands. His pupils are blown, sweat beading on his temples, but he looks as satisfied as you hoped he would be, your arousal drying on his slender features.

“All the prep,” you say. “Isn’t that why–do I taste as good as you expected after all that?”

Doyoung looks down on you, amused. Already you feel like you’re heating up again, with how his dark eyes flit to your mouth and back up again. 

“You think I prefer you prepped?” he asks, angling his head down besides yours to whisper in your ear. “The next time I eat that perfect little pussy of yours I want it to be filthy.” 

He traces the lobe with his teeth for good measure, pulling another moan out of you. “I’ll even make sure to wait until the other two have a go at you, first.”

You feel your heartbeat stutter as he presses his lips to your pulse point, tongue darting past his lips to dab at the sweat there.

“No, precious, I wanted to make sure the perfume we make tonight matches all of you.” Doyoung’s nose brushes your ear as he breathes in your scent. “Every time I wear it I’m going to remember the way you sounded when you first came for me and me only.”

The promise of it has you feeling a different kind of heat, dizzying for how much you want it to last past this night. 

“Fuck,” you whisper explosively, eyes clenched shut to stay fixed upright, fisting the thin material of his collar as he pulls you from the countertop and against the hard planes of his body. “I need you. Now. Please.”

“I like hearing you say that,” he chuckles a bit. “But I’m going to make you earn it. You can wait a little longer. You made me wait years, after all.”

You let him guide you into his lap, in the chair, pushed into the desk as he opens the notebook to another page. And another, until you take over and explore it for yourself. In the dim golden light from the street outside you catch glimpses of colors and drawings, notes written of impressions and memories you’d all but forgotten in your haze of grief these past few years. 

There’s even photographs taped to some of the pages–ones you know well by the fact that they’d been taken on your camera. Doyoung didn’t have Jaehyun’s artistic training but he did have an eye for capturing candid moments.

November, your first year of college. You’re standing in the first snow of the season, catching flakes on your tongue. You can still feel the burn of them, hear the murmur of the city dulled in a fresh blanket of white and taste the roasted yam you’d eaten, tossing it in your mittened hands until it was cool enough to peel. 

Doyoung’s shoulder is off-kilter beside yours, unable to capture himself in the frame for all his long reach. The peek of the striped scarf you’d knitted for him in gray and blue is all that’s visible of him under his peacoat, the mismatched weave of it captured even in this poor exposure.

“Base note: cedarwood,” you read, carefully, eyes hazing a bit with emotion. Evergreen.

“I still have it, you know,” he murmurs against your temple. “I only stopped wearing it because it started unraveling.”

“I’d make you another but I quit knitting after making three scarves,” you say, wryly. “Well two and a half, actually, I ran out of yarn on Jungwoo’s and made him a hat instead.”

“I thought you were just trying to get him to hide that ridiculous military haircut,” Doyoung muses. “Keep going or we’ll be here all night.”

“Now you’re impatient?” you ask, cementing your flirtation by shifting in his lap. You can’t ignore the feeling of his erection folded against the curve of your ass, or the way he grunts when you find a better seat with it nestled between your thighs.

“Sometimes I forget you were put on this planet to vex me,” he says. You’re lifted up by the waist, a hand on your lower back the moment you’ve found the desk for support, face above the book. 

“Why don’t you try reading until I’m satisfied you know exactly what you’re getting?”

You don’t fight him, elbows bent as he rucks up your skirt. You feel your face grow warm with blood as you find yourself exposed to him again, locked in by his legs and his groping touch reaching up beneath your shirt. 

"Base notes: amber and–" you have to fight to keep your voice steady as he swats your exposed curves, hard enough to sting. 

"Ambergris,” he corrects, voice fried with delight.

“Ambergris,” you repeat. “And white musk."

"Good. And?"

"Bisabol–" you begin, corrected with another slap on your ass that hits, hard, glass jingling on the table.

"Did you jump ahead?" He asks, knowing full well your eyes are swimming with tears. 

"No sir," you say. “I didn’t think that was a real word.”

"Opoponax." He says, reaching over you to grab a bottle, dropping a thick oil on you and rubbing it into your bruising skin. "Also known as sweet myrrh. Go ahead. Keep reading."

"Source: distilled from resin from ancient groves in Somalia, bought in Mogadishu from a local orchard, all profits to fund schools and clinics for women displaced by civil war." 

"Do you believe this to be a charitable effort?" He asks, hand spreading over your buttocks. You think he might be referring more to your arrangement than whatever is written on the page.

"No," you say. Your history and political know-how might be lacking but you've seen the wrong side of kindness. "It sounds like what people write to make themselves feel better about exploitation."

"Clever girl," he answers. You feel his nose brush against your skin, testing the mingling of scent with it. "Keep going."

You turn the page, swallowing back your protests. This spread is rich with text and color, a veritable garden bursting from the page. You fix on the first entry in the upper corner, bracing yourself for another faux pas.

"Heart notes: Turkish rose," you say. "What is this, poetry?"

"Aren’t you familiar with it?"

You shake your head, lips pursed in delight at the scrawl of English. “No.”

You let out a gasp as he bites the flesh nearer your back, the sting of it surely leaving a mark by the way the pain lingers.  

"Read it," he says, dipping over you for another bottle. “You’ll remember.”

"I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows," you dictate, stumbling over every word and yet never punished for it. Instead Doyoung lets a steady drip of the bottle fall down the back of your leg to your knee, his fingers bringing up the rest to mix what he's already poured on you.

"Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, with sweet musk-roses and with eglantine." 

You end your recitation in a whisper, leather binding and paper gripped in your fingers as he massages the oil gently into your tingling skin, careful to avoid where your legs are locked together in arousal. You're heady with scent and sensation, awaiting some reminder that this isn't just a strange dream you’ve wandered into.

"There sleeps Titania sometime of the night, lulled in these flowers with dances and delight," he finishes for you as he paints the rest up your spine beneath your shirt. You let him ministrate on your body as the words settle, as time recedes and you face a version of your youth you’re not sure isn’t just fiction. 

That book beside you, the first time he’d spoken to, long forgotten.

“Midsummer’s Night Dream,” you say, turning to face him again, settling between his thighs as he fails to meet your gaze. You lift his face with your fingers, cheeks indented by your gentle hold. “You remembered that, too?”

“It was the first time you ever looked at me,” he says. “And it felt like you saw right through me.”

No, you’re not dreaming. You’re the architect of this moment just as much as he’ll claim to be a cursory observer if confronted on it. 

You take in his mismatched eyes–one folding a little more than the other when he smiles at you ruefully. Those freckles you’d never really spent time examining, a happy accident of the time he’d spent with you in the sun. His fingers catching yours for a moment when you weren’t paying attention.

But most of all, the haunted cast where he’d lost sleep managing someone else’s problems. When he’d still been worrying about yours.

“You’re always thinking of how to take care of the people around you, I think you’ve forgotten how to relax and let other people take care of you.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “I don’t think I ever really saw you until now.”

“What didn’t you see?” he asks, expectantly.

Six years of his careful distance from you, that coldness and disinterest just another mask for someone who was as raw and vulnerable and real as you if you managed to pry open their shell. His tendency towards control, towards the knife’s slice of cutting you so cleanly from his life no one would know your name unless he spoke it aloud.

There wasn’t another human being in their right mind who’d last that test, your only grace being that he’d thought you were untouchable. His best friend’s girlfriend, of course. But beyond that, one of his best friends. 

No, one of his only friends.

“What didn’t you see?”

It wouldn’t require money or taste or a family name to bring Saint Kim down to earth. Just time and small acts of resistance, like the beautiful shell remnants you’d spilled into his hands on that last trip to Maui together, when it had still been the five of you. Each ground down to a small disc with a perfect spiral at its center, a reminder of the beauty remaining in broken things.

You place the notebook in his hands, curling your fingers around his. The pages it’s opened to are sparsely constructed, besides the photographs nestled between. Only you two know what’s there, buried in black sands and blue waters. You can see his handwriting falter where he’s written the notes for this moment in your shared history, sketches of those shells, and flowers.

A single photograph of you watching the others playing in the surf, his shadow cutting across the stretch of your legs.

Top notes: Jasmine for sensuality. 

Orange Blossom for innocence. 

Plumeria, for admiration. a new beginning . . .

You recognize the creamy yellow-white flower he’d tucked behind your left ear when you’d fallen asleep beside him. A non-native plant to the island, you’d learned, worn to indicate one was taken. A weed, like you, now prized as a treasure.

“What didn’t you see?”

You pull back to look at him, giving him yourself without reservation. 

“That I think you love me . . .” you say. “. . . Like I think I love you, too.” 

He looks up at you, astounded, the chair beneath him creaking as he collapses. 

For once you regret being beside him when you’d heard the same words spoken to him by other people, pulled into their lives without you ever remembering their names. The difference between you, you once believed, was that they didn’t mean it. 

Now, you understand, they just never knew the true cost of losing him. 

You watch him collect himself, running a hand back through his hair and curling into his seat, memories forgotten in his lap, bedamned. You’re sure the engines of Hell are running hot for the way he can’t even look at you right now. 

He needs a way out, you think. You’d rather be drowned in other women’s wine poured over your head than be on the receiving end of his disregard again, the script already constructed in your mind before you’d found you had the nerve to sleep with him.

"You can be honest with me,” you say. “Tell me it's been fun but you're not interested in a relationship.”

“What?” Doyoung is just as confused as when you’d told him you loved him, as honest as you’ve been in both sentiments. 

“Your family will never approve of me. I’m just another fling you happened to take a more lasting interest in. It’s better this way. Cut me off, forget about me and move on.”

It's his turn to balk. You expect his pre-programmed response. Saint Kim's gospel for turning down the interested but uninteresting party: deflect, dissuade, detach. 

“No,” he says, face draining of color.

“It’s okay,” you say. “I can handle it. Really. We can still be friends.” 

“No,” he repeats, more forcefully.

“What do you mean, no?” you ask. “Isn’t that how this always ends?”

“You stupid girl,” he says, grabbing your face in his hands so you can’t escape, making you look into his warm gaze. 

"Don’t you get it? This was always about feelings.”

When his lips crush against yours you don't have to speak to respond, catching his head so you’re not suffocated by the raw emotion you can feel in every movement. You return each kiss until the breath is out of your lungs, until you're drowning in his scent as he forces you back onto the desk.

You’re impatient to feel him, everywhere, aware you’re ripping buttons as you open his shirt to gain access to his smooth chest, trailing kisses as far down as you can go, still unable to escape his tongue sliding over yours.  

“I wasn’t going to do this here, like this, but fuck it,” he says once he’s free, fumbling with his belt as he holds you to pepper your face and neck in a steady reminder of his affection. “I need you.”

“I need you, too,” you echo wholeheartedly, helping free him out of his clothing, pulling his length to where you’re still slick with oils and cum and ready for him. God, you think you’ve never been more ready to break around him, to show him what he’s brought out of you with this game.

“Please don’t make me wait anymore,” you whisper. 

You watch his face, breath held and heart stuttering as he sinks into you slowly, both of you gasping at the way your heat resists each measure of his continuous thrust. It feels like he’s barely in you when he stops, making you moan in dismay.

“Doie, please,” you say, trying and failing to wrap your legs around his slender hips to capture him deeper. You’re half out of your mind with that burning weight inside you remaining still.

“Say it,” he says, taking off your shirt to have access to your skin. He pulls down your bra, nipples tugged between his fingers as he assaults your neck with his tongue and teeth.

“It’s special,” you choke out. “Thank you, please–”

“Say it,” he corrects, twitching inside you but not moving an inch more. He curls down to nip at your breast above the lace, sucking a mark into the softest part. “Without the ‘I think’.” 

“No,” you resist, realizing what he’s asking too late. Your nails sink into his half-bared shoulder, head rolling against his. “You don’t get to torture me for that.”

“Don’t chicken out on me now.” Doyoung laughs against your cheek, hand splaying around your hip to still your squirming. “I can do this as long as it takes.”

He thrusts, just a little more, making you cry out in desperation as the contents of the desk tinkle behind you. 

“Fuck,” you breathe. “You think I love you?”

“So, so close.” He pulls out, rocking into you again to feel the seize of your entire body when you anticipate just how far he’ll go before denying you. A little more, at least, and you can feel how much it’s taking for him, see the strain in his body as he holds back.

“You love me,” you tease, this time not a question, no you think. “Saint Kim loves me.”

He sheathes himself in you fully, gripping your nape to kiss you as you clench involuntarily around him, protests in the back of your throat muffled by his tongue sliding across yours. He tugs at your bottom lip when he breaks free, fully smiling now like he isn’t buried completely in your cunt just warming himself instead of chasing his own bliss.

“What did you call me?” he asks, leaning over you to retrieve something. 

You take advantage of his distraction to snake a hand between you, slipping beneath your skirt before it’s grabbed, tight, and brought up to his lips. 

“Don’t cheat,” he says, wrapping your fingers around the cap of a bottle. 

“You never heard anyone call you that?” you murmur, opening it. 

You smell spring flowers and delicate citrus before it’s taken away, set aside when you nibble and suck at his sensitive ear to make him twitch, hands drifting across his ticklish belly down to his hipbones. He reads your intent again, stopping whatever silly task he’s doing beside you to lift your wrists to his shoulders. 

“The name is a little ironic, isn’t it?” you say, squeezing him experimentally with your thighs as you stroke his nape with your nails. You flex other muscles too–earning the grunt he makes as he feels you squeeze around his girth. 

He angles your head, pressing something wet and soft to where your pulse flutters in your neck. You’re immediately permeated with a light, airy, sweetness, the different scents revealed like a melody that ends in that richer, warmer scent from earlier. 

“Is that my perfume?” you ask. 

“An anointment,” he says, blowing across your skin to dry it and sending a shiver down your spine to where your bodies are locked together, that fullness and muted pleasure of him radiating down to your toes.

“I do seem to have a demon inside of me,” you sigh into his neck as you rest your head against his shoulder. “Do they do that in exorcisms?”

“Blessings,” he corrects, adjusting with another grunt. “We’ll find out if it worked in about an hour.”

“An hour?” you grumble. “You think you can keep torturing me that long?”

“I think I gave you the key to your own cage,” he says, checking his watch. “About five minutes ago. Does it feel like longer?”

You mumble something into his rumpled collar, making him laugh beneath you. Even just that tiny movement has you involuntarily gripping him, abdomen clenched. 

“What’s that?”

“I’llsayitifyoumakemecome,” you repeat, embarrassed enough to hide your face in the crook of his neck again. 

“You think this is a negotiation, Y/N?” Doyoung’s hands are back on your breasts, thumbing the areola in slow circles that are very much a reminder of his touch earlier on your throbbing clit. You whimper, trying to stay still so he doesn’t figure out that if he continues to do that you might have a chance–

“You trying to make me come squeezing me like that?” he asks, breath ragged. “That seems like a quick way to end this.”

“You . . . you could just fuck me,” you wheeze, feeling the way he teases your pebbled, hard nipple with lighter brushes, his mouth quirked where it’s pressed to your forehead. 

“What if I want to make love to you, instead?” he asks. He inhales sharply at your body’s response. 

“Fuck, you liked me saying that, didn’t you?”

You nod, unable to speak, holding onto him in desperation as the combination of his words and soft strokes make you melt into the pleasure of every small motion of him inside you. You realize he’s unconsciously pushing into you, too, unable to keep his hips from pressing into yours. 

Overstimulation is making you hyperaware of the scratch of his unzipped jeans against your burning thighs, the random brush of his open belt against your belly. Time seems to disappear as he holds you quietly, letting you soak up the fragrant, radiating warm reality of him.

“I can wait all night for it,” he threatens, even just his lower register making you quiver a little around him. “Count every time you twitch and moan on me until you break.”

You’d felt him flag a little while he worked but now he’s fuller inside you, stretching you wide as he twitches to life. It’s even hotter than all of this build-up, you think, knowing he can act a menace but that the idea of you surrendering to him is what’s really getting him off.

Of course, you think, mentally steeling yourself like you’re preparing for war. In a way this is something like it, up against as formidable a foe as he is. 

“Doie,” you whisper, threading your hands in his hair as you nuzzle for his lips, kissing him softly and intimately, like it’s your first time. “When did you know?”

“What?” He goes a little rigid against you, unable to hide his rapid heartbeat with how close you’re pressed to him. You blink up at him, expectantly. 

“When did you first know you loved me? Really?”

He smiles, shyly, but you see the hint of anxiety on his features beneath his arousal. There it is, you think, having to hide your own satisfaction. 

“Is this a trick question?” he asks, warily, eyelashes half-lowered.

“Not if I know the answer,” you say, smoothing his kiss-swollen lips with a touch. “I don’t think it’s in that book, either.”

“Really?” He’s intrigued, a tentative rock of his hips against you making you dizzy. “Tell me.”

You shake your head, just as playful. 

“I’ll tell you later,” you say. “After.”

He sighs explosively, nose wrinkling. “You don’t know.”

“Want to bet?” you ask. It’s always a little thrilling seeing Doyoung presented with an opportunity he can’t resist. He fumbles for the notebook beside you, almost slipping out of you when he has to reach even farther for a pen.

“Write it down,” he says, smug as a cat who’s caught something small and easily toyed with. 

“Only if you do, too,” you say.

His answer is a pained sound of agreement, adjusting himself against the desk. 

“No peeking,” you say, flipping to a page in the back. 

“Wait,” he says, grabbing the book before the nib of the nice pen touches the creamy paper. “What are the terms?”

You ponder for a moment, feeling a grin slide onto your lips. “Doesn’t our perfume need a name? Whoever is right, gets to name it.”

You can practically taste his delight as he leans in to kiss you, forcing you to pull your page closer to you. You make him wait, filling the blank space as best you can with detail as he fidgets between your legs, sending small shocks of pleasure through you both. 

“Thank you,” he says in earnest once you’ve handed him it open to a new leaf, his hand and the notebook shaking a little as he tries to write mid-air, finally resting it awkwardly atop your head in order to scrawl out his own answer.

“My eyes are closed, Kim Doyoung.” 

“You’re a cheat,” he says, shushing you with an added thrust of his hips. 

You settle back on your elbows, already enjoying your victory as you feel the tiny pressure of his handwriting, hear the scratches of his sketch. You're more emboldened than ever when the leather binding snaps shut.

“Now tell me,” you say, looking up at him coyly. 

“Can’t I just show you–”

You snatch the book from him, turning to your entry. Then, to his horror, you rip your page free and fold it shut, tucking it into the pocket of his open shirt.

“Tomorrow morning,” you say. “You had 24 hours, right? I’ll give you my answer tomorrow morning.”

Doyoung looks as if he’s tasted something sour. “You won’t tell me.”

“I’ll tell you that you won,” you say, looking down at his page. You trace the fresh ink with care, admiring his tight script and explanation. “February to April? How could I have guessed an entire season?” 

“Did you at least guess the year?” he asks, looking a little better for your affirmation of his win. 

You nod, finally feeling the discomfort of your position and resting your head against his warm chest. There’s nothing awkward about being wrapped around him like this, the late hour and strange, still space making it easier to forget the world outside.

“Hard to forget,” you say. “I thought for sure I’d never see you again after that winter holiday.”

Another break with Johnny, of course–but this one had been your choice. You’d finally felt the crushing weight of two years of contempt from the people around him, the Suh family matriarch at the center of it all, doing everything in her power to crush not only you but the people you loved. 

And then, when you’d needed him the most, Kim Doyoung had walked away from you, too. 

“I didn’t think I’d see you, either,” he sighs. “It was the first time in a long time you weren’t with us. With me. And it was my fault for pushing you away when you were just trying to–”

“It’s in the past now,” you cut him short with a finger pressed to his lips. 

The memory is painful, still–and you don’t want to sully this moment with it. You appreciate that even in his roundabout admission there’s a clear understanding for all you’d been through. You’d hoped he remembered that time from the past, when you’d first peered between the cracks in his carefully-manufactured facade.

Now you could be sure of what it meant to him. You feel like your own walls are crumbling, the light shining through. 

“So you chose the period of time when we didn’t speak to one another, at all?” you muse. “Not just one day?”

“You know what they say. Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” he says. “You were on my mind every minute and every hour of those three and a half months.”

He pauses, sigh warm against your brow. “I couldn’t tell you when I knew, for sure. I certainly couldn’t admit it, then, even to myself. But sometime then, I realized I cared more about you than a friend.”

You’d never doubted he was capable of it, never doubted it might be true. But hearing him admit it, now you know why he wants to hear it from you, too.

“Say it,” you say.

He finally looks at you again, tired but alight with amusement.

“You first,” he says.

“Who knew three simple words would be so difficult for Saint Kim?” you tease him.

“Alright. Come here,” he motions, slipping out of you with a shared groan. He pulls you to a couch under the shuttered window, settling down and forcing you to straddle him. In this position he can’t stop you from immediately taking all of him, his eyelids fluttering when you bottom out.

“You feel like heaven,” he murmurs. 

“You’re not going to last,” you laugh, delighted by the way his nose scrunches when you clench around him. 

“Says the girl who’s sucking me in like you never want me to leave.” He grabs on to your hips to roll them against his own, fingers tightening when you wriggle against him. “You’re gonna say it first even if I have to fuck it out of you.”

“Whoever comes first, then?” you offer.

“I can live with that,” he sighs, head resting back on the couch. 

You rock on your knees slowly, satisfaction warming you throughout as you force him all the way inside you. You let him hear how he makes you feel, pleading sounds and whispers every time he hits that place in your upper walls, curved inside of you perfectly. It doesn’t matter if you're in control you can’t help but hunt down that lovely rush of pleasure in your belly, twining your arms around his shoulders to steady yourself. 

“Good girl,” Doyoung praises, watching you in awe through half-lidded eyes. “You’re so beautiful. I always wanted to know what it would look like when you lost yourself with me.”

His words make you shiver, brushing his lips until he holds you against his mouth to show you how he likes it, less exploratory and more confident. It’s maddening how good he is at this, making you feel every single sweep of his tongue across yours, hand on your neck keeping you from escaping. 

“Don’t you want to–” you protest as he helps you to lay flat on your back across the length of the wide loveseat, settling between your thighs. 

“Oh god, Doie,” you whimper when he takes over, finally, finally, beginning to fuck you. It’s just as slow but at least he penetrates you fully before pulling out almost all the way, shoulders quaking as he holds himself up. 

“Promise me you'll let me dote on you for the rest of your life,” he says, not waiting for your response before driving into you again. His movements are barely controlled, grunts escaping the back of his throat when his hips snap into yours again.  

“I promise,” you hold onto him, back arching off the cushion to meet him, blissed out in the relief of each, careful stroke against your fluttering walls. That crescendo is happening whether you want it to or not, every overworked knot of muscle threatening to snap loose. 

“Promise me that no matter who you fuck you’ll always let me treat you right,” he says, voice breaking. “You’ll let me show you how I feel even when I can’t say it.”

“Yes, Doie. Yes.” You pull down on his shoulders, trying to move for you both, kissing his jaw and throat.

“Stop fighting me and take it,” he says, moving more easily with the thick coat of your cum, establishing a gentle rhythm. 

His voice has always made it hard for you to pay attention to anything else but he abuses that power now, murmuring guidance into your neck that has you tightening around him as he fucks you deep and slow. 

“That’s my girl,” he praises. “You’re taking me so well. Take all of me.”

You feel shivers up and down your body, nipples hardening tight as they brush against his chest, his hair tickling your forehead as he blindly kisses and licks at your mouth and chin. 

You’d thought he’d be concentrating on something else in his head to keep from losing himself but instead it’s you who's floating, breath captured in your lungs when he adjusts on top of you to pin your hips down, pressing your leg wide to bury himself to the hilt.

“You feel so perfect. I could really do this all night, you know,” he smirks down at you from where he’s supported on his elbow. “Is that what you want?”

“No, fuck, please,” you whine. There’s no thoughts in your head besides just how much you want that ache inside of your cunt to melt into real pleasure. 

“You want me to stop?” he asks, feeling how you begin to pulse around him as he swirls his hips up into that most sensitive part of you, his flat belly grinding into your clit. You gasp, leg locking around his, helping him work you apart.

“No no no,” you beg, face hot. “Just . . . just kiss me through it, please.”

Doyoung’s smile grows wider. “Say what you already told me.”

You twist your head against the cushion, earning his hand on your jaw as he makes you look at him while you break, kissing you between panting breaths. His confidence is written in the cocksure grin remaining on his mouth, more cruel when he bites at your bottom lip, hard, before licking the pain away. 

“Say it,” he breathes, slowing down on purpose. 

“I . . . ah,” you cry out, “I love . . . please don’t stop.” 

“What’s that?” he asks, pace punishingly slow. Your legs lose feeling, vibrations starting in the back of your thighs and tremoring down to your feet. 

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” you repeat, nearly tipping off the edge, “I’m coming, I’m finally–”

He slows down right as you hit that crest, making you cry out in frustration. 

“Doie, I’ll kill you–”

“Say it,” he says into your lips, pulling out–too far–

“Iloveyou,” you exhale, seizing around him in time to your wildly beating heart.

“Louder.” He slams into you again, merciless.

“I love you, you stupid bastard,” you say, hanging on to his shoulders. “I love you!”

“Good enough,” he says, drilling into you until he can feel you break, orgasm sustained through the painful pressure of him losing himself in your throbbing heat, finding your mouth again, finally, to silence the repeated mantra on your tongue.

You kiss him fiercely, unloading everything words aren’t enough for, legs tied around his waist to keep him locked inside you until he’s fighting back, fucking you so hard the sound of it fills the quiet room. 

“I love you,” you repeat a final time for him, just to watch the way it makes him break, jaw slackening when he loses control, finally. 

He stutters into his own orgasm, teeth scraping against your locked lips, forehead pressed into yours as he empties inside you for what feels like forever, finally collapsing on top of you with a whimper when his arms give out and he’s as limp as his cock inside you. 

You scrape your nails across his scalp, soothing him. You don’t mind his weight, or the way you’re still pressed together with sweat and your combined spend. 

“Wasn’t so hard, was it?” he rasps, eyes dazed as he looks up at you. 

“No,” you say, shaking your head tightly. “Not for me, at least.”

“You’re not mad?” 

You know he means his inability to say the magic words but you crack a smile, just as pleased with yourself. 

“About the bet?” you ask. “No.”

Oh, it’s delicious seeing realization dawn on his face, little glimmers of surprise and horror bubbling up from his afterglow. 

“Fuck,” he says. You’re grateful he doesn’t deny it, rolling to the side in defeat. 

“Who told you? ‘Woo?”

You laugh softly, rolling over to pin him down with your leg, trapping him against the back of the couch. 

“You did, right now,” you say, relishing having him where you want him. “I had a hunch. And I know you, you’d never beg for someone to say something during sex–”

“I didn’t beg,” he corrects, grimacing.

“What was it? The first one to get me to say it? Bonus points if it’s on your cock?”

“Ah, well,” he says, perking up despite the fist pressed to his forehead in embarrassment. “Then you don’t know.”

“I’ll find out soon enough, Jaehyun wouldn’t–”

“You’re really not mad?” he asks, painfully reticent as you pull his hand away from his face and twine your fingers together.

“Not if it means I can use it as leverage,” you say, kissing his knuckles.

That doesn’t seem to surprise him, at all. 

“Good girl,” he says. “What do you want?”

A few years ago, give or take 

You’re a little too happy, an awful fact considering how much he'd missed seeing you this way.

Lately you’ve been sleepwalking through your life, all those tiny fractures and bruises finally having the time to mend–but healing is a painful process in itself. Doyoung had returned from his family’s formal Chuseok gathering in Singapore, eager to check in on you after receiving sparing responses from you via text.

You didn’t have a friend he could check in with instead any longer–not after that one girl had fled the country, the other ghosting you after their father was mysteriously laid off from a company he well knew did business with Suh International. 

He’s worried about you long before that, terrified that one last straw would break you even if by all indications you were strong enough to take it. After you’d had Johnny arrested and solicited a no-contact order you’d cut your ex off completely, moving to a tiny apartment far from where you’d grown up, changing your number. 

Only Jungwoo knew about it, and it was he who’d reluctantly offered your whereabouts to him after a few glasses of whiskey in their usual club. 

“She asked me to keep her info on lockdown. Got that hacker kid, what’s his name–Haechan? Wiped her socials off the map, so he can’t find her. He did good but you know Suh.”

Doyoung nods. They hadn’t seen him in a few weeks, probably because the idiot was combing through every civic office and apartment building in the city. Hell, he’d probably driven around until he found her by sight alone, knowing that animal wouldn’t rest until he knew her whereabouts, as stubborn about chasing her down as he was about refusing the F4’s help. 

“His mother called me to ask if the place he bought in cash was for her,” Doyoung says, knocking back his drink as he receives a text, heart sinking that it's not you. “Did you help him buy it for her?”

Jungwoo sighs. “No. I just got her rent halved with some coercion, you know? But then he goes and buys a unit in the same building with whatever stash he thought the Old Tiger didn’t know about.” 

The Devil Kim leans back, long legs akimbo as he gestures towards the server for a refill. “He’s waiting for her to go back to Chicago before he moves in. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

“I did not,” Doyoung affirms, turning away from the group of women at the bar sending looks towards their private table. “Let’s plan for when Madam Suh leaves. I can have her pull him into the London offices, considering he’s failing his courses.”

“Stone cold,” Jungwoo says, smirking. “Glad I’m not on your shit list.”

“Just don’t fuck with her,” Doyoung says. “Or fuck her.”

Jungwoo laughs into his glass. “Even I’m not that stupid.”

He’d thought he wasn’t, either. 

Not until you’d called a few days later, your speech a little slurred. He couldn’t have told you if what he was doing was important even if he was in a meeting, showing up to find you picking at a bowl of bar snacks in what he thought might be one of the nicer bars in your shitty part of town. Not as shitty as your old neighborhood, but it wasn’t a competition.

“Saint Kim,” you’d heralded him, raising an empty glass still smelling of watermelon and hibiscus. 

“You shouldn’t be drinking alone, here,” he’d said. 

You were dressed in one of your few nice outfits, a little on the revealing side for his tastes, but those had been Johnny’s you’d conformed to–animal print and thin straps, tastefully tasteless.

“I wasn’t,” you say, hiccuping. “Alone.”

For the first time in a long time fear spikes his blood pressure into overgear. Were you drugged? Was he going to have to fend off another predator who'd found you vulnerable?

You deserved the chance to move on but there was a real threat in what would happen to anyone who approached you without their permission. Johnny’s, yes, always, but the F4 had also agreed to look out for you well before your last incident at a club. 

“Who?”

“She left,” you say. He feels instant relief, reaching out to adjust the thin coverup slipping off your bare shoulder. 

“You make a new friend?”

You shake your head. “She’s nice. Met her in one of the ikebana classes work is paying for. Thought we were hitting it off but I must have said something dumb because she ran out of here, fast.”

You look up at him cautiously, too inebriated to realize he can recognize a set-up before it begins.

“You didn’t just talk about your ex, did you?” he asks, settling beside you at the bar. He orders something less ridiculous than whatever you'd been drinking, while you scroll through an Instagram feed, finger trembling over the screen. 

You look up at him, color-stained lips curving in an easy smile. “You want to see what we’re working on?”

Doyoung finds himself looking through a grid that is immediately obvious is not yours. His mouth goes dry, seeing rows of beautifully-staged floral centerpieces, the backgrounds as familiar as the back of his hand. You don’t seem to notice, going to the user’s story and tapping in vain to find the picture she’d posted.

“She deleted it already. Huh. Well, she texted me the picture–”

“Stop.” Doyoung places his hand over yours, his palm damp from the immediate flood of adrenaline. 

“So you do know Mona,” you say. You look up at him, expectantly, eyes glassy with the brand of hopefulness and naked curiosity he’s seen you charm everyone else around you with before. 

“She’s the one, isn’t she?”

Doyoung pulls cash from his pocket, not caring how much he puts down except that he’s sure it’s enough to cover the amount he’d like to drown himself in right now. Enough to go blind and burn out the phantom of that face he’d put behind him years ago. 

“Put your coat on,” he says. “I’m driving you home.”

“But I’m not–”

“Now,” Doyoung says, grabbing your wrist. He’s barely ever touched you in the years that you’ve been friends, and it sickens him when he feels you freeze in fear and confusion, that trauma response buried so deeply it's in your bones.

He wants to be kind, he wants to be patient with you. He just doesn’t have it in him to be anything to you right now.

“What’s wrong, Do–?”

“We’re leaving,” he says, dragging you out into the bitter cold evening, the streets slick with sleet, your heels catching on the pavement as you stumble in his wake.

“Stop,” you yell at his back, trying to yank your arm free from where he’s bruising your skin with whitened knuckles. “You’re hurting me–”

“You’ll live,” he says, pulling you to where he’s parked his car, the engine roaring to life the moment you manage to close your door. He can barely look at you, realizing too late that your crestfallen expression is making him more upset than the lightning strike of seeing her name again.

“You didn’t ask my address,” you say, quietly, met with his silence as he drives much more dangerously than the weather permits. He's forced to speak with you once he's slammed the brakes at an intersection, red light shading you through the windshield.

“Tell me one thing,” he says. “Did you try to set us up by having me come there?”

You’re petulantly silent now, an answer in itself.

“Answer me,” he orders, hands gripping the wheel.

“I thought you’d want to–”

“Do you think we have the kind of relationship where you can just do whatever you want and get away with it?” Doyoung’s voice is calm but he sees you flinch at his words and tone, your shoulders moving under your jacket as you begin to quietly cry. 

It drives him deeper into anger, hitting the gas with a roar of the engine the instant the light turns green. 

“You don’t get to feel sorry for yourself for this one, Y/N,” he says, already regretting every word tumbling out of his mouth. “You fucked up.”

“I just thought you could both have some closure after that–”

The car jerks as he brakes in the side lane of the service road, cars roaring past them honking their horns. Your sobs are barely audible over the idling engine and the blink of the hazards he turns on while he tries to find calm, your face turned away from him. 

“You thought that interfering in other people’s personal lives would make you feel better,” he says. “No wonder you don’t have any real friends.”

Out of the corner of his eye he can see your full body shakes still, can feel as that armor encasement you’d put together piece-by-piece over years of dealing with loveless reality falls back into place. And, years later–no, even hours later–he’ll remember how at the time he was stupid enough to think it was the right thing to say. 

You needed a reality check, he’d thought. A reminder that all the wishes and hopes in the world wouldn’t change the bleak architecture of it, uncaring by design and much easier to navigate without them. That moving on was the only path to this idiot’s dream of closure, something you knew nothing about for how often you’d let them pull you back into their world, blinded by sunk-cost and loneliness. 

All the things he wished he believed for himself, but without the benefit of your optimism.

“Fuck you, Kim Doyoung,” you say, opening the car door and slamming it shut without so much as a glance behind you. He’d waited to make sure you reached the nearest bus stop before driving off, calling Jungwoo to let him know you were here–crying in the cold. 

He'd seen you in passing.

His best friend knew a lie when he’d heard it, most especially from him. 

He wouldn't hear from you again until spring.

Kim Doyoung can’t sleep. 

He’s not allowed to. 

He can’t move either, arm going numb beneath your curled body, your breathing finally easing for the dozenth time since his trial began. You have horrible sleep habits–kicking off the covers, stealing the pillows–but tonight you’ve passed out with that same bone-deep tiredness he’d felt earlier, face beatific in the slivers of light piercing through the slatted shades. 

It’s close to dawn, he thinks, the cacophony of insects and birds outside transitioning from a quiet chorus to a full orchestral suite. Soon it will be too loud to sleep deeply. 

“Y/N?” he whispers, tentatively, not daring to move.

You don’t respond, relief rushing through him. It’s not that he’s desperate to join you in slumber but that he’s waited for you to finally surrender to REM. He needed you down. 

And you needed it, too. 

He’d negotiated with Jaehyun when you’d been in the shower, earlier, sacrificing precious moments of shared time exploring your skin and the new taste of you under the water to supplicate himself to his best friend and worst enemy in this moment.

“It’s a charter,” Jaehyun said, blinking sleep from his eyes but awake enough to be angry. “You’re not finding another one short term.”

“I emailed you the tickets. Cattle car but first class, at least,” he says. “Jungwoo agreed to give you his day, he doesn’t want to take her out until after dark, anyway. You can sleep in tomorrow.”

“Fine.” Jaehyun had slammed the door shut in his face, but he hadn’t missed the budding smile on his friend’s face. At least one person was rooting for him.

That’s how he’d earned another morning with you. As always, making up for lost time.

You’re half out of the covers, one leg sprawled over the duvet as you sleep. You’d put on one of his softer button-downs, inhaling the smell of it after he tried to steal it back. 

“Please let me wear you,” you said. “I want to dream about you.”

Being around you like this is more comfortable than he imagined, as if you’re being slotted into a position he didn’t even know there was an existing space for. He’s woken up to women in his bed but you’re the first who’s ever asked him for this, particular experience.

“I used to have this fantasy, you know, whenever we crashed at your apartment.” He’d watched you go sheepish recalling, dates omitted for a reason. “Sometimes I’d lie there and touch myself thinking about you crawling into that guest bed–maybe a little drunk or you’d forget which room. Or maybe, you just wanted me to think that. I’d be awake but I’d pretend to be asleep while you . . . used me.” 

He experiments by tracing his fingertips up your bare leg, the peek of your lace underwear beneath the hem of his shirt maddening for how it curves into the crest of your ass, presented for him. A treat dangled before him, the command to partake only that you wanted him to make it slow–you wanted to wake to it.

He sucks a breath in, erection in his sweatpants hard against the band already from just watching his sleeping beauty. He finds every mark on your leg, every fine hair, thanking Heaven above you aren’t overly sensitive or ticklish like he is when his hand slips beneath his shirt to your belly. 

He slots himself against you, carefully, as if adjusting in his sleep. He has to wait for your breathing to even out again, slipping his free hand up to your breasts. 

“Used you? Did you not get off in this scenario?”

“I mean, yes. But it’s mostly about you. You wouldn’t say anything at all, you’d just fuck me full of your cum and then you’d leave me leaking it on your sheets and go back to your room. Or sometimes I’d crawl in your bed, if you were alone, and you’d cover my mouth so the others couldn’t hear it. And the next day it would be like nothing happened, you wouldn’t even bother to ask how I’d slept.” 

He loved how much of a slut you were, when you felt comfortable enough to share that side with someone. Johnny had certainly never appreciated the subtleties of your nature–too blinded by adoration to even consider degrading you on purpose. 

No, Doyoung had known for awhile you pushed the boundaries with him to see if he’d break.

Your nipples harden even though he’s barely handling them, discovering what shape your breasts make in repose as he tries desperately not to rut into the swell of your ass. Warming himself in you earlier had been one of the hardest challenges he’d faced but it had been worth it to learn you inside and out, to know how to make you grip his cock with that delicious little cunt of yours with just a kiss or a word that pleased you.  

You don’t wake but he knows he’s gotten through to that little lizard brain of yours when your legs rub together unconsciously, pushing back into him so his cock is settled between your buttocks. The friction from the lace is like the proverbial pea under a mattress–rubbing against his cock through the layers, catching on the veins and scraping the underside of his cockhead. 

It’s already a nice ache, one he ignores as he adjusts to better continue plucking and teasing at your body beneath your shirt, until you’re used to his touch enough to truly fall back under, once more.

You're so vulnerable, completely at his mercy as he brings his hand down to test the patch of moisture growing in the fabric, that lace sticky with your dreams of him. 

Use you, he thinks. You have no idea what he wants. 

Doyoung can play with the fantasy of you crawling into your boyfriend’s best friend’s bed while he’s passed out in the other room, determined to be punished for waking a sleeping monster . . . but it’s not what he's fantasizing about now. 

He takes time in stroking you, a single finger digging in between your lips through the fabric, listening intently for your breathing to change. You sigh, one of those full exhales one does in their deep sleep, but you arc back a little, into his touch, leg falling forward crooked so you’re a little more spread. 

Doyoung wishes he could move down there and use his nose to push you apart instead of his hand but that’s not your fantasy–not this time. You didn’t want him to spoil you anymore, completely underestimating his love for it. True, he didn’t often eat other girls out, too personal or just too much of a chore to figure out what they liked, but you weren’t ever going to be with him and not come from that first. 

Just the thought of tying you up so he can spend hours fucking you on his tongue is making his cock pulse, too hard to be ignored. He quietly pulls down the drawstring of his sleepwear, freeing himself so he can replace his finger with the much wider tip of his cock, biting back a groan as he rubs into that damp, soft lace he’d known would suit you the moment he’d touched it in the display box brought to his private buying room. 

You'd never know he’d already fucked himself with it before ever giving it to you, that errant fantasy of touching you finally realized as you whimper a little in your sleep at the soft push of him between your legs. He finds where your clit is getting just as swollen as the rest of you, bouncing against warmth and the promise of unspooling that need with his help, again.

Just his precious little cocksleeve, spoiled and worshiped, showing your gratitude by begging for it even when you’re unconscious. He tests the waters of the scenario by slowly pulling the seat of your underwear to the side, easing in between the fabric and your folds. 

You twitch against him, sheets rustling. He holds still, cock jumping and balls tightening with a little anxiety. 

He only has this one chance. 

Outside in the dark and quiet of the house sleeps the man everyone knows you’re really with, the one who doesn’t have to fight for an I love you to pass your lips. You’d never understood what it felt like watching you climb into Jaehyun’s lap whenever the whim took you, pretending you didn’t know what it did to him or the other two of them watching you.

Your breathing is shallow and your hand flexes a bit, against the pillow, but that’s it. Within a minute he’s grown more confident that you’re still asleep.

He reaches over you, pressing the pads of two fingers against the front of your underwear while he slips a little deeper between your legs, eyes almost rolling back in his head at the contrast between the satiny slide of you and the rougher cling of your panties. It’s a relief as he loses himself to it, rutting from the back while he applies constant pressure to your bud.

“Mmm.” You make a soft noise, but he doesn’t pull free, choosing instead to keep a hypnotizingly steady pace fucking against you. Your hips twitch against him, seeking out more contact, but he doesn’t rush–pressing his head against the back of yours and melding with you in the softness of the pillows and sheets. 

You’re so wet you’re soaking his pants, everything he collects tickling down to his balls pressed into your ass. He’s going to stuff your mouth with his fingers, when you finally open it, make you gag on them while he fills you full from behind. 

You moan now, voice syrupy with sleep. He doesn’t care if you’re still down, not with you gently pushing back, trying to get release.  

Not yet, you little harlot, he thinks, hips going still again. He’s burning at the wait, your cunt continuing to glide against him as you act out whatever is going on in your dreams, the movement making him insane for how closely it adheres to his desire to have taken you back when you were innocent, his little virgin weed learning what her body wanted, seeking it out in his bed.

“Treat me like one of the girls you don’t really like. Use me.”

Such an unending fantasy of yours that he never wanted you, almost sweet for how dumb you are–or just willfully ignorant. He’s always liked the second one better–your little game played out that you were one of them. Dressed in that school uniform, kicking your skinned knees, sucking on a piece of candy while four college-age idiots hid their bathing-suited boners under their robes, fighting or fucking around in front of you so you could keep up that precious little illusion of immunity. 

“Johnny,” you murmur in your sleep. 

It should make his blood run cold but as with all twisted-up and tangled desires it only makes him feel ignited, pulse pounding in his head. You’re still asleep and thinking of someone else, someone not even in this house, the guilt of it passing over him faster than a cloud on a breezy day. 

He rocks back into you, this time pulling out enough that he can find your soft hole, already tight again–the only part of your body not relaxed as he forces his way past the flutter of your opening, cockhead sensitive enough to sense the more textured g-spot where he knows you’ll come fast and easy if he fucks into it. 

“Shh,” he says, finally trailing his mouth against your jaw, pushing into you softly. “Go back to sleep, baby.”

“Mmhmm,”  you reply, nuzzling into the pillow, curling into him. He pushes a knee between your legs, folding you into the bed beneath him as he begins to fuck you, finally taking you for himself and himself alone. 

You’re so warm inside, body adjusting to take him easily for how boneless you are, kitten-like mewls muffled by the pillow. It turns him on hearing the edge of pain there, the way you struggle when he pulls your underwear up so tight it sticks between your folds, clit rubbing against it the way he’d stroked himself to completion with it tied tight around his cock.

“Stay quiet or I’ll stuff your mouth full instead,” he whispers against your shoulder, feeling as always a little stupid but losing that internal cringe when you choke on a moan.

“Is that what my little slut was dreaming about? Gagging to tears on another man’s cock?”

He feels you tense at a bit at the suggestion, letting him use you in spite of the rougher handling. 

“That’s right. You said another man’s name in your sleep. Do you think that's acceptable?”

You shake your head, whimpering. 

“Such a whore you can't keep track of who's dick is inside of you. Tell me, who's fucking you right now?” 

“Doie,” you say, music to his ears. He'd always hated the nickname until you started using it. You were the only one–you were always the only one who made his chest burn with unsated desire when you said his name.

“Who owns this tight little pussy?” 

“You do,” you gasp out. 

“Are you going to forget me? Maybe I need to fuck you so hard you only think of me when you spread your legs for another man.” 

Doyoung feels electric at how easily you begin to crumble with just a few words, squeezing his dick so tight when he says something you like, even more when he makes it hurt. 

“Sleepy baby going to let me stuff every one of your holes until I’ve had enough? Use you like my own little doll?”

You nod, no longer capable of speaking except in a plaintive moan when he leaves you to shuck off his pants and pull down your ruined panties, pillow pulled beneath your belly to force your ass up. In this position he can drill into you deeper, burying you into the mattress with each thrust. 

“That’s what you get for crawling in here,” he says, fingers digging bruises into your hips to hold you down. “Keep your mouth shut and take it.”

The pleading, almost scared noises you're making have him hard and pulsing, two steps away from coming himself but in no hurry to. He pulls your hair to bring your head back, shoving his fingers in your mouth. 

“You like that?” Your cunt can't hide it, sucking him in. “Get them wet for me.” 

You drool over his knuckles, gagging as he fucks your mouth with them in an awkward rhythm to his merciless rutting. He spits into his hand when he's satisfied, fingers swirling around the tight rim of your ass so quickly it makes you buck. 

“Don't scream,” he murmurs, giving you two fingers at once. You make a noise through the pillow you're biting, gripping him tight. He's gentler with this, slowing, letting you adjust to take him.

“This is my favorite, right here,” he groans. “Feeling my cock inside you with my fingers. I'd fuck this tight little ass again but I want to feel you come like this.” 

He begins to stroke you harder, deeper, wet and sticky when his balls slap against your abused cunt. He keeps his fingers buried in you, scissoring you open as you take it.

“Come for me, Y/N, grip me good so I can fill that pretty mouth of yours.” 

It's a beautiful feeling when you begin to throb, contractions in your ring of muscle letting him know when you hit your peak. He fights the tingling in his balls, the urge to come with you painful for how long he's been holding it back. 

He talks you through it, instead.

“Such a good little hole,” he says. “You're coming so hard, baby, can feel it so well.” 

You moan, loud, as you break, loosening almost immediately, flooding him with sweet, hot warmth. He makes sure the last of those tics is gone before pulling out.

“Roll over,” he says, straddling you with a hand on the headboard, delighted by the sight of your flushed face and starry eyes. You already know what to do, tongue lolling and uvula exposed as he guides himself into your mouth, soft tongue swirling around his tip. 

God help him he's been thinking about this since yesterday, pushing deep enough to gag but not choke, fucking your mouth and the hot tightness of your throat when he hits it. It’s the sight more than anything that drives him to spill hot white ropes of cum into your mouth, pulling out to milk the last few splashes on your parted lips and delighting at the sight of you licking them with your spend-covered tongue.

“You’re so perfect,” he says, dropping down and kissing you, finally, tongues stroking each other until you finally pull free to breathe, blinking up sleepily at him. 

“You do taste different,” you tease.

“I taste like you,” he says, pressing soft kisses all over your face. “My sweet, sweet girl.”

“Did you like that?” you murmur. 

“I loved–” he pauses, watching the smile spread on your wet lips. 

“I love you, you know,” he finishes. You reach around his neck, comforting him out of instinct, but he doesn’t need it. 

“I love you,” he repeats, testing the words on his tongue now that they've flown out so easily, the tightness in his chest easing as you rise up to kiss him. 

“It's beautiful to hear you say it,” you say. “But you're right, I know.”

“I think I even know the exact time and date,” you say, reaching between you into the pocket of your shirt to pull out that torn and folded art paper scrawled with your words and an amateurish sketch.

Tomorrow morning . . .

[Unknown number] [Tomorrow morning April 13th dawn is at 6:17] [I have something to show you. Meet me on the roof of the East Wind Hotel]

Doyoung looks at the text message again, hand hanging over the railing of a dance floor, conversation with the woman by his side forgotten. With the blur of a late night and a trip to a different hotel room, with a different woman, he'd almost missed it.

Probably one of the innumerable flings he's had, Jungwoo recruiting him to get every last lick of enjoyment out of Seoul before he enlisted. His friend snatches the phone from his hand.

“No business,” Jungwoo slurs, eyes bloodshot as he focuses on the text. “I thought you weren't working hospitality anymore.” 

“It's not . . .” There's something nagging at him, like a bird pecking at his skull in time to the drone of the EM, the buzz of conversation. A sense of deja vu so strong he's forced to cycle on it. 

“Pfft. I know you don't bring girls back to your kingdom,” Jungwoo says. “Stop working and party.”

Doyoung doesn't know why he feels compelled to see the cryptic message through, doesn't know why he races across town at 5 am, reeking of whiskey and another woman’s perfume, doing his best to sober up as the designated driver talks about the change in weather, the cherry blossoms in full bloom outside the window.

The morning commute is already surging and the destination central to the city so by the time he makes it he's out of breath from running two blocks away from a jam, head pounding.

“ . . . restricted for non-guests,” someone is saying, voice recognizable as an intern he knows from his leadership program, still stuck on night front desk duty. 

“I just need a few minutes, please. I need to take a picture–” He'd recognize that voice in a hundred years if he hadn't heard it, not just a hundred days.

“What's going on here?” 

You freeze, shoulders stiffening as you turn to face him. Not much has changed–a new haircut, same ratty old sneakers–but you look different. No longer a ghost, but just as untouchable for the skittish way you hold when he approaches, only the barest relief on your beautiful features.

You don't smile, don't even say hello.

You're scared of him, again, just that thought making him spiral.

“You came,” you say, exhaling. “We need to hurry. We need to get to the roof.”

Doyoung turns to the staff. “Is the roof access still shut down?”

“Stair access only, sir.” 

Your eyes go wide at the interchange, something like embarrassment passing over your features as you begin to laugh. 

“Of course this is your hotel,” you state, smacking yourself on the forehead. “Of course, why didn't I think to check that. God, I'm an idiot.” 

“We didn’t change the name when we acquired the chain so it would be unlikely for you to have guessed that,” he says. “What are you doing here?” 

“There's no time and it's easier just to show you. We need to get to the roof, now,” you say, grabbing his wrist and tugging on it towards the stairs. 

“Y/N,” he says, holding you fixed and pointing at the elevator. “We can take it up as far as we need to.” 

You're still laughing maniacally twenty floors up. “I was going to cry if I had to go up another flight of stairs.” 

“Are you really taking pictures?” He asks, gesturing at your camera.

“No, but I started carrying it the first time someone called the police on me thinking I was going to jump,” you giggle, wiping away tears. He feels delirious from lack of sleep, so maybe you are, too, but it doesn't seem to be the case as you spring out the doors, forcing him to guide you when you're lost in the executive suite hallways.

“I managed to sneak in last time, otherwise I wouldn't have gotten this far. I'm glad you came just in time, I think they were going to kick me out.”

He's surprised at how easily things have snapped back into place between you, no mention of anything that's happened as you race up the stairwell to the roof access. 

“Will you tell me–”

“Oh thank god,” you say once your through the heavy doors and collapsed on the green helipad, growing impatient when he props the door open out of habit. He's been up here many times, nothing remarkable about the space besides the legacy sign on top, view crowded by other buildings at varying levels. 

“Stand here,” you say, pushing him into place, turning him by the arms. “Do you see it?”

“I don't even know what I'm looking for,” he says, beginning to grow annoyed. 

“Look over there, at the People's Bank. Relax your eyes, it will only take a minute.”

He feels increasingly foolish but he does what you ask, cool morning breeze clearing his muddled head. The sky is washed in a pink and blue haze, the sun cresting the more mountainous region of the city behind you to bathe the city in solid gold.

“There,” you breathe, letting out a little sigh.

“What?” All he can see is a few birds passing over the vista of crowded advertisements and neon. 

“Do you see the light?” you ask. 

“There's tons of lights–” he begins, cut short by the blinding catch of the sun's reflection on one of the characters, then another. He spells it out slowly, guided by your hand holding his to each one. 

The bank: Sa. 

The next building over, also burning brighter with the touch of the sun: Rang. 

Then an advertisement that has been up long enough most of the original message is lost. Hae.

“How did you find this?” he asks, knowing it would be impossible for him to have ever seen this without knowing the trick of the light. 

“I didn't find it. Well I did–I had to search some buildings for it.” 

Later he'll find out you climbed close to fifty flights of stairs in the last two months, had spent every waking moment not working or in school breaking into buildings before sunrise to find that exact spot, forever amused at the thought you hadn’t checked his family's flagship hotel first.

“You don't remember getting the same message from someone else?” you ask. “I was worried you wouldn't come, again.”

Again. Something tugs the memory up from the oubliette he'd locked it into, Mona teasing him about sleeping in and missing their appointment.

Mona. 

His stomach falls, checking back behind him at the door as if that particular ghost will return to haunt him.

“She's not here. I wasn't trying to set you up,” you say, recognizing the dismay he can't hide. “Honestly. And I know whatever closure you find is yours and yours alone. You were right about that, too, I'm sorry.”

You twist your hands in front of you, suddenly overwhelmed with anxiety. “I did this for me. Because I wanted to know what she tried to tell you, even if she couldn't say it aloud.”

You don't look at him, can't in order to continue. Doyoung feels like a live wire, exposed, two months of painful loneliness and a lifetime's worth of avoidance of this fact all surging through him in this moment. 

As much as he would prefer to leave he's not going to run like he did back then, when he'd ignored the hard parts to pretend like a friendship wasn't something more. Not with the stakes of losing this one.

“You once told me you were just friends, even if you couldn't be one anymore for her after you realized you loved her. How it broke you to be with someone you couldn't be with, who wanted something different.”

“Now you know. She didn't want to stay one, either,” you say. You look up at him nervously, regaining your confidence.

“I just wanted you to know that you were loved, Kim Doyoung. You still are.” 

You turn away towards the door, pretending not to have seen the tears dripping down his face under his glasses. He ignores them, too, not knowing what to say or do to make sure you never leave him again.

The spot never mattered to him, the word and it's confession forgotten in time. What changed that day was having you in front of him after so long, the way you were a reflection of him so many years ago, fighting to be by the side of someone who didn't know how to love you back, the right way.

He'd promised himself than that even if he couldn't say it, he'd show you.

“Thank you for coming. I'm sorry for interfering with your life, but that’s what friends do.”

You'd almost made it to the stairs when he'd wrapped around you from behind, the first ever time he'd held you in an embrace, unsurprised to find you shaking like a leaf as he rested a wet cheek against your hair. 

“I'm sorry,” he says. “Thank you.” 

You relax a little, squeezing his hand. In that small gesture everything is reset, everything is okay again. They won't talk about this for the next few years, even when Jungwoo asks how you'd come back into their lives so suddenly and without any indication that things had changed.

But they had. Deeply. 

“You can make it up to me by buying me breakfast,” you say, smiling up at him, wiping his cheek with your sleeve. “We have a lot to catch up on.” 

“Did I win?” you ask. 

Doyoung can only laugh, giddy, as you burrow into his side to smother him in kisses and teasing. You were put on this earth to challenge him, after all–always right there to match him in stubbornness and competition.

He presses his nose to your neck, inhaling the remnants of the scent you'd made together, one bottle for each, though you didn't have to know his formula was just a bit different.

“‘Tomorrow Morning’ has a nice ring to it, I suppose. It lingers well.”

“It was my answer, actually. I needed to see if I could break Saint Kim's vow of romantic abstinence before I made up my mind,” you say, smug as you move to get up. “Glad you were able to find out before your time was–”

You shriek as he pulls you down again, pinning you to the bed. 

“I still have a few hours,” he says, voice dangerous. “I'd like to hear you say it again.”

[dalliancekay]

"There is no 'our side', Crowley!"

I was looking for this gif and every post I came across was some variation on how poorly was Crowley treated here. Poor boy. How utterly cruel of Aziraphale. How heartless. How he just dropped Crowley like a hot potato. Cos Heaven was coming. And Aziraphale decided that they were over. And he was going back to them. Or something. If you know any that look into how Aziraphale is feeling, please tag me. What do I think Aziraphale is feeling?

Well. Was he happy to have Armageddon coming? No. But he did think it was inevitable.* However. They tried to influence the Antichrist. But had the wrong boy. Then they tried to think of how to find the real one and in that short time - what? Kill him? Talk to him? They had no idea what the kid is like. What powers he has. None.

The Great Plan. It is coming to its fulfilment. It is written. The War is about to begin. Heaven and Hell. The big one. They both know this. And this is not something Aziraphale or Crowley can avoid. It's not something they can just stop believing in. They had their Arrangement, their side (sort of), and they managed not to get caught. But now? Now Aziraphale is right. There is no OUR SIDE. There never really was. There might have been a moment in their existence on Earth (about 12 hundred years?) when they could feel like/pretend they are having their own side. But now the full reality of their existence is back. There are Heaven and Hell and they are preparing for War. They have no interest in Earth. Aziraphale and Crowley are tiny pawns in a very big picture. They both belong to their respective sides. They always have. Even when they found ways to work together. (Mostly cos their sides are conceited idiots both.)

And so Aziraphale decided for one more desperate attempt to get God to see how the whole thing can be avoided. Does he think She might understand? We don't know. Does he look full of hope as he walks back to his shop? He doesn't. He gets broken up with again by Crowley who nonsensically (and yes, romantically, sure) wants to go to another star - to do what? Wait till the end of universe reaches them? (Why is everybody always defending Crowley? And act like he's being reasonable there?) And then Aziraphale gets punched in the stomach. By a fellow angel. And told by Metatron to not be a bloody fool and report for service as the good angel he surely is.

And he gets discorporated. Which looks like it really sucks.

And then he DESERTS the War AND Heaven (that he apparently still has faith in...) and goes on a limb to find the boy and just see if he can come up with something. Anything. Thinking Crowley is gone. Packed his stuff and left. Possibly with the friend he was talking to when he tried to call his flat earlier.

Because Aziraphale feels the War and ending of the world is such injustice. Written or not. Great Plan or not. Maybe he didn't think at first he could make any difference but Crowley showed him it's worth considering it. *Crowley is always showing Aziraphale that things can be questioned. It didn't take Aziraphale long at all to reconsider letting things just play out and instead fight to the last breath he doesn't need, for Earth instead. The conditioning he needs to fight isn't that Heaven is good and right. The conditioning he needs to fight is that things can't be changed. That it is all written out. That he is a nobody and can't influence anything. Aziraphale's biggest fight and learning curve is in having faith in himself. So. Much like he felt it was unfair to leave the first humans unprotected and how he felt killing Job's kids was cruel, he disobeys and does his own thing again. He learns he can. But all this comes at a cost. To himself (thinking he will Fall for these things) but also to his beloved - and THAT is much harder for him. He would never want to put Crowley in danger. And he does. Every time they meet. The guilt he must feel for this.

Aziraphale lives between two sides. And they are both awful. And he is often misunderstood for just acknowledging this as reality he and everything else exists in.

I think his view of his reality is pretty accurate. There is no our side. They wanted one. But they can't leave their sides. Even after S1 they couldn't. Not really. And they both knew it. And no, he is not in clutches of Heaven or sometimes reverts to their indoctrination or anything like that. He goes along with Heaven as far as he MUST. And his life alongside his demon, however tentative, was always precious to him. And when it got threatened.

And got threatened again.

Aziraphale had to do the best he could and just do something. Anything. He could not just do nothing. He could not try and run. Crowley shows him that things can be different and Aziraphale has to do all to try and make it better.

Is Aziraphale always right? No. Does he make mistakes? Yes. I am never saying Aziraphale is faultless - but I think many things he is blamed for are not right. And I also think Crowley is often seen as can do no wrong. Everything he says is right. 100% correct. The right things to do. He knows more. Understands more. If he disagrees with Aziraphale than it follows that Aziraphale is wrong. That's not true. They are both beautifully rounded, full, flawed characters I love. They complement each other in ways I bet I have not even noticed yet. And they are their own beings too. They don't only exist for one another.

[trick-or-fucking-treat]

Hello! I hope you are doing great! But I was just wondering if I may request head-cannons for Bo Sinclair with a fem s/o who is like the cliche innocent good girl (loves wearing bows and ribbons, frilly cute dresses, Mary janes…) I feel like this would be an interesting dynamic with Bo (that he would absolutely EAT UP because that man is insane and you can’t tell he wouldn’t love the idea of “corrupting” someone or even like protecting the reader and shielding her from the world…) If not, that’s fine! But thank you and have a great day!

Bo Sinclair with innocent girly-girl (fem) S/O

Masterlist

When you strolled into town one day, Bo did not think you were real

I mean, pink… frilly dresses… ribbons!

Bo doesn’t leave town much so he can’t say for sure, but he didn’t think there were girls who actually dressed like that

He also didn’t think you’d be his type

And yet…

Bo and Vincent had killed all your friends, as per usual, but you hadn’t been there to witness it

You were such a sweetheart when Bo found you and you asked where your friends were

He couldn’t tell you

Instead, he told you they left without you

You were devastated, but Bo thought he’d done good(ish) by protecting you from a worse evil

He kept you around for while under the pretence that your friends might come back looking for you

Eventually the truth came out about Bo, his brothers, and the town

But by this point you’d already fallen hard and fast for Bo

You were everything Bo never knew he needed, and just about the cutest thing he’d ever seen

“Aww doll that’s damn sweet of ya! But there’s no need to bring beers to the garage, i’s all dirty in ‘ere and your dress is all pretty!”

He thought you deserved better than a ruthless killer like himself, but wants to keep you for himself nonetheless

He was shocked when you agreed to stay but did not complain

Would never admit it but loves playing with your hair, especially after you teach him how to plait it and tie the ribbons all pretty

Never lets you around new victims visitors

Doesn’t want you getting attached or upset, and doesn’t want you near all the gory happenings

(Won’t admit it, but he also doesn’t want to see you disappointed in him because he still thinks he doesn’t deserve you - doesn’t want you thinking that leaving him is a better option, either)

Kind of treats you like glass sometimes - never wants to distress you or be harsh with you and gets apologetic real quick if he’s snappy

“God, ‘m sorry baby I didn’t mean t’ snap at ya!”

“Lester better not’ve told you about the trouble last night! I swear to God I’ll kill him!” - “Bo! It’s fine! We were just chatting!” - “Doesn’t matter! You don’t need to hear all that nonsense!”

It’s nice, but you know he’s holding back

After he gets more comfortable with the relationship he’s a little less gentle

Still an absolute sweetheart and never intentionally upsets you, but he enjoys teasing you and lets you see the real him a little more

“Be careful there doll.. I don’t know anyone else who would describe me as a sweetheart. Wouldn’t want ya to see their point of view now would we?”

He’s testing your boundaries a little to see if opening up is going to scare you off

You can see the playful and often hopeful glint in his eyes though and know he would never hurt you

(P.s. sex with Bo started out so gentle and loving, but you knew he wanted to ruin you - corruption kink in full force once you finally let him)

(Wouldn’t do anything you don’t like though, any sign you’re not enjoying yourself and he’s stopping and making it up to you)

Eventually comes to face the fact that you’ve made him a better person - he’s still a psycho and a killer, but he never thought he could love and care for another person like he loves you

A/N: thanks for the request! So so sorry it took so long! Lmk if there’s anything else you’d like added, and feel free to request!

[bleubrri]

grocery shoppin’ baby-time fluff with bo \^o^/

before you even turn onto the aisle, you can hear your daughter squealing with laughter. bokuto is crouched in front of the cart, meticulously balancing an absurd amount of blueberry yogurt pots in his arms which she apparently finds hilarious. her heels kick back against the metal below her seat and the whole cart jolts from her excitement.

you stroll up, a poorly subdued smile etched onto your lips as your boyfriend struggles to clear the last few from the shelf.

“you realise we’re not buying all that, right?”

kotarous eyes dart up to where you’re leaning against the cart, smoothing your fingers over your baby’s hair. he pouts, yogurt tucked under his chin as he stands to face you, “it’s her favourite.”

you chuckle, reaching for one of the packs cradled in his arms. “last week her favourite was peach-mango. and the week before, she would rather throw yogurt in your face than eat it.”

bokuto counters your argument, “okay that was once, and i’ve got a feeling blueberry is the new wave. trust me on this, babe.” he grins at his little girl, babbling and waving her fists in agreement. you’re unconvinced.

you smirk, remembering empty yogurt pots littering his desk and berry flavoured kisses when he’d pick you up in the mornings. “oh yeah, whys that?”

bo puffs out his chest, strides over to your place beside the cart and confidently unloads his haul with the rest of the groceries. (which—now that you’re looking— seem to have been given a similar treatment, if the months supply of cereal boxes and apocalypse-prep level of crackers are anything to go by).

“because,” he drawls, “it’s in her blood! right, muffin?” he blinks expectantly at your daughter, who kicks her heels even more fiercely and giggles up at her daddy.

bokuto beams, scooping your little bundle of sunshine into his arms, turning to you with her perched on his hip and a smug smile on his face. “see?”

you roll your eyes playfully, reaching out to tickle the rounded tummy underneath her dungarees, “okay traitor, majority rules.” and dropping the pack that you’d swiped into the cart.

you watch with a droopy gaze as he spins her around in triumph, bubbly laughter filling the aisle and your heart squeezing in your chest. oh, you love them so much. you wonder if she’ll ever comprehend it, if he could ever understand all that he’s given you. you think you could burst into tears right here, feel your heart melt under your ribs and pool out at your fingertips right in the dairy aisle, watching bokuto babble nonsense at your baby like it’s the most important thing in the world.

he nods solemnly, leaning in to whisper, “tell mama we got the cookies she likes.”

you laugh, reaching out at the grabby hands made in your direction. “let’s get out of here before you two bankrupt us.”

~

“how could you do this to me?” bokuto whines, chin against the table and shoulders slumped in defeat.

you fight the smile that wants to emerge as you spoon the last of the yogurt into your daughters mouth. the dinner table has a pile of unopened yogurt packs in the corner, and a much larger trail of empty pots surrounding where bokuto slumps. he looks expectantly at the little girl perched in her high chair with strawberry-banana residue smeared onto her cheeks. she claps her hands and gurgles.

you make a show of wiping her down and chattering to her, “wasn’t that yummy! shall we try a new one tomorrow, hm?”

kotarou drops his forehead to the table with a resounding thud, muttering to himself, “i think i’m gonna throw up..”

even when she gets a little older and will eat most flavours without much fuss, there’s the odd pot of blueberry that remains untouched until after her dinner, when she’ll proudly deposit it in front of bokutos place and state that “daddy can eat it!”

he doesn’t have the heart to refuse her. he accepts it with vigour, “oh you treasure! thank you for sharing, baby.” and spoons down every mouthful as she watches him with glittering eyes that match his own. it’ll never fail to make you laugh when she totters off and his face drops into a groan, pushing the infernal blue pot as far away as possible.

[kit-williams]

Tiny hands

Be me has dozens of WIPS

ALSO ME: HEY KIDS HOW ABOUT SOMETHING ELSE

tag list: @bispecsual @egrets-not-regrets @moodymisty @bleedingichorhearts @liar-anubiass-blog

@thevoidscreams @barn-anon @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

tw: Pregnancy stuff (A lot of first hand stuff so yeah if this makes you uncomfy sorry) uh childbirth

The Lord of Iron returned to the Iron Amarantos immediately when he was told Penelope entered labor early. Two months early He thought. Ajax was coming now as he was told how Antioch had picked her up and rushed her to the medical wing when she realized her water had broken and the pain she was feeling was actually contractions.

He wasn't there, he mentally groused as he is led to where Penelope is. There were talks of an early delivery... inducing... making sure he was as developed as her body could handle without having to cut her open... given how big Ajax was already there was a risk of him just coming early as he was in position. He walked into the room and took in the sight of his wife.

She was out of her fineries of gold and black and iron just wearing a simple gown... it reminded him of something close to what she wore when she was but a serf still. Machines beeped and whirled as his eyes ate up all the information... as something hissed and he watched her brow furrow as her vitals spiked and she came out of her rest groaning in pain. Something... in him spiked with unease seeing her in pain.

"Oh Bo you're here." She said opening her eyes and looking at him with a exhausted smile.

"Of course I'm here Nelly." He says sitting next to her as she is clearly on pain medications as she slurs words to him... fading in and out mid sentence... passing out... waking up in pain... looking at the nurses and midwives with a confused blank expression.

Perturabo decided he... he did not like seeing this... as twice she woke up surprised that he was there. While she slept he got the reports both from the doctors and from his sons. Which left Perturabo alone with Nelly as she slept, he felt like a fool just sitting there to have conversations with a half drunk woman but... he looked at her face pressed against his forearm, he could feel her drooling slightly on his skin, he allowed himself a moment to smile... affection flooding his blue eyes. No Olympian Princess could compare... no no other Woman he has seen in his travels could compare to his Penelope.

He remembers how she was content to simply keep their relationship at the status quo... to allow him to have her without marrying her... to have his haven without any claims over her... she wanted those mortal desires of love and affection returned. Perhaps the thought of her looking at another with any amount of the same modicum of affection she willingly and freely gave to him. He was not the first of his brothers to marry but he was the first to have a... hopefully viable offspring. Suck it Dorn He sneered to himself.

His smile faded when a nurse came in to check on her as she just babbled nonsense but he could hear the way her breathing changed and the way her whole posture shifted. "He's coming."

Perturabo was wrong... it wasn't the drunken and high look in her eyes he hated and the half there half not. Oh no he hated this more.

Penelope screamed.

They moved around her like ants as Perturabo felt in the way at times but her small hand shook as she squeezed his own; as much as her hand could hold of his. The midwife was holding her other hand as her head leaned back after that push as she was given soft words by her midwife.

Perturabo listened to the doctors as a machine was brought closer... talks of a surgery room being prepared... he nearly missed her soft "Bo." His eyes met hers as she tiredly smiled at him, "This will be worth it." He caressed her cheek before they had her push again.

Sweat rolled down her skin as she screamed... it burnt a place to remain forever in the back of his mind. "He's out!" Someone said and his eyes moved to Ajax for a moment but returned to watch Nelly practically deflate with exhaustion. A jolt of panic rushed through Perturabo as with how pale she looked... if he was a lesser man he might have thought her dead.

"Baby..." She slurred as she tried to lift her head.

"Being taken care of right now." The ever faithful midwife said holding her hand.

"Water..." She said and was given it...

It all blurred together for Perturabo at that point... Ajax had to be taken to intensive care much to an upset Penelope but she passed out not long after. Perturabo sat in the room with her as she was coming down from the pain medications and he let out a quiet deep exhale as it was finally over.

"Lord Perturabo..." The midwife said and he looked over.

"Ajax is awake... and he's fine? We're not too sure what's going on but he's fine but we'd like to keep him for at least a week for observation."

"It is most likely due to my biology. But I will allow it not like I will fight professionals in this field I know little about." He said plainly. If he wanted to he could easily learn all he needed to about medicine, but his passion was creating.

Hours passed and Penelope finally woke up sober finally as she looked at him still tired and probably sore. "Where's Ajax."

"Intensive Care. He is a month and a half early... " Perturabo said as he leaned forward watching her smile.

"Hey handsome." She whispers tiredly.

Perturabo just leans in and kisses her. "I'm not going to say who he looks like until his skull plates have fused." He says and listens to her snort tiredly.

"Did you hold him?"

"No. I probably wont for awhile." Perturabo admits, "You did wonderfully." He says leaning forward and kisses her forehead. "I love you." He whispers against her forehead.

"Love you too." Penelope says softly before sleep takes her once again.

[twistedwonderlandobsession]

.•♥︎Spilled Tea♥︎•.

Series:Yuu Needs Therapy

Branch: Overblotts

Character: Riddle

Part: 1 of ?

Riddle....Riddle had always made you nervous. Not in the butterflies in your stomach way, but in the way of being caught by your parents doing something you shouldn't. Like he was looking through your very soul with that oh so piercing gaze every time he crossed paths with you. Like he was constantly judging your every move, analyzing everything. Pointing out every imperfection within the confines of his mind. A scolding with each glance, on the first day when Grimm caused a ruckus to every single time you passed him in the hall, every mere glance felt as if it was a lecture despite not a singular word of criticism passing his lips, just a firm line and

dissaproving glare whenever he saw you.

You spent so much time trying to resolve the small Quarles while trying to not get your head chopped off, walking on eggshells around him, choosing each and every word and action with precision while trying to poke and prod Ace's massive ego into just apologizing. Your hands chapped while shakily attempting to Crack open the chestnuts in order to make that damn tart. Making sure it looked absolutely perfect with bo cracks whatsoever. Wrapping it nicely in the best container you could. Reminding Ace to use gentle and careful words, even telling him exactly what ti say in order to make this all go away so you can be rid of him sleeping on that sofa.

Appearing at the birthday party with a small smile along with Ace and Deuce in tow. Watching as Ace apologized offering up the tart, before Riddles face turned Horrified apon finding out the mere flavor. Acting as if your ran over one of his hedgehogs for breaking the nonsensical Rule: 262 about how chestnuts tarts were forbidden from birthday parties. Unable to do anything but watch as he threw out their group and got rid of the tart, not by putting it in the fridge far away from the Birthday Party, but throwing it into the trash.

Failing over and over as you attempted to calm Ace's completely understandable frustration. But he completely refused to even attempt to apologize once more, and then Crowley dumped that unhelpful peice of information on them, encouraging the already roudy freshman to enact some sort of justice against the Crimson Tyrant.

Unable to stop them as they challenge their dear Housewarden to a duel. Proving his skills and cementing his position, which was both amazing and horrifying at the same time to all of the spectators. Amazed at his skills, but Horrified that he would remain in his position of power over the Heartslabyul students.

Then you had to watch yet again as any chance of a peaceful solution was dashed when Ace punched Riddle square in the face.

Having to desperately attempt to calm Riddle down after he overblotted, litterally fighting for your life as you attempted to snap him out of his enraged stupor. Being almost beaten senseless, blood splattered over the grass, painting any possible misscolored roses in a deep shade of red, trying to get the students out of the line of fire while Trey tried to hold back his magic. Absolutely helpless to do anything other than direct people and try to not be hit my his magic that would have killed a magic student easily, let alone your very magicless self. Barely managing to survive and snap him out of it with the combined magic of Trey, Carter, Deuce, Ace, and Grim combined.

Breathing heavily as relief filled your body as Riddle snapped out of his Rage and had a small breakdown while Trey dragged the sniffling Housewarden to the infirmary, while Carter attempted to gather all the injured students to the infirmary, most having a decent amount of blood loss, no less then 1/2 a litter for a most. Your skin covered bruises with blood soaking your clothing causing it to stick to your body as the metalic sent filled your nostrils. Your heart pounding through your chest as the noise of it filled your eardrums overwhelming any other of your senses.

Carter's appalled face twords grim consumption of the strange rock being the last thing you saw before suddenly black filled your vision.

[corrodedcoffins-blog]

The Agreement

quinn hughes x nhl player!reader

note: this take place on Jan. 27/28 of 2023

warning: food mentioned, badly written/rushed (even though it took the longest to write) smut, lowkey Quinn is a simp

word count: 2.3k

This wasn’t ever supposed to happen, sure Y/n had always found Quinn attractive, but that was where the line was drawn and she told herself never to cross it. Y/n had been on men’s teams since she was 13 and started liking boys, but she never even kissed any of them, let alone slept with them. 

-last night-

It all started when the team went out to celebrate their win against Columbus, and with them not having another game for a couple days, they probably got a couple rounds too many.

“Another!” “No! We’re done, yeah just the check please.” “Bo, you are no fun.” The only woman at the table says, pointing her finger at him while she does, before grabbing her purse and searching through the mobile junk drawer to hand him a couple bills. Before she gets the chance Quinn taps her hand, a signal for her to stop as he paid both their shares. Before Y/n could open her mouth to argue, Quinn interrupted with, “You get the uber?” “Okay.” She says, smiling, Y/n gets very smiley when she’s drunk, and flirty, which did not go unnoticed by Quinn; he watched her flirt with the waiter all night.

After saying their goodbyes to their teammates when their uber arrived, the two walked out of the pub and into the cold Vancouver air. “I really love Vancouver, I’m glad I got drafted by a Canadian team. It has a piece of home. Rains a bit too much though, I could do without that. And you lived in Toronto right? I never went there before playing the leafs.” She also rambles when she’s drunk, “That’s us I think.” The tall woman walks over to the black car, confirming it was theirs, before opening the door for Quinn. 

“Shouldn’t I be getting the door for you?” “If you know me at all Huggy, you know that’s not true.” “True.” Y/n had always been independent, and with playing in the NHL she never wants the guys to treat her differently just because she’s a woman. And maybe it was a bit of internalised misogyny, and she was working on it, trying to be seen as strong while not giving up her feminine side, it was hard.

The drive was quiet, Y/n gazing out the window, Quinn gazing at her. And between his looks towards the woman he couldn’t help but notice the uber driver also taking his fair share of glances at the beautiful woman. Just like back at the pub with the waiter Quinn had this overwhelming urge to pull the guy’s eye out of their sockets so he could never look at his girl like that. Well not his girl- she wasn’t his girl and at the rate they were going Quinn doubted he would ever get the confidence to change that. His thoughts were interrupted by the uber driver himself, 

“We’re here.” “Thank you, bye Quinny see you-” Her words being cut off by Quinn closing his door. “Oh… OH! Jeez!” Y/n’s door opened in time with her scream, “Quinny, god you scared me.” “You should come inside.” “Why?” Quinn sent a quick glance to the man behind the wheel, before turning attention back to wear he often found it, Y/n, “This guy gives me bad vibes I don’t want to leave you alone with him.” “Quinn, it will be fine.” “No, come on, I’m serious.” His words slightly strained as he reaches over to undo the woman’s seatbelt, and grabs her wrist to bring her out of the creep’s car, slamming the door and continuing to his building. 

“You didn’t have to do that, I can handle myself and-” “You know that I am the last person to think you can’t handle yourself, it’s not a matter of that-” “-then what-” “-My mom raised me right, and I got bad vibes from that guy, and I didn’t feel comfortable leaving you with him. If you don’t want to stay here tonight I can drive you home myself.” “...Thank you. I’m fine to stay here tonight, I’ll just sleep on your couch” “Nonsense” The man mumbles, reaching over to press the floor his apartment was on, then continuing, “I’ll sleep on the couch, you sleep in my bed.” “No.” “Yes.” “No- '' Before Y/n could reply with her argument, Quinn walked out of the elevator on his way to his door. “Hey!-” Quinn opened the door for them, moving his arm to signal Y/n to enter, “-Thanks-'' He then closes the door, and makes his way to the kitchen to get water for the two, while Y/n continues her case, “I’m not taking your bed, it’s yours.”

“Fine, whatever you say, you want to watch something?” Quinn asks, knowing he will get his way, turning on the TV and skimming through the different streaming services he has. Y/n comes over, sitting next to Quinn, “Left, Up.. Right, right.. Hmm down-” “I’ll just give it to you.” She takes the remote from him and eventually selects friends, knowing it was a safe option.

“God, I hate Ross. I think it’s because he reminds me of every guy I've dated.” With a quick glance Quinn determines it safe to ask, “How so?” “How so? Well let’s see, he’s controlling, and overly possessive and jealous, he’s never happy for Rachel’s accomplishments, and he has this egotistical air of superiority about him.” “Not that you're bitter or anything.” “I don’t know why I attract these terrible guys. Or I’m not going for the right one’s, like you. You’re good, I don’t know why I can’t get a guy like you.” At that, Quinn leans over to grab his water, suddenly really needing it.

“Sorry, that made things weird, maybe I’m still a little drunk.” Y/n mumbles, turning to face the man that is already looking at her. Against her own control, her eyes fell down to his lips, they’re a perfect shade, and looked so kissable. Not that she was thinking- oh hell, yes she was. After noticing how long she had been staring, she quickly brought her eyes back to his, only to find that the man’s own eyes were on her lips. So with the positive signals and the little bit of vodka and diet coke still in her system, the woman brings her hand to Quinn’s jaw, the action causing his eyes to finaling meet hers again. And while not saying anythingl, their eye contact said it all, and their lips crashed together.

They fit together flawlessly, moving in sync with each other. Y/n tongue coming to Quinn’s bottom lip, begging for access, which he qladly gave up with no fight. Her hands moving to around the man’s neck, and swinging her left leg over his to straddle him, his hands now moving down to her hips. Y/n could tell he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch her ass, so she did it herself, grabbing ahold of his wrists and moving his hand to comfortably grasp the flesh there. Subtly Y/n began to rock her hips against his, eliciting a groan from Quinn. 

This must have been Quinn’s last straw because he quickly stands, his hands holding Y/n up as she wraps her legs around his waist. He carries her to his room, never wincing from holding Y/n’s body weight, probably because her weight was his warm up weight, that fact only making him so much hotter to Y/n. He closes the door with his foot, continuing the walk to the bed, throwing the woman in his arms on his soft comforter, and crawling over top of her. 

Hastily kissing his way up her body and he does, deciding to set up camp at her neck, kissing and sucking on her pulse point. Tired of the slow pace, Y/n starts pulling at Quinn’s shirt wanting it off, getting the idea, Quinn leans back to take it off, Y/n did the same leaving her just in a sports bra. They have both seen eachother in this state many times before, but in the new setting, it was far more sensual. After taking off her shirt, Y/n moves her hands to her dress pants, Quinn mirroring her movements, “Are you sure about this?” “Yes.” bringing her knees to her chest, Y/n throws her pants on the floor for future her to find, while Quinn stands to take his own off.

Now both in just their underwear, Y/n drags Quinn with her hands on his shoulders, to sit against the soft headboard straddling him again, it was now her turn to suck hickies on his neck. Grasping the hair at the nape of Quinn’s neck and grinding against his hard-on with fewer layers, evokes moans from both. Quinn moves his hands from her back to wear Y/n is grinding herself on him to move the constricting fabric of their underwear, pulling his boxers down just enough for his cock to slap against the man’s abs, “Jesus.” “What?” Quinn asked, he never got complaints about his size but hearing Y/n’s reaction made him more self-conscious about his dick than he ever has been. “You’re just.. Big” Y/n laughs at her choice of words, not having known what to say. And after realising what she said, Quinn laughed too. It was nice to know they were still comfortable around each other; hopefully that won’t go away in the morning. 

“Um, thanks” “Anytime.” Y/n respond quickly, bringing her hands back to around Quinn’s neck pulling him into another kiss, just as fast as she started it, Y/n breaks the kiss reaching for the hem of her sports bra to rip it off, and somehow seeing the woman’s boobs made this all feel real, and Quinn must have been staring longer than he thought as Y/n reaches forward to raise his chin so his eyes are looking back at hers, “My eyes are up here, Huggy”

Without waiting for his response, Y/n brings Quinn in for another heated kiss, and after a moment brings her hands to move her panties to the side, feeling the wet spot on them. She grasps Quinns cock in her hand, giving it a few good pumps, before rising to her knees, and lining her wet hole with his hard cock. “Last chance, you sure Quinny?” “God, ye-.” 

Before he could finish, Y/n sinks herself fully on his cock, giving herself a moment to adjust to Quinn’s size before moving up and down, with the help of Quinn with his hands on her ass once again. “Oh, Quinn.. So full.” Y/n really having to carry the conversation as Quinn is too pussy drunk to respond, only moaning and groaning when Y/n does something he likes. “Fuck Y/n! You’re so tight, pussy feels amazing” Saying this, Quinn brings his thumb to Y/n's bottom lip, in her lustful state, she opens her mouth allowing his thumb to enter without much thought. Swirling her tongue around his digit, then releasing it, when Quinn makes moves to bring his thumb towards the woman's swollen clit. Rubbing small circle there, which cause Y/n to moan loudly at the feeling.

Neither of the two last that long, “Oh fuck- Y/n I’m gonna- fuck.” “Me too. Fuck! Oh fuck!” With one last sink down Y/n is cuming harder than she has in a long time, not completely stopping her movements but slowing them, trying to help Quinn find his orgasm and for her to ride out her own. Feeling Y/n come around him, Quinn is about to give in, “Where- want it.” “Inside! Please!” And at that Quinn is gone, bucking his hips up into Y/n more riding out his orgasm. “Ah~ Quinn ‘s sensitive.” "I know, baby"

Both panting, Quinn still inside and slides down for his head to be on his pillows, and Y/n leaning her body on his chest. “Let me get you a washcloth.” Quinn said, making moves to leave, before Y/n put her hands on his pecs and stopping him, “Give me a sec.” Y/n pants out and about a minute later says, “Okay.” And she starts rising on her knees, only for them to give out, “Do you want-” “Nah, I’m good.” Giving her legs their redemption, which they do well at, and lays on her back next to Quinn. “I’ll get you a washcloth.” Quinn reaches for his boxers, getting up, putting them on, then starting for the bathroom “No wait. I have to pee."

-the morning-

The late morning sun dipped into the bedroom, hitting Y/n in the eyes, causing her to wake up, not only to the feeling of the winter sunshine on her face but to the feeling of an arm around her, a man’s arm, Quinn’s arm. “Fuck.”

Softly, Y/n slips out of Quinn’s bed and tries to find her clothes to get dressed, all while trying and failing to not wake Quinn. “Morning” He says, in a husky morning voice. “Good Morning. I’m gonna be on my way, don’t want to intrude on your off day.” “Nah, it’s fine. I’ll make breakfast.” 

Y/n now dressed in Quinn’s clothes and Quinn making the two of them eggs on toast, the girl had to put her mind to rest and ask Quinn. 

“So.. Last night..” “Yeah.” With neither knowing exactly what to say, silence engulfed the room. 

“It was good- great! It was great.” “Yeah” “...Would that ever happen again?” That shocked Quinn he was preparing himself to get rejected, “Do you want it to happen again?” “I mean..Yeah.” “Okay.” With their nonchalant-ness you wouldn’t think they just agreed to sleep with each other again. Though their nervousness and tension in the room could be cut with a knife. “But, if we’re doing this we should have like a couple ground rules.” “Oh, yeah. That's a good idea.” 

The two sat at Quinn’s island turning their bodies to face each other, “Okay.. obviously not telling anyone.” “Of course.” “And no kissing, unless we’re leading it somewhere.” “Okay.” “And no dates or anything like it.” “Right.” “Okay, that’s the agreement?” “Yep.” “Shake on it.”

Y/n said, sticking out her hand, Quinn taking it and shaking her hand in agreement.

These rules will kill him.

~taglist~

@books-hlmc

[sombrashe]

i love ur blog!! it would be super cool if u did a norm x reader but the reader is like a wastelander/from the wastelands or something like that!!

content fluff, first kiss :3, both reader and norm are weird little things he's just more sexually inclined, gn!reader, chubby!reader

note(s) thank you so much for the kind words ;-; i hope you enjoy this !!

It's been three weeks since you joined the rag-tag group. Two vault dwellers, a ghoul, an ex-BOS member, and a wasterlander. Sounds like the beginning to one of The Ghoul's bad jokes. He calls them dad jokes but since over half of you didn't have a dad the idea was lost to the sand. Plopping down you go through your nearly empty pack.

"I think me and The Ghoul should go on a supply run."

Your voice rose to speak over the horrid wind pelting small clouds of sand into the side of the burnt-out husk of a house. Everyone looks you over and immediately starts speaking over each other to argue about the dangers of leaving into the storm. Raising a hand you let out a short shout to gain attention which works wonders.

"I've lived in this desert all my life I know how to keep sand away from my skin, I'll be fine. The Ghoul is pretty much unkillable. We need food. My pack is empty."

You try to sound reasonable. It's been days of your group being holed up in this shithole and honestly, you wanted out of there even for a little. As close as you have grown to each member of the group you barely have any time to yourself anymore.

"What if you get lost?"

"It's a small neighborhood, I'll be fine. I promise."

"You can't promise that and you know it."

Norm's voice chastises you despite his face hiding his true concern. You knew he just wanted what was best for you. Him being the one person you opened up to the most. His easygoing attitude and similar resting face made it nice to tell him about any worries. And you had a lot especially living on the surface. Something he was slowly becoming accustomed to.

"Why not take one of us instead?"

Lucy speaks up. Her eyes search your face, hoping you'll change your mind.

"The only one I would be willing to take is Max, but he's out of commission."

You point to his leg which sits propped on a toppled bookshelf. Trying to save Lucy from a radscorpion cost him a rolled ankle.

"The Ghoul is no-nonsense, he'll get us in and out, and if he doesn't... I'm sure youse guys can win a 4 v 1."

You give a wide smile showing them that you mean what you say. You just wanted to get this over with. You've been thinking about this for hours now. Watching as your already small assortment of supplies dwindled.

"Please, just let us go."

"Don't I get a say in this sweetheart?"

"No. You want 'ta find their dad as much as the rest of us. Not me, I'm here for all the warm company."

You roll your eyes and sling your pack over your shoulder. Norm stands just as quick nearly shoving you over in the process. You steady yourself against his bicep. Only for a second before you yank your hand back as a warm heat burns your cheeks. You walk around the room collecting anything you might need. An extra pair of pants wrap around your face. Nice and snug according to Lucy. Making eye contact with Norm you feel the need to look away. His eyes are so expressive and they're begging you to stay. You go to give him an awkward hug hoping to make the feeling in your stomach go away. He doesn't bite and gently untangles the fabric from around your jaw. Your goggles skew your peripheral but you know everyone is staring. You can't hear the mumbling as he leans forward. You can't even hear the wind whipping broken glass into the side of your hideout. You struggle to hear anything over the roaring of blood rushing to flood your head. Especially when his lips connect with yours. You lived a hard life and went through unimaginable pain, but this kiss, even for a moment, made you forget everything and everyone. His lips were so soft a stark contrast to the sharp broken skin of your own. Your hands lay limp at your side as you attempt to kiss back. This was all quite foreign to you but you wanted to make it work. Needed to make it work. Deep down.

"Come back to us. To me, please." He whispers directly against your lips.

Reaching up he ignores Lucy's inquisitive eyes as he gathers the untangled mess of denim. Slowly he affixes it back together and into a tight shield against the elements. He gives your cheek one quick squeeze through the thick layer. You thank the cover because you couldn't stand letting everyone see your grin even if Norm picked up on your eyes crinkling. Turning around you opt to look at the floor as you walk over to the strong oak door. Luckily the wood stayed mostly strong for these past 200-odd years with only a corner piece missing. Flinging the door open you call back to The Ghoul to hurry up as you disappear into the screaming darkness.

[bruhhhh-huhhhhh]

yooo is there any chance I can request parent headcanons for the safehouse crew (cod: bocw)??? been replaying the bo2 campaign and the Adler is Graves' father theory has a grip on me esp recently now that that mf is coming back

I imagine that Adler is a pretty distant parent, what with work in the CIA taking up most of his time and probably isn't able to see his kid much to begin with after the divorce, no doubt his ex wife has full custody of any of the children they had during that marriage. he's the kind of dad to buy his teenage kid expensive gifts to make up for the times he couldn't be there, usually related to something they were mildly interested in when they were like 7. And that thing is probably one of the only things he knows about them because they ranted about it to him when they were really young and naive. Russ is not as good as vocalizing his affection, but he's observant, and would zero in on any information and likes that his kid has when they express it... It's just that the usually don't with the distance between them. I think he does genuinely care about his child and still wants to show that they appreciate them, but just doesn't know how to properly connect with them on an emotional level, and usually doesn't even have the time. I don't think he'd treat his kid much differently based on their gender, he's still an emotionally-supressed mostly absentee father that his child would kind of just grow to resent as they get older. Adler is the 'he tried' dad. (I hc that Graves his kid is also the most likely to have a wild rebellious teens phase, and he'd kind of just let it happen so long as they aren't getting into any legal trouble because at that point their relationship would be so strained and he's just kinda apathetic about it. I think he's the type that would come home late to catch his kid smoking, and the only thing he'd do is ask why they started and if they know the consequences of it, then promptly asks for one and never brings it up again.)

Hudson, on the contrary, would be the perfect dad. Girl dad 100%, this man has a wife and two daughters (I think, might need to double check this one, but point still stands because I think he'd be good with girls). This man deserves a bo burnham 1985 edit. I think that he's really the type of guy who tries to squeeze in as much quality time with his family even with his work, and is the type to frequently show affection and pride for his children. Jason is completely soft for his wife and children, in contrast to how much of a no-nonsense hardass he is on the job. I am utterly convinced that this is the man who would always play along with his daughter's tea parties when he has tine and would never miss any of his son's games (he'd ask Jenny to record it for him if he's knows he's gonna be on a mission for a long time). I imagine that he really goes the extra mile to be the best role model for his kids, being both responsible and loving even with the limited presence he has because of his job. Hudson is the father figure some us needed in life ngl.

I don't think Mason would be an abusive dad contrary to what most people would take away from the one interaction we see with him and a very young David. I definitely think he'd have some major anger issues though, no doubt that trauma from The Numbers™️ and all the shit he's gone through as soldier and later CIA op would have an impact on him. He would never lay a hand on his own kid, but he's definitely shouted at them pretty frequently and has likely broken objects around them when he's angry. Much more so after his wife's death and being left as a single dad who barely has any idea what he's doing, and the only other person who can rein him in from it is Frank. I think he's more affectionate and less emotionally distant than Adler, but still just not as close as he should be to his child. He'd apologize for his outbursts and all but, being raised with traditional values from the 30s-40s, he isn't really the type to have those heartfelt talks about feelings because men are supposed to be strong and being emotional makes you weak and all that crap. Would be tougher with a son, and stricter with a daughter. Alex would become a lot more understanding and open over time when his kid grows older, and mellow out as an old man and just be proud of how they turned out despite how he was. The anger issues never really dissipates, but he learns to control it and be better for his kid for the remainder of his life. Mason is the dad you'd resent and have so much anxiety over in your teens and twenties but eventually make up with and get closure by your late thirties or so.

Woods would definitely be more of a fun uncle than a dad. More of the tough love type, but will always remind his kid that they're appreciated at the end of the day. But I also imagine he's a lot more reckless snd clumsy, specially as a first-time father. May not be perfect, has his own shortcomings in a lot of places, but he's really trying his best. I imagine that he probably tiptoed a lot when it came to raising David, trying not to yell at him too much and tried to be his anchor as much as he can after he was tricked into killing Alex (and then promptly going off on him when he shows face again after thirty years). Frank would be considerate and very vocal about his appreciation for his kid despite . Woods is the lovable old man that you'd have a lot of funny memories to look back on, and cussing you out is just his own way of saying he loves you.

I don't have as much thoughts on them but I think Park would be very overprotective, especially if she had a daughter. Would shelter her child and be very strict with them, making sure she knows how and where her kid is all the time, who her kid is with, and how safe they are. Would make her child wear a tracker watch and tell her all and any people they meet or see. Madam Shell's betrayal and her brother's death have definitely left a mark on her, and she would excessively worry about them at all times, to the point of it being suffocating and very invasive Lazar is the balance to this, more lenient and lets his kid have a right to privacy and freedom. Sure, he still worries a lot, but he has enough faith in his child to let then go off on their own when they're at an appropriate age. I also imagine that he gives the best best hugs. Sims would be somewhere in between, albeit more leaning on the stricter side.

AHHHH THIS TOOK ME SO LONG TO ANSWER I'M SORRY

bUuuuT

i love this idea so I'm gonna do silly little headcannons for it

How the Safehouse Crew treat their kid

Russell Adler

He's absolutely an absent dad

It's not that he does it on purpose, it's just what happens with his job

Russell tries so hard. So hard to be there, but a lot of the time he just can't because of work

If his kid does any sports, you can bet your ass that he's gonna be at any games he can

Now, that's not a lot, but still

Adler absolutely cheers the loudest anytime that his kid does anything

He'll also argue with the refs or umpires about dumb calls

Has been kicked out multiple times

Russell also buys his kid anything that they want

Christmas with him is like out of a damn movie

Presents are practically stacked to the roof and each one is more extravagant than the last

Is definitely the type of parent to dump a bunch of money on his kid for whatever they want

It's his way of making up for barely being around

Has missed his visitation days a lot

Every time he does, Adler sends money and presents as an apology

One time, his kid was staying over at his house because they got into an argument with their mom

He came home late and was met with the sight of his only child smoking cigarettes in the living room

"You know what those do to your lungs?"

The kid just stared for a second before nodding in shock

"Good. Don't be surprised when you get lung cancer. Lord knows I'm already getting close to that. Give me one."

The kid hands over the whole pack, and Adler takes one, lights it, and hands it back. "Don't tell your mother."

On the times that he actually has off and has the kid, he tries to make a whole day out of spending time together

Adler takes them to an amusement park or something, and its just plain awkward the whole time

But, by the end of the day, they're just a little closer

Mainly because they had a heart to heart on the car ride home

They even hugged!

Yay!

And then nothing changed

Boo >:(

Jason Hudson

Girl dad 100%

He's the dad that everyone needs

So supportive, no matter what

Jason does, in fact, have two girls. And, if I remember right, he loves them more than anything

This man absolutely has been caught playing princesses and knights with his daughters by his wife

His favorite thing is to sit at the tiny tables and have a tea party

Loves his kids so much

If he had a son, Hudson would teach him how to throw a football

Definitely would push him to join a sport

If he does, Hudson goes to every game

Just like Adler, he cheers the loudest

If his girls get boyfriends, you can bet your ass that he's going to let them know that he has multiple guns and absolutely knows how to use it

#WillThreatenToKillThem

Jason has to be told by his wife to leave them alone

He only does because he loves his wife so so much and he'd kill for her

Lots of physical affection

Hugs and all that good stuff

His kids definitely won't be touch starved

Is absolutely who they go to first whenever something happens and they need help/support

If he ever catches his kid doing something that they shouldn't, like smoking, he has to try really hard not to yell at them. He pretty much has to walk away to cool off before he can approach the conversation in a way that he wants to

Hudson and his kid are going to have a long talk that ends in a hug and a promise not to do it again

Overall his kids are well behaved and he's a good dad

Alex Mason

My poor boy

I love him so much, anger issues and all

Any time that he screams and breaks things in front of his kid, he calls Woods to come and pick them up so he can take care of things

He always feels horrible after he yells. Alex never wanted to hurt anyone. Quite the opposite, actually. He just doesn't know how to control his anger

Throughout the kids developmental years, he tries his best not to yell or get angry, but a lot of the time he can't stop himself in time

In comes one Frank Woods, who ends up coming over and taking the kid out for ice cream or to the park or just for a drive

He ends up being that cool uncle that the kid goes to when something happens

When he gets discharged (Honorably) from the military, Mason ends up going to therapy

And anger management classes

Only reason he does is because his kid ends up yelling back when he gets angry

And he realizes that he fucked up :(

So that helps him mellow out for his kids later years

Definitely apologizes to his kid for how they were raised

Alex won't over explain or get all mushy, but it'll come up as a simple "I'm sorry for how you were raised," and leave it at that

Will express his feelings through gifts or spending quality time with his kid

If he gets grandkids, Alex will take that as the time to make up for his kids shitty childhood

Best granddad for real

When he's older, he won't mind as much when it comes to telling his kid that he's proud of them

Lots of praise

Frank Woods

HE'S SO BABY GIRL I CAN'T

LOOK AT THIS GIF

Anyway

Definitely the type of dad to pretend that his kid is in trouble and then it turns out to be a prank

He would absolutely do it just like he did in the scene of the gif

Frank wouldn't yell at his kid, more just yell in general

He'll scream over football games, tv shows, dropping something, anything

He does not care

His kid would be used to loud noises by double digits

Woods would absolutely not know that his kid was sneaking out until Alex caught them

He doesn't particularly care, but he's a little disappointed that they didn't ask him if they could go

Instead of yelling, he would sit them down and have a serious discussion

Lots of "You could have just asked," and, "How many times have you done it?"

Basically he'd get his kid to quit because he knows it's a bad habit

I can't remember if he's a smoker or not, but if he is he would go through the process of quitting with said kid

Helen Park

She's kind of a shitty mom, ngl

Park can be good at it when she wants to, but she's got her own shit that he's going through

She can't handle a kid

In the early years, she's a little neglectful and absent

Then she does a full 180 and goes full over-protective mom mode

Trackers, constant phone calls, reassuring messages

The whole nine yards

She'll try her best to stop if her kid says something, but her anxiety is way too high to stop fully

Definitely the kind of mom to apologize through gifts

One fond memory that her kid would have of their younger years is her sneaking into their room and climbing into bed with them

She just sat there and held them, silently telling them how much she loved them

Helen thought their kid was asleep, not awake and hearing everything she was saying

Park definitely let her kid sneak into her bed when they had nightmares or got sick

She secretly loves it and is sad when they stop doing it

Okay that's all I got-

I didn't mean for this to take so long to make

[hiddencitydweller]

Kingdom Dance

Pairing: Donnie x GN!Reader

(Reader is wearing a skirt, so take that as you will)

Absolute fluff!

Summary: You somehow managed to convince your tech-loving boyfriend to attend a ren faire with you, where you find yourselves caught up in a dance.

(Basically Tangled meets Turtles)

Warnings: Does poor writing count? With the structure of this fic, I wanted it to be a little more from Donnie's perspective rather than the reader, which was considerably harder than I thought it would be rip.

Word Count: 3k

Song Referenced: Dulámán

A/N: You know in Tangled, that scene where Rapunzel and Flynn are in the town square and he is just watching her dance with this besotted look on his face? And then he joins in and it's the most electric and romantic thing in cinematic history? Well, this is that but with some minor tweaks.

For all the people who long for someone to look at them like Flynn looks at Rapunzel, this one's for you.

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Let's make one thing clear—Donnie did not want to be here.

At least, that's what he kept saying.

Wooden shops lined the dirt road you traversed, uniquely dressed owners promoting their equally unique wares in their doorways. In some of the many open air booths, you could see countless novelties one would sooner find in Witch Town than your beloved New York City. Crystals, wands, leather armor, chainmail, and countless other fantasy-related items could be seen anywhere you looked—and not just in the shops.

Everyone around you was intricately dressed in some fantasy or medieval fashion. No two people looked alike. You were surrounded by elves, royalty, warriors, and even the occasional time-traveler or two. Even with Donnie's experience in the Hidden City and his grumbling at being here, he had to admit it all came together to create one fantastical sight.

When you had suggested the gang go to the local Renaissance Faire, Donnie had been more than skeptical. Of course Leo and Mikey were immediately in, going as far as planning their outfits and characters right on the spot. Raph took a little more convincing, but once you assured him how safe it really was (and that they could keep their weapons on hand without looking out of place) he caved into the younger brothers' excitement.

Your tech-loving boyfriend, however, took some more convincing.

To put it plainly, ren faires just weren't his scene. For starters, technology was bluntly discouraged, to which Donnie took personal offense. Then there was the fantasy element, which simply made no sense to him. His history with magic wielders had left nothing but a bad taste in his mouth, and he couldn't imagine why anyone would actively want to seek out that sort of experience, fake or otherwise. Not to mention the clear and unparalleled superiority of science to the nonsensical magic.

However, as you repeatedly brought up in your own arguments, you had gone to countless Comic-Cons, Galaxy-Cons and whatever other Sci-Fi conventions he and his brothers were able to drag you to over the years. It was only fair for them to return the favor.

"Besides, you may find you enjoy having a little more non-mystic fantasy in your life," you had said with a sly grin and wink.

And that's how he had landed here, clutching a wooden bo-staff as he trailed behind your near-bouncing form.

He had to admit, he was enjoying himself far more than he would ever openly say. While, true to form, there was very little tech to be found, there were plenty of other little intricacies that called his attention. From other faire-goers' costumes to the effects at the shows, there was plenty for his mind to dissect and look at. And there was you of course. He couldn't help but smile softly to himself as he watched you flit from stall to stall, gawking at the unique wares and happily chatting with other guests. You were as excited as he was whenever he finished a new project, and seeing you brimming with joy was just as intoxicating.

"Come on Dee! If we don't hurry, we'll miss the performance!" you whined as you continued to nearly drag him through the crowd towards a stout building that looked to be an open air pub. The two of you had just split from the rest of the group, choosing to visit some more shops and see some musical performances while the others went to watch the sword fights and jousting tournament (which Leo was determined to sneak his way into, much to Raph's dismay).

"There's only so fast I can go in this getup!" he shot back, but he still made an effort to pick up the pace. His usual gear had been replaced with a plain white linen shirt, brown pants, and an alchemist's apron with bottles of "chemical compounds" and "ingredients" strapped on. Heavy brown gloves, boots, and his signature goggles finished out the look.

"Are you kidding me?" you had said this morning when he came out of his lab, decked out in his alchemist gear.

"What? Alchemy is commonly used in fantasy and historical fiction, plus it's science! It's a win-win!"

Really you shouldn't have been surprised by his choice of costume, this was Donnie after all. He may have agreed to go along with this idea, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to bring science into it anyway he could.

Speaking of science...

"Based on the open structure of the building, the number of people, and the location of the stage, this table should have the optimal acoustics and volume for listening to the performance," Donnie rattled on, leading you to said table as he frantically typed calculations on his tech gauntlet which he had cleverly hidden underneath his glove.

"Really Donnie? Couldn't go one day without it?" you respond in mock exasperation. Honestly you were surprised that was the only piece of tech he had managed to smuggle in.

"Hey, it helped didn't it? Couldn't have found the best seats in the house without a little bit of, say it with me now, science!" he sang out, striking a pose and pulling some jazz hands. It had the desired effect as you laughed at his antics before softly pushing him down on the bench at the, apparently, best table in the house.

"Okay, okay, you got me there wise guy." You joined him on the bench but couldn't seem to stop moving with excitement. Donnie smiled as he felt your bouncing legs jostle him slightly, your eyes already trained on the stage where the musicians were setting up.

"So what exactly are we about to listen to? I'm assuming I shouldn't get my hopes too high for my usual?" Donnie had heard you talking about the group when you were discussing plans with everyone else, but he never picked up on what kind of music they actually played. Nevertheless, he was pretty sure techno and EDM were out of the question.

"Hardy har har, nice try. I think you'd be pretty hard-pressed to find anything off of your playlists here. This group does a mix of fantasy-based and traditional folk music. Every show they do is completely different, so you never really know what you're going to get. It'll probably be some more mainstream fantasy soundtracks and some of the folksy stuff. Ooo we may even get some sea shanties!" you practically squealed, your legs speeding up in their bouncing as you considered the possibilities. You couldn't help it. Even though your life was quite literally a living, breathing sci-fi movie, fantasy was your thing! You never felt more powerful than when you had a sword or bow in your hand or a corset wrapped around your waist.

Donnie let out chuckle at your antics, knowing full well how much all of this meant to you. While he couldn't exactly understand it, he found that he didn't really need to. Anything that made you this giddy was clearly something to be acknowledged, regardless of how confusing it appeared to him sometimes.

He turned his gaze from you and considered the stage, trying to see if he could analyze the instruments and predict any of the songs that might soon fill the space. Sure, it may not be exactly his taste, but he wasn't exactly unknowledgeable of this type of music. After all, you had shown him plenty of your own playlists. Maybe he should have spent more time listening to them and learning the music for this event. That was something he'd have to rectify for the future. Perhaps he could have S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. compile most of the songs so that he could...

"Hey Dee?"

He was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn't notice you had stopped your excited leg bouncing and were now looking at him with a slightly abashed expression. He hummed in response, mind still whirring through instrument combinations and crossing off songs in a mental list.

"Thank you for doing this," you said in a small earnest voice. That had him finally turning his full attention back to you, a slight furrow between his brows. "Dressing up, leaving most of your tech behind, humoring me and my weird fascination with all this," you gestured at the faire around you, "I'm just... really happy to share it with you and am grateful you've let me. And I know it's not your cup of tea, and we can definitely go check out the weapons displays and everything or whatever else you may—" your ramblings were cut off by a soft kiss on your cheek.

You stared at him, eye wide and mouth in a small O. Donnie was never one for PDA, but you were finding there were occasionally some exceptions to the rule.

"I'm grateful that you want to share this part of you with me. I want to know every part of you, even if it's not technically my thing. Goodness knows you've dealt with enough techno-talk to last a life time," he said softly, smile still playing across his lips. Seeing you so concerned about including him in this precious part of your world had his chest filling with warmth he wasn't quite sure what to do with.

That seemed to be your specialty, completely rocking his known universe with a single line and a smile.

You huffed a laugh and leaned forward the extra few inches to rest your forehead against his, your own smile broadening. "I happen to like your techno-talks thank you very much."

"How could you not? They are chock full of brilliance!" he smirked as you laughed, leaning back far enough to playfully shove at his arm.

It's then that you both heard the first few notes float from the stage as the music group made their entrance and introductions. You quickly swiveled yourself away from Donnie and towards the stage. Donnie chuckled at your immediate response, watching your face light up before he turns as well.

True to what you said, the group did perform a variety of music, none of which matched up with the list Donnie had conjured in his head earlier, much to his chagrin. (He would definitely need to connect with S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. about it when he got home.)

The flitting notes and boisterous chords were quite a contrast to his usual tastes, but he still found himself nodding and stomping along to the thick beats and steady rhythm. He could feel the sound reverberate around him, creating an almost electric energy throughout the space that left him in excited awe. At one point, the group played a popular sea shanty that even he knew. The two of you sang and stomped along to the song, bumping each and smiling the whole way through.

After what felt like only minutes but was really closer to an hour, the group announced it was time for their final song. You sighed and leaned into Donnie's arm, content written across your features. He smiled softly down at you, perfectly content himself at your expression. The close proximity allowed him to feel more than hear your slight gasp as the final song started. His smile turned quizzical at your reaction, but your slowly widening eyes remained trained on the stage, leaving his question unanswered.

A repetitive, steady drumbeat rang out and was soon joined by low voices singing in a layered harmony intertwining with the solid beat. Donnie furrowed his brow as he listened. He couldn't quite pick up what they were singing, but he was sure it wasn't English. His hypothesis was confirmed when the lead singer, an ethereal looking woman with bright red hair, stepped to the mic and began to sing an upbeat and lilting melody. Her voice seemed to skip across the base created by the drums and other voices like a stone on a pond, creating an intricate blend of sound and lyrics that Donnie just couldn't understand.

Not one to leave the unknown alone, he shifted his arm and pulled up his tech gauntlet once again. He quickly used the audio feature to search up the song and analyze its mysterious language. Victorious in his endeavor, he turned back towards you to once again prove science's superiority, but he froze when his gaze fell on you.

In his quest to understand the song, he hadn't noticed your clear recognition of it. Or that you had started singing along.

"Bróga breaca dubha are an dúlamán gaelach..."

Your voice was soft, filling only the air around the two of you. Much like the lead singer, the notes flitted around the space, seeming content to fly through the air and never land. The Gaelic, as his tech claimed the language to be, rolled off your tongue as if it was made specifically for you.

"Tá bearéad agus triús are an dúlamán maorach..."

His gaze seemed locked on you, entranced by the sight. With an absent flick of his wrist, the now forgotten screen turned off, taking with it the typed out lyrics and their translation. Donnie suddenly no longer had the urge to dissect the song and its meaning. He was perfectly content to interpret it through your eyes and voice alone.

Completely unaware of your captive audience, you continued to sing. You felt the words take form on your lips as they had dozens of times before. Your eyes shone bright and your smile took on a dreamy nature. You couldn't help but move with the song, shifting your head along with the melody and even going so far as to bring your hands up to your chest on particularly powerful lines. You were completely lost in the melody and the story it held.

And Donnie was lost in you.

Donnie prided himself on his mental clarity, his ability to analyze and think through any and everything he came across. But in that moment, his brain came to a complete stop. The single-minded focus that had time and time again helped him create so many incredible and life-saving inventions was now solely on you and the wonderous scene you had unwittingly created.

And if that wasn't enough to make him fall in love with you all over again, you then began to dance.

The song hit a mild break, with the drums and backup vocals taking over for the lead singer. The base of the song still rumbling on, she stood at the mic and encouraged anyone who wanted to to come to the open space in the middle of the pub and dance.

Seemingly without a second thought, you shot up and joined the few other people who had taken the singer up on the offer. Donnie jolted backwards at your quick movements, so lost in your song he hadn't even noticed what the lead singer had said. Still, his eyes tracked you as you hastily made your way to the center of the pub.

With the thumping rhythm of the drums as your background, you danced like nothing in the world could stop you. Shoes long ago abandoned, your bare feet slid and stomped on the floor. You spun, causing your layered skirts to flare out in a moment of untouched beauty and passion. A laugh sprung from your lips as you continued to twist around and fling your shirts haphazardly. Nothing had ever felt so freeing, so magical.

If Donnie had thought he was mesmerized before, he couldn't begin to comprehend what he was now. There was absolutely nothing that could take his eyes off of your constantly moving and shifting form. Your face was lit up in such pure and unadulterated joy as you continued to spin and twist and stomp along to the music. It was as if you were a fire finally set free, and Donnie would gladly burn to see but an ounce of your passion.

The lead singer joined back into the song, bringing it to its full intricate beauty once again. At the shift, you turned, eyes locking on Donnie's. Somehow, your smile widened as you nearly floated back to his side, hands outstretched in invitation.

"Come on, they don't call you Booty Shaker for nothing, do they?" you asked cheekily. Chest heaving and face already pink from exhilaration, you looked radiant in your bliss.

Donnie couldn't contain his laugh as he accepted your hands. "Let's find out, shall we?"

Hand in hand, you led him back to the where you had been dancing. He instantly took the lead, pushing you away from him and then back in with a flourishing spin. The two of you swept across the floor, stepping towards and away from each other as you dodged other couples and guests. Donnie felt light as air. Nothing had ever felt so natural as twisting and turning you around the space. He caught sight of your smile once more, a beaming look created by and for him and him alone, and his heart completely melted. There was nothing more freeing, more right than this.

The song built to its crescendo, and so did your movements. You both continued to blaze a path as you dipped and twirled your way to the center of the floor. Just as the song flourished to its conclusion, you ended up tucked into each others' arms, trying to catch your breaths as you came face to face with the other's matching grin. Around you, the gathered crowd cheered. Even the music group applauded your efforts. But it all might as well have been background noise. Donnie heard and saw nothing but you, breath heaving and laughter on your lips. It was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. Shifting his hands from their hold on your frame, he reached up and cupped your cheeks, gently pulling you into a passionate kiss. You melted into him, arms wrapping around his neck to pull him closer. When you finally pulled away, you didn't go far. Resting your foreheads together, you looked into each others' eyes and couldn't help the laughter that bubbled up.

Maybe he could get into this ren faire thing after all.

[the-monkey-ruler]

Just a random ask, what are some weird JTTW adaptations you’ve seen or heard about?

I can’t even begin to call them all but… if you bear with me, I shall try.

Here are a few games that I always found funny additions!

Starting off strong we have Journey to the West: Undersea Adventure (2021)! I have never seen it but LOOK AT IT.... THEY FISH

Six-eared Monkey (2021) where Six Ears goes back in time, accidentally adopts Wukong not knowing he is his future enemy and gives his life to save Child-Wukong despite knowing who he grows up to be.

Wukong's Christmas Adventure (2019) is like... saving Ruphdolh or something and Wukong is going through a mid-life crisis and also kinda depressed but CHRISTMAS. Also the Erlang and Nezha models in this movies are TERRIFYING... and also they have Wukong rap so take a look.

Journey to the West: Conquering the Demons (2013) is weird but like in a GREAT way like... I love the monster designs they give Wukong, Bajie, and Wujing, it is such a different vibe then any other movie I have seen and Honestly LOVE It for that. Really sells just how HUMAN Sanzang is dealing with POWERFUL YAO that could kill him in a second.

Bling (2016) is strong that it didn't hAVE to be Xiyouji coded characters like the Monkey, Pig, and Frog are robot storage performers, wannabe heroes and they follow their creator who is trying to propose to his girlfriend but there really is not journey or ANY need to have the robot being Wukong, Bajie, and Wujing.

Spark: A Space Tail (2016) is also BARELY a Xiyouji film but like it does have a monkey with a staff and turns out he is the son of a king and a queen of monkey planet. Really more like Lion King with the evil uncle trying to take over but with space monkeys.... and also Bajie is there.

Mo mo King (2011) is something I'm not completely sure what's it about but just that it is like a whole monkey island that Wukong-like protag works at... and also Bajie is there.

Devil's Chip (2002) again NO idea what it is really about but there is space and time travel and for some ungodly reason no wukong from what I have seen but Sanzang and Bajie company the space/time travler

Flying Monkid (1996) I have no idea why this was ever MADE like there is barely a connection to Wukong and every other demon is new or some kind of version that is barely recognizable, not to mention the animation is barely any better than Pixal art.

Flying Superboard (1990) I always just found this one strange from the animation to the art style to the design choices. Like making Wukong some kind of skateboard, nunchuck, mouse-looking creature and giving Bajie a machine gun is.... something. I have no idea what they did to Wujing, made him like a bat, goblin thing.

Midnight Goku (1989) is like a sci-fi detective story where the protag has like computer eyes that can see through people and a bo-staff and honestly, I haven't seen but just the STRETCH they use to make this Wukong-related is so insane like would have never thought of it.

Little Wukong (1987) honestly not SURE what this story is even about but like... it is nearly lost media, this is so obscure and out of the way I have a feeling it was probs a children's education show or something but idk.

The Legend of Red Boy (1989) is something that looks like candy land spat out and while I have not seen it I am so sure that it is filled with nonsensical elements I cannot begin to describe.

King Kong's Adventures in the Heavenly Palace (1959) is... more of a crossover than anything else. Just imagine a movie where instead of Wukong destroys heaven... it is Kind Kong. Legit THE king Kong from the OTHER MOVIES YES.

Pink Journey to the West (2015) is honestly not that strong I would say besides that it is just Journey to the West but they are all girls... haven't seen it but who knows maybe it is good!

Tom and Jerry Chase with Tom as Erlang Sheng and Jerry as Wukong

Fortnite Wukong... that is it

Overwatch with Xiyouji skins just think it is adorable honestly. Love the Winston as Wukong

Plants versus Zombie: Journey to the West addition

Rabbits: Party of Legends

And while this isn't EVERY weird (there is a lot) one these are that I thought were at least interesting enough. Like a lot of Xiyouji movies have strange plotpoint but honestly, they are more boring and confusing than anything memorable. At least these were the ones I always thought were fun!