#cannot believe this is real. and yet. damn

[vero-niche]

canon bi rep?????? in MY anime???????????

[peppermint-whiskers]

Oh shit I just realized that Sir Pen is gonna learn that Alastor sold his soul. Cause I'm assuming that people who sold their souls look different then those who didn't. THAT'S gonna be a reaction. Or he's gonna assume "Eh, it's Al. Maybe that's just what it looks like normally."

How dare you look at my mental notes-

I imagine he'd be too scared to look at Alastor's soul at first because "what if he can tell I'm looking at his soul?? 😭😭"

And then he gets the balls to do it and just goes "HOLY SHIT YOU SOLD YOUR SOUL??" because y e a h, sold souls look quite distinct compared to souls who still belong to their mortal bodies! the chains may look different but they are still there nonetheless

Rip penne, you were a real one pfffff-

[antebellum13]

“And My Soul, Dumbledore?” — The Case for Snape Never Killing Before That Night

We often talk about The Prince’s Tale as the final reveal of Severus Snape’s true loyalties—but there’s a moment in that chapter that gets overshadowed by the big memories, the Patronus, the “Always.” And yet it might be the most damning and revealing line in the entire series.

It’s this:

“And my soul, Dumbledore? Mine?”

Let’s sit with that for a second.

Snape is being asked to kill. Not for power, not for punishment, not for vengeance—but out of mercy. Dumbledore is dying. The end is already written. All he’s asking for is dignity.

And Snape balks.

He doesn’t recoil at the strategic risk. He doesn’t flinch at the morality of sparing Dumbledore’s life.

He flinches because of the possibility that this will damage his soul.

This isn’t the voice of a killer.

That one line unearths so much about who Snape is beneath the persona—beneath the spy, the double agent, the snarling teacher. It reveals that he has not taken a life before.

Because if he had? This would be a non-issue. He wouldn’t need to ask. The damage would already be done. The soul, already torn.

But instead, he stops and asks:

Will this be the thing that breaks me?

That’s the cry of a man standing on a line he hasn’t crossed.

And the fact that he still believes in the soul at all is deeply significant.

Let’s compare him to real killers in the series:

• Voldemort doesn’t flinch at murder—he does it for power, to fracture his soul on purpose.

• Bellatrix (and many other Death Eaters) kills for sport.

But Draco, when faced with the same choice, cannot do it. Harry, even in war, casts Expelliarmus.

And Snape—the supposed villain of the early books, the morally ambiguous double agent—asks if his soul will survive it.

He’s not worried about punishment. He’s worried about what killing will do to him.

That is not the thought process of a man with blood on his hands.

Dumbledore’s response is everything:

“You alone know whether it will harm your soul.”

Not “Your soul’s already lost.”

Not “It won’t make a difference.”

Not even “You have no choice.”

Dumbledore leaves it to him.

That means he believes Snape still has something to lose.

He wouldn’t ask this of someone whose soul was already fractured. He asks it of Snape because he knows this will be his first and only kill.

The implication is enormous.

This is a man who has done horrific things. He’s served Voldemort. He’s used dark magic. He’s endangered children.

But he has never killed. Not once.

And when he finally does, it’s to:

• Honour a dying man’s wishes.

• Spare a child’s soul (Draco’s).

• End suffering, not prolong it.

And even then, it tears at him.

So what does that make him?

A villain? An anti-hero? A deeply damaged man trying to atone? Maybe all of the above.

But not a murderer.

Not by choice. Not by pattern.

Just once. And it nearly breaks him.

[kamiiik0]

☆How to deal with failure

Don't.

Seriously, don't. You did not 'fail', you are not even close to failing, because failure doesn'teven exist. "Oh but I didn't/ couldn't manifest xyz so i failed", No? You still didn't fail. You successfully manifested an outcome, it was just not aligned with your wants. Why? It's simple, you probably "assumed" you have xyz, then went on panicking and doubting or probably having a mental breakdown over "where is it?" or "I don't see it" or worst of all, prepared some "back up" plans "just in case" your "assumption failed". Basically you did everything that contradicted your assumptions, got scared and started to believe your doubts might actually be true, and went back to the loophole, yet again.

I'm gonna hold your hand when I say this, but, doubts, negative/ intrusive thoughts literally CANNOT do anything in their power to stop your manifestations. they were, are, and will ALWAYS be under you. I'll admit, its okay to doubt. It's okay to "contradict" your manifestations because we are still human. But, seriously? you're actually Giving in to them? They say you cannot manifest xyz because its just "illogical" and you actually believed it? A literal God, the creator, is stopped by some mere opposing thoughts? Babe, its 2025. How long are you gonna doubt yourself, thinking you just cannot manifest, and beg others for help? when all you need to do is just assume in your favour, and that is literally it. It doesn't matter what the 3D shows you, because it was never about the 3D. Remember, you only just perceive the 3D based off your assumptions. you're actually living in your 4D. Literally, Right now, if you merely just THINK that you already Induced pure consciousness, or passed that test with straight A's, hell, even something like you are already living your dream life and you're going on your 10th international trip today, it is god damn real. That imagination, is the only truth. The 3D? It's gonna catch up babe, don't worry. It has to and WILL reflect your 4D, idc how much you doubt that statement. No the 3D does NOT fail to reflect your assumptions. You don't go over to a mirror and think "I'm scared, what If the mirror stops reflecting?" Does that make any sense? exactly.

Manifesting or loassumption is as easy as it can get, decide you having something, or assume you have something WITHOUT spiraling cause the doubts and shit are fake asf. Its 1 FREAKING step. It doesn't matter how "illogical" or "dumb" or "delusional" your manifestations seem, we are literally floating on a rock in the middle of nowhere called space, and you say you can't manifest your desires. STOP WAITING ANY LONGER! just APPLY and watch your desires unfold!

(p.s, sorry if this might come off as rude to someone, but this was very much needed considering how it's legit 2025 and yet people deem manifestation as "impossible".)

(artworks here are not mine, full credits to the artists.)

[anantaru]

WORKING OVERTIME — WRIOTHESLEY

synopsis. fucking your boss is not to be taken serious, correct?

cw. boss! wriothesley x employee! reader, slight mention of power imbalance, office sex, fem! reader

this is no serious matter. snap out of it.

this is sex, nothing more and nothing less. you can view it as releasing stored steam with your, well, boss.

wriothesley wasn't always the kindest boss to you, for whatever reason you might add. he could be severely strict and serious and couldn't stop pointing out mistakes, especially yours.

come a little closer now because there's a rumor going around— but some believe he does it on purpose to you, only when it's you and it doesn't matter how good you finish your tasks, he's very much aware of the fact that it gets you going.

it riles you up and makes you wet whenever he's rough with you.

alas, no matter his searing kisses that brand into your skin and practically scream you're mine, the candid words of endearment that drop from his lips like sticky honey on ones hands, the heavy look in his eyes whenever he exhales from his mouth upon pushing inside, admiring your face and calling you beautiful in his mind, this moment means nothing at all.

it's not real. it cannot happen.

it's sex, that's what it was, good fucking sex.

once, twice, thrice, endless— each thrust hits your nerves and spill everywhere, your bare breasts long since shown to him as his balls repeatedly smack against your ass. he's vicious— a duke in charge of everything and he breathes so heavenly when you squeeze around his shaft and let him feel for a moment, let him forget his duties just for once.

one warm palm twists around your breast and tugs on your nipple hard— call it a silent reminder, an aggressive prompting of why the duke was your boss and that you're under him.

in every way imaginable.

another reason as to why he didn't find it necessary to discard of his clothes other than hastily tugging his pants down to his knees, fully dressed while you're all naked for him to indulge in.

this is why he's in control and you aren't. remember your place.

a delicious roll of hips bounces your breasts up and down as your legs tighten around his waist, his leaky tip nudging deep against your sweetest spot with sweat making itself visible at his chiseled chest as he thrusts and thrusts and thrusts until you cry out in heavenly screams, pathetic cries and fuck, how good it felt to be practically tossed back and forth against a desk, impaled by a thick cock like his.

no matter which words you'd attempt to use to describe your filthy sounds, be it wailing or screaming and even whining out his name, wriothesley makes it sure to add a hidden promise between every single thrust that he'll make you cum even better than last time, and he's allowed to cum inside, correct?

hey, but again, this is nothing. nothing at all.

a galvanizing memory, call it a photograph or a printed picture prettily put in a golden frame, a delicious scene that the duke will take and put inside the most important parts in his brain, so he'll never forget and can always use such memories to make himself feel good whenever you aren't there.

until he never searches for those fantasies again, until he's fucked you out of his system and the creaks of the wooden desk screeching against the cold floor would cease to exist.

wriothesley leans against your body shaking on top of the cold desk, a distant roughness towering on top of his voice as you cry out one more wail of his name, the sticky feeling of his chest pressing against you being the least of your worries as he attempts to kiss you when you messily lick across his jaw instead, bypassing the kiss wriothesley wanted, no, needed to give you.

no kisses allowed, that was the deal, right? yet he still tries it. every damn time.

this is nothing. it's a helping hand for when either of you was too frustrated to concentrate on work, a willing hand and a willing cock, a hidden favour from employer to employee.

it's nothing with an explanation required, nothing that needs a specific name nor was it important enough to be called anything at all, because while you sure knew what it was, he knows what it's not.

you see, wriothesley wants more, he wants this. he wants you.

not only your addicting cunt sucking him in but he wants you to kiss him just kiss me already damn just do it please.

just once.

he drags his teeth against his bottom lip in agony and jerks his hips further into your squishy cunt, grunting at the throbs and shocks of arousal tensing from your walls and branding into his aching shaft.

but don't forget wriothesley was in control.

wait, was he? he won't risk it. he knows he can't. you're his employee.

because he knows it's not serious. he knows he's not that weak to fall for someone.

he cannot start having a crush on you, in fact, it was only possible to start from the beginning and not when you're already heads over heels for somebody— at last, breaching the line of a healthy work relationship between boss and employee.

©2024 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[lowrisemiller]

in honor of hitting 1k followers ── ⟢

i genuinely cannot think of any words to express how happy and grateful i am for all of you

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　 ⁺ 　 ✦🦢✦ ⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

joel miller , rick grimes , natalie scatorccio , arthur morgan , frank castle , ellie williams , bucky barnes , 𖬺 rosita espinosa

reacting to you wearing their clothes

────────────── ⟢

reader does have female anatomy making out, unprotected piv sex, semi-public sex, oral f!receiving, fingering, sesbian lex, riding, creampies, breeding kink if u squint, straaaaap, little bit of top!reader

total word count : 10k

ᴊᴏᴇʟ ᴍɪʟʟᴇʀ

The house is quiet, but the silence isn’t soft—it’s tense. Heavy. Like it’s waiting to snap.

Joel’s still sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight like he's holding back the urge to punch a wall. Or come after you.

You stormed off twenty minutes ago, heart pounding, cheeks hot with anger and something else you didn’t want to name yet. The fight hadn’t even been about anything important—just one of those things that spiraled. Misunderstandings. Short tempers. A whole week of tension packed into a single explosion.

But now? Now your chest aches in that ugly, hollow way that only happens when it’s him you’re fighting with.

You wander into the living room, arms crossed, unsure why you’re even walking toward him again. Maybe to say something—maybe to say nothing. But instead, you slip off the shirt you were wearing and pull one of his flannels off the back of the couch.

It still smells like him. You roll the sleeves up, button only the middle, and leave the rest open over bare skin. No bra. No panties. Just the soft cotton and that same, quiet defiance burning in your chest.

You step into the doorway of the bedroom, where he hasn’t moved.

“Joel.”

He looks up.

His jaw goes slack, just a second. Then it clenches.

His eyes drag down the length of you, slow, heated, and no attempt to hide it. His voice comes out low, almost dangerous.

“You wearin’ that ‘cause you want me to apologize... or 'cause you want me to lose my goddamn mind?”

Joel doesn’t move. Doesn’t stand, doesn’t blink—just stares at you like he’s trying to decide if he wants to kiss you or throw you over his shoulder and teach you a lesson.

You raise a brow. “What? You said I could wear whatever I want.”

“That was before you came in here lookin’ like that,” he mutters, voice rough.

You shrug, feigning innocence. “It’s just a shirt. Your shirt. Didn’t realize I needed permission.”

His eyes narrow. “You’re pushin’ it.”

You cross your arms under your chest, knowing exactly what that does to the fabric. “So what if I am?”

He stands now. Slow. Measured. Every movement is deliberate, like a predator making sure you know you're cornered. “You pick a fight with me, storm off, then come back wearin’ nothin’ but that damn flannel—and you want me to believe it’s not on purpose?”

You take a step back, just to provoke him. “Maybe I was cold. You ever think of that?”

Joel huffs a humorless laugh, dragging a hand over his mouth. “That right?”

“Yep.” You pop the P, lifting your chin. “Real cold. Thought your clothes might help. Not that it’s any of your business.”

He’s in front of you before you can blink—close enough to feel the heat of him, the tension vibrating off his skin. One of his hands comes up, grazes your bare thigh under the hem of the shirt. Barely a touch. Just enough to make you shiver.

“Then tell me this, darlin’,” he murmurs, voice a slow burn against your ear. “If you’re so cold… why’s your skin runnin’ so hot under my hands?”

Your breath hitches, but you don’t back down. Not yet.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Miller. Maybe I’m just mad.”

He smiles, dangerous and slow. “Mad, huh? Then why’re you still standin’ here lettin’ me touch you?”

You flash a sharp smile right back. “Who says I’m lettin’ you?”

Joel laughs under his breath, something deep and dark. “You think this is a game?”

You lean up on your toes, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “No, Joel. I know it is. Question is… you gonna play, or keep sulking over a fight you started?”

That does it.

The next thing you know, he’s got you pressed against the wall, hands sliding up under the shirt, mouth crashing down onto yours—teeth, tongue, heat, and all that pent-up frustration bursting like a dam.

His mouth crashes into yours, but there’s nothing soft about it. It’s teeth and heat and tongue—his hands already under the shirt, rough palms sliding up your sides like he owns you.

And maybe right now, he does.

Your back thuds gently against the wall as Joel crowds in closer, pressing his hips flush to yours so you can feel just how hard he is through his jeans. That low, gravel-thick growl rumbles in his chest as he breathes against your lips.

“Y’know exactly what you’re doin’, don’t you?”

You smirk, fingers threading into the curls at the nape of his neck, tugging just hard enough to make him hiss. “Maybe I wanted you to stop sulking and do something about it.”

“Is that what you call this?” he mutters, dragging his mouth down your jaw, over your neck. His stubble scrapes against your skin—raw and deliberate—while his hands explore every bare inch under the flannel. “You come struttin’ in here, wearin’ my shirt, drippin’ attitude…”

He licks a slow stripe up your throat, then sinks his teeth into that sweet spot just under your ear, hard enough to leave a mark.

“You knew what this would do to me.”

You gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. “I hoped.”

Joel chuckles darkly. One hand fists the hem of the shirt and yanks it up—exposing the full curve of your thighs, your hips, the soft heat between your legs.

“No panties,” he mutters, shaking his head like he’s disappointed, but the way his eyes darken says otherwise. “Jesus, girl.”

“I told you,” you whisper against his lips. “I was cold.”

Joel drops to his knees in front of you like he was meant to be there. Large hands wrap around the backs of your thighs, tugging you forward until your back scrapes against the wall and your leg is slung over his shoulder. His breath is hot against the inside of your thigh, and you swear he’s smirking.

“Then let me warm you up.”

His mouth finds you without hesitation—tongue flat and slow against your center, tasting every drop of slick already there. You cry out, one hand flying to his hair, gripping tight as he eats you like he’s starving.

He groans into you when you roll your hips against his face, and it sends vibrations straight through your core. He licks you open, tongue circling your clit, then sucking it into his mouth until your knees nearly give out.

“Fuck, Joel—” your voice breaks, breathless, needy.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down.

One thick finger slides into you, then another, curling just right. His beard is wet with you, his eyes locked on your face like he wants to memorize every twitch, every gasp.

“Look at you,” he mutters against your heat. “All that mouth earlier… and now you’re fallin’ apart on my tongue.”

You moan, thighs trembling, grinding down against his face shamelessly. You’re close—so close—and he knows it. He speeds up, sucking your clit hard while he fucks you with his fingers, stroking that sweet spot deep inside until—

“Joel—oh my god—fuck—I’m coming—”

Your orgasm crashes over you like a wave. White-hot and blinding. Your hips jerk, thighs clench around his head, and he doesn’t let up—not until you’re shaking and moaning and pulling at his hair to make him stop.

Only then does he rise—slow, towering over you again with his mouth still glistening and that smug look you love to hate.

“You done givin’ me attitude now?” he growls, undoing his belt one-handed.

You pant, still recovering, but your voice is steady. “Depends. You done makin’ up for earlier?”

Joel’s eyes flash, and the sound of his zipper coming down sends another pulse through your core.

“Not even close.”

ʀɪᴄᴋ ɢʀɪᴍᴇꜱ

The mirror’s still fogged when you pad barefoot into Rick’s bedroom, towel twisted in your damp hair, steam curling off your skin. The air smells like soap, his soap—cedar and grit and something old-fashioned. Masculine. Familiar.

His boxers hang low on your hips, the waistband loose from wear, the fabric clinging damp to your thighs. You didn’t grab a shirt. Didn’t need to.

You stretch, arms overhead as you rummage through a drawer. You feel his eyes on you before you even hear him.

Rick’s in the doorway. Leaning against the frame, arms crossed, chest rising and falling slow.

His voice is rough, sleep-graveled. “The hell are you wearin’?”

You glance over your shoulder. “What’s it look like?”

He doesn’t move. Just look. Eyes dragging over the curve of your back, down to the slant of his boxers on your bare ass, the way the steam still clings to your skin like dew.

“Looks like you’re tryin’ to make a problem for me.”

You smile. Turn around, slowly, letting him see everything, the damp skin between your thighs, the way the fabric of his boxers rides up, and when you shift your weight.

“Not my fault you leave your clothes lying around.”

Rick’s jaw ticks. He pushes off the doorframe like he’s fighting the urge to touch you. But you see it in the way his hands flex, how his eyes darken and drop to your legs again.

“You ain’t got nothin’ else under that, do you?”

You shrug, all fake-innocence. “Why don’t you come find out?”

Rick’s eyes are fixed on the waistband of his boxers hugging your hips. His tongue runs along the inside of his cheek, slow, as he steps farther into the room, shutting the door behind him.

“You think just ‘cause we’re behind walls now, I forgot how you act when you’re teasin’?”

You give him a sly grin. “Didn’t forget. Just thought you might be too tired to do anything about it.”

Rick chuckles, low in his throat. “Too tired, huh?”

You lift yourself onto the edge of the dresser, legs parting just enough for his eyes to drop—hungry, heavy.

“It’s been a while,” you say, soft but pointed. “With everything goin’ on. Fights, runs, sleeping with one eye open…”

You toy with the hem of the boxers, just to watch his jaw clench.

“Figured now that we’ve got real beds and warm water, we might finally have the time to enjoy ourselves.”

Rick steps between your legs, hands settling on your bare thighs. His thumbs stroke gently, but there’s tension under it. Like he’s holding back too much.

“You really sat there in that hot shower thinkin’ about how long it’s been since I fucked you?”

You grin, biting your bottom lip. “Maybe. You think I’m wearin’ these just ‘cause I ran outta clean clothes?”

He leans in, nose brushing your cheek, beard scraping warm against your skin.

“Nah. You’re wearin’ these ‘cause you wanted me to see you in ‘em. You wanted me to remember how long it’s been. How bad I’ve been missin’ you.”

Your breath stutters, but you keep your voice steady. “Then do something about it, sheriff.”

That earns a crooked little smirk. “You still callin’ me that?”

“I’ll call you anything you want,” you whisper, one hand sliding under his shirt, nails grazing the scarred skin of his side, “as long as you fuck me like you used to.”

Rick growls, hands gripping your thighs tighter now. He presses you back against the mirror, one hand slipping beneath the waistband of the boxers, knuckles brushing slick heat.

“Darlin’, the way I used to fuck you? That was survival.”

He kisses your neck—hot, biting.

“But now we got time. Now I can take my time.”

The hand he has cupped between your legs doesn’t move—not yet. He just keeps it there, pressed warm against you, while his mouth drags across your throat, tongue smoothing over the mark he bit earlier.

“Missed this,” he murmurs, voice husky against your skin. “Missed you."

You thread your fingers through his damp curls, tugging gently. “Then stop waiting.”

That’s all it takes.

His other hand slides up your back, tugging the towel from your hair and letting it fall. Wet strands stick to your shoulders, your collarbone, and Rick groans—because now it’s just you. Bare skin. Bare legs. In his boxers. Sitting on his dresser, looking at him like you’ve always belonged here.

He leans down and kisses you deep. No hurry, just his mouth moving slow over yours, tasting every gasp you give him. His tongue slides against yours, his hand pressing firmer between your legs now—rubbing slow circles through the thin fabric until your hips start to shift forward, seeking more.

“Been so damn long,” he rasps. “Need to feel you. Need you to fall apart for me, just like you used to.”

You moan into his mouth, breath shaky. “I’m already halfway there.”

Rick drops to his knees. Doesn’t speak. Just hooks his fingers under the waistband of the boxers and slides them down your legs, kissing the inside of your thigh like it’s sacred. Your hands brace behind you on the dresser as he pulls one of your legs over his shoulder.

Then he buries his mouth in you.

It’s slow. Gentle. Loving. Tongue flicking over your clit, lips soft and sure, hands holding your thighs like he’s anchoring himself there. And you feel it—that desperation barely held in check, the tenderness underneath. This is him worshiping you.

“Taste like heaven,” he groans, mouth wet and filthy between your legs. “Fuck, baby. Missed this pussy so much.”

Your head drops back with a moan. He takes his time. Licks you through every roll of your hips. Keeps his eyes on your face while he makes you shake with nothing but his tongue and the reverent heat of his mouth.

You come fast—overwhelmed from the buildup, the softness, the way he groans when you tug his hair and grind down onto his face.

But he doesn’t stop.

Rick stands again, breathing hard, mouth glistening. He kisses you through your panting, hand cradling your cheek.

“One wasn’t enough. Not tonight.”

He lifts you off the dresser, your legs wrapping around him instinctively. Carries you to the bed like you weigh nothing, like he’s not trembling with how much he wants to be inside you.

Lays you out gently.

Climbs over you slowly.

“Gonna go slow. Want you to feel all of it.”

He strips himself bare—shirt, jeans, boxers—until it’s just skin on skin, chest to chest. When he finally pushes inside you, it’s deep—long and careful, his forehead pressed to yours, your moans caught between shared breath.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “That’s my girl. You take me so good.”

He thrusts slowly. Deep. Not a rush. Not a fuck. He makes love to you like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground. One hand holding yours. The other stroking your side. His mouth brushing over your jaw, your neck, your chest.

“Been wantin’ this for so long,” he murmurs. “Couldn’t stop thinkin’ about how warm you feel around me… how you look when you come…”

You’re clinging to him now, nails digging into his back, legs tight around his hips. Every push and pull of him drags another moan from your throat. He whispers sweet nothings against your skin—how perfect you are, how much he missed this, how nothing ever felt like this.

When you come again, it’s slow and wet and messy. You shudder under him, gasping his name, and he groans, still fucking you gently through it.

“Gonna fill you up, baby,” he pants. “Gonna give you every fuckin’ drop.”

You cling to him, eyes wet, heart full.

“I want it. I want you. Always.”

Rick kisses you deep as he finally lets go—buries himself as deep as he can and groans your name against your neck as he pulses inside you, warmth flooding through your core.

He stays there. Stays in you.

Breathing hard, hand stroking your cheek, his lips never far from yours.

“We’ve got time now,” he whispers. “No more wastin’ it.”

ɴᴀᴛᴀʟɪᴇ ꜱᴄᴀᴛᴏʀᴄᴄɪᴏ

You’re already outside when she spots you—leaning against the chain-link fence behind the gym, one foot braced, eyes closed, smoke curling up from your mouth. Except… you’re not in your jacket. You’re in hers.

Natalie freezes mid-step.

Her leather jacket is swallowing you. Shoulders too wide. Sleeves pushed up to your elbows. And underneath? Just a tank top and that smug little look on your face like you knew she’d see you.

She’s holding her cigarette halfway to her mouth but doesn’t move.

“Seriously?” she calls, voice dry. “You tryna rob me and commit a felony with that face?”

You smirk, eyes sliding open. “It was cold.”

“Bullshit. It’s like seventy degrees.”

You shrug, slow and smug. “Smells like you. Kinda like it.”

Natalie walks toward you—lazy, hands in her pockets, like she’s not one second away from pinning you to that fence.

“You tryna get me in trouble, or you just tryna make me stupid?”

You flick ash to the side and toss her a look. “Little bit of both.”

She’s in front of you now, one hand braced beside your head, the other stealing the cigarette from your fingers. Take a drag without breaking eye contact.

“You like wearing my jacket, baby?”

“Yeah. You gonna do something about it?”

“Depends.” Her voice drops. “You wearin’ anything under it?”

You grin, letting your fingers tug the front zipper down a little—just enough to reveal bare skin and the hint of a bra strap slipping off your shoulder.

“Wanna check?”

Natalie curses under her breath. Stubbs the cigarette out against the fence without looking. Her hand curls into the collar of the jacket, tugging you forward until your lips barely brush.

“You don’t get to fuckin’ walk around like this and act innocent.”

Your mouth brushes hers, breath warm. “Who said I was innocent?”

You’re both caught in this tense stare down, Natalie’s breath just a little ragged from holding back, your jacket sliding off your shoulder just enough to tempt.

“You know,” she murmurs, fingers trailing from your neck down to the zipper, “if anyone saw us right now, they’d think you were getting arrested.”

You grin, biting your lip. “Is that supposed to scare me?”

“No,” she says, eyes flashing dark, “it’s supposed to get you wet.”

Her hand slips inside the jacket now, fingers brushing over bare skin, teasing.

You press closer, your breath hitching.

“You’re real dangerous,” you whisper. “Ever think about what’d happen if someone caught us?”

Natalie leans in, lips grazing your ear. “I like danger.”

“Me too.”

Before you can say another word, her mouth is on yours—slow, deliberate. Her hand tightens on your waist, pulling you flush to her body. The cool metal of the fence presses into your back, but the heat from her skin is all-consuming.

Her hands roam, one slipping beneath your tank top, the other keeping you pinned just so, teasing but never quite gentle.

“You’re so damn reckless,” she growls, voice thick. “But God, I love it.”

You break the kiss for a breath, smirking.

“Then let’s make sure nobody forgets who owns this jacket.”

And just like that, she presses you fully against the fence, lips crashing back to yours as hands start exploring, the world shrinking until it’s just you two—reckless, wild, and burning up right there.

You’re pinned against the cold metal fence, her body flush against yours, fingers digging into your hips through the oversized leather jacket. Her mouth crashes against yours again, fierce and demanding, tongue sliding in like she’s claiming you with every breath.

Her hands don’t waste time, one slips beneath the hem of your tank top, palm burning over your bare skin, fingertips tracing your ribs, dipping lower, while the other fingers the waistband of your jeans. You shiver when she catches the edge of your panties, tugging them aside just enough to press the pad of her thumb over your wetness through the thin fabric.

You gasp, breath hitching, but her lips silence you — hot, rough, sucking marks along your jaw, down your neck.

“You’re soaked,” she growls, voice low and ragged. “Did you think I wouldn’t feel that?”

Your hands clutch at her jacket, pulling it tighter around you as she presses closer, the heat of her body nearly unbearable in the chilly night air.

“Shhh,” she murmurs, slipping one hand between your thighs now, thumb rubbing slow, torturous circles over your clit. “Not here to make noise.”

Her other hand hooks into the belt loop of your jeans, tugging hard enough to pull them down a little. You lift your hips, giving her access, heart pounding from the thrill of being so exposed, so vulnerable.

Her mouth finds your collarbone, teeth nipping gently, hands slick and eager, never still. You arch into her touch, grinding lightly against her thumb, desperate for more.

The risk only sharpens the sensation — every sound, every breath, every slick press of skin is amplified in the quiet night. The faint rustle of a car passing down the street makes you both freeze for a moment, eyes locking with a shared smirk.

“Can’t stop now,” you whisper.

She growls, fingers sliding inside you, slow and deep, curling expertly as she sinks two fingers in with ease. Your back arches harder against the fence, nails scraping down her arms as your breaths come faster.

Her mouth moves lower, kissing down your neck, trailing teeth along your shoulder, and you’re dizzy — caught between the chill air and the fire blazing through your veins.

“Cum for me,” she commands softly, voice a rough caress. “Here. Now.”

You do. Shuddering, trembling, utterly undone as she rides your release, steady fingers coaxing you through every pulse, every wave. Her lips brush yours one last time, soft and hungry.

You both slide down slightly against the fence, breathing heavy, sweat mingling in the cool air.

“That’s mine,” she says, voice husky. “Mine.”

You grin, fingers tangling in her hair.

“Always.”

ᴀʀᴛʜᴜʀ ᴍᴏʀɢᴀɴ

The light in Arthur’s tent is golden, that low evening haze that paints everything warm and makes the air feel thick. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, wrists flexing as he wipes down the barrel of his revolver, boots planted wide, shirt clinging just a little at the chest. His jaw ticks every so often, sharp and focused.

He doesn’t look up right away — focused, meticulous, the way he always is when his hands are busy. But the second your boots scuff soft against the tent floor and he hears that little jingle of the holster strap, he glances up.

And freezes.

“The hell’re you wearin’?”

You tip his hat lower over your eyes and flash him a slow, shameless grin.

“Like it?”

He doesn’t answer. Just drags his eyes over you. The way the holster hangs off your hips, a little crooked; the familiar brim of his hat perched way too pretty on your head. His jaw flexes once.

You step closer, one foot between his boots, hands on your hips.

“Thought I’d play outlaw today. Steal from a real bad man.”

Arthur grunts — one sharp, low sound in his throat. He sets the revolver down slow. His hands are still a little dirty from the cleaning oil, but he doesn’t care. His fingers curl over the edge of the cot.

“You playin’ with fire, girl.”

You lean down, close enough he can smell your soap and sweat and something sweet under your breath.

“Thought you liked danger.”

He stares at you for a long moment, eyes dark, chest rising. Then finally, his hand slides up your thigh, rough palm against soft skin.

“Yeah,” he rasps. “I do.”

His voice is rough, low, and laced with threat — the good kind. The kind that makes your thighs press together. Arthur takes a step forward, and you instinctively take one back, bumping into the cot behind you. His hands are already on your hips, fingers brushing the leather of his holster wrapped around you. The air in the tent feels thick now — like you’re somewhere between a dare and a confession.

“You enjoy messin’ with me like this?” he mutters, nosing at your jaw as his hand slides behind you, grabbing a handful of your ass through your skirt.

You tilt your head, breath catching. “Maybe.”

“Girl, I been good. I been real good. But you keep walkin’ ‘round here in my hat, in my goddamn holster, makin’ them little sounds when you sit next to me…”

He leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Now you’re gonna sit right here,” he growls, giving your hip a sharp tug. “And take responsibility.”

And then he pulls you down into his lap.

You straddle him slow, letting your thighs spread over his strong, denim-covered ones, the wide seat of the cot creaking beneath you. He looks up at you now, sitting there all smug in his hat, eyes half-lidded, legs already trembling from the heat. His hands hold your hips still while his mouth finally, finally meets yours.

The kiss is hot, deeper than expected — no teasing, no games. He groans low in his throat as his tongue slides into your mouth, tasting you, claiming you, like he’s been starving for days. And maybe he has — the way he’s gripping you now, rough like you’ll disappear.

Your hips roll without thinking, grinding over the shape of his cock, already thick beneath his pants. He breathes hard against your lips, forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut.

“Christ, woman. You’re gonna kill me.”

You smile sweetly, rocking again. “Guess I better make it worth your while.”

Arthur’s hand slides between your bodies, shoving your skirt up your thighs until it’s bunched around your waist. He runs his knuckles up the inside of your leg, pausing when he finds your panties.

“Soakin’,” he mutters. “Already?”

You whisper, “Wanted you all day.”

He growls, then slips two fingers under the damp fabric, pressing them through your folds slowly and dragging along your clit, down to your entrance, back up again.

“Ain’t gonna last long if you keep grindin’ on me like that,” he mutters. “Hell, you keep lookin’ at me like that, I might fuckin’ beg.”

And then you feel him — hot and hard, straining against his pants, and your mouth goes dry.

“C’mon, cowboy,” you whisper, hand dipping to undo his belt, “let’s see how much trouble I’m really in.”

He groans when your fingers wrap around him, thick and leaking already. You push your panties to the side, brace yourself on his chest, and line him up.

“You sure?” he rasps, eyes locked on yours, voice cracking from restraint. “Here? Now?”

You smirk, hat tilted just right.

“Better hold on, Mr. Morgan.”

And then you sink down onto him — slow, thick stretch, your breath shattering as he fills you inch by inch. He curses loud, one hand grabbing your waist, the other behind your neck to keep your lips close.

You stay still for a beat, both of you trembling. Then you start to ride.

Not frantic — not yet. Just deep, slow rolls of your hips, your ass bouncing lightly against his thighs as you rock back and forth, taking him to the hilt every time. His hands slide down to your thighs, spreading you wider, guiding your rhythm.

“Fuckin’ hell, darlin’... you feel like heaven.”

You tug the hat lower over your eyes again, lips parted, and Arthur loses his goddamn mind.

“Gonna wear that hat while you cum on my cock?” he grits out. “Gonna keep ridin’ me till you can’t speak straight?”

You nod, too far gone to answer, chasing your high while the cot creaks beneath you both. His mouth latches to your neck, biting, sucking, like he needs you marked. Owned.

The rhythm gets rougher, wetter, needier.

“That’s it,” he groans. “Cum for me. Let me feel it — lemme feel all of you, sweetheart.”

You do — crashing down with a cry muffled into his shoulder, body clenching tight around him as he lifts his hips to meet you, chasing his own release. He follows a second later, gasping, holding you down while he spills deep inside.

You both go still — breathing hard, sweat-slicked, skin stuck together in the muggy camp air. The hat’s crooked on your head now. Arthur kisses your collarbone, lazy and soft, and mutters against your skin:

“You keep stealin’ my things, I’m gonna have to make you mine permanent.”

ꜰʀᴀɴᴋ ᴄᴀꜱᴛʟᴇ

It’s late at the safe house. Quiet except for the soft hum of a distant fan and the muted city noises outside the cracked window. You’re sitting on the edge of the worn couch, the only light coming from a flickering lamp in the corner, casting shadows across the room.

You’re wearing his dog tags, heavy on a thin chain that rests just above your collarbone, brushing lightly against your bare skin beneath a loose, slightly oversized shirt you borrowed from him earlier.

The weight of those tags isn’t just metal — it carries memories, pain, and everything Frank holds close. You feel it, too, and that’s why you slipped them on.

Frank steps in from the hallway, boots scraping softly on the floor. He freezes when he sees you. The dog tags, catching the dim light, swinging gently as you shift. His eyes lock on the necklace like it’s a live wire. For a heartbeat, there’s silence heavy enough to crush.

Then he moves, slow and deliberate, and kneels in front of you. His voice is low, almost a growl:

“You know what those mean to me.”

You nod, voice barely a whisper:

“I want to carry a piece of you, Frank. Keep you close.”

His fingers reach out, rough and steady, brushing against the chain. He doesn’t pull it off. Instead, he cups your jaw, thumb tracing your skin like he’s memorizing you.

“It’s not just a piece of metal,” he says, voice cracking with something almost like pain. “It’s all the things I’m tryin’ to leave behind... but I never can.”

Your eyes meet his, and the air feels electric — dangerous and tender all at once.

“Then let me help carry it,” you say, voice firm. “Let me help carry you.”

His hand slides down to wrap around your waist, pulling you closer until your hearts are almost pounding in sync.

“Goddamn, you’re mine,” he growls, voice thick with something raw.

You lean in, lips barely brushing his.

“Always.”

Frank’s hand lingers on your waist, thumb pressing small circles just under your ribs, steadying you against the storm inside him. His eyes never leave yours, dark and heavy, like he’s weighing every word, every inch of skin he can see.

You can feel his breath hitch as you slowly reach up, fingers grazing the chain of the dog tags. Your touch is gentle but confident, tracing the cold metal while your other hand slides up, fingers tangling in the coarse stubble on his jaw.

He swallows hard, jaw tightening, then tilts his head to give you better access. You press a slow, searching kiss to his rough cheek, tasting salt and something raw beneath it all. Years of pain, loss, and a desperate need to protect what he loves.

Frank’s hands find your hips again, gripping firmer now as his mouth drops to your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. His scent —a mix of sweat, gunpowder, and something uniquely him wraps around you, making your pulse thunder.

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes again, and there’s a flicker of something unreadable, hunger, maybe, but also caution. Frank’s been through hell; he’s not quick to let down his guard. But with you, the walls are crumbling.

Your hands trail down his chest, feeling the hardness beneath the fabric of his shirt, fingers curling into muscle. You brush your lips over his collarbone, slow and deliberate, your body pressing closer until there’s no space between you.

Frank groans low, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. He slides one hand up your back, fingers threading through your hair, pulling you into a bruising kiss that’s fierce and desperate —like he’s making up for lost time.

His other hand slips beneath your shirt, warm skin against yours, fingers tracing your ribs before dipping lower, teasing the curve of your waist. You arch into him, breath coming faster, hands clutching his shirt as the tension coils tighter.

Frank’s lips trail from your mouth down your jaw to the hollow of your neck, teeth nibbling gently before he bites down, making you gasp. His hands move with purpose now rough and possessive as he pushes your shirt up, exposing more skin to his hungry touch.

Your fingers tug at the hem of his shirt, eager to feel his bare skin, to close the distance that’s been burning between you both.

He pulls back just slightly, eyes dark and blazing, voice a low rasp:

“You want this? Here? Now?”

You nod, breathless, lips parted.

“Need you, Frank.”

His grip tightens on your waist as he lifts you effortlessly, carrying you toward the couch, your legs wrapping around his hips instinctively. He settles you down with a growl, hands roaming freely now, unbuttoning your pants with sharp, urgent movements.

The world narrows to the heat between you — the scent, the touch, the sound of your ragged breaths mixing in the quiet room.

Frank’s mouth claims yours again, deeper, more demanding as he slides his hands beneath your clothes, exploring, marking, making you his in every way.

You arch into him, hips grinding down with a slow, agonizing tease, until he’s groaning, pressing harder, finally bridging the last inch between you.

The fire ignites fully — skin on skin, heat and burning bright.

Frank’s hands roam boldly over your bare skin, rough fingers tracing every curve like he’s memorizing you all over again. His grip tightens on your waist, pulling you flush against him, his hardness pressing insistently against your thigh. The tension coils tighter with every heartbeat, every shallow breath shared in the dim light.

His mouth leaves yours to trail scorching kisses down your neck, teeth grazing and nibbling, making your skin flush and your pulse race. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging him closer, wanting to feel more, to taste more.

Slowly, deliberately, Frank’s hands slide under your shirt, thumbs stroking your ribs, teasing the softness there before slipping beneath the waistband of your pants. You shiver as his fingers brush over the bare skin of your hip, tracing downward to the curve of your ass, squeezing possessively.

You lean into his touch, hips grinding against his growing hardness, wanting—needing—to feel him, to let go.

With a low growl, Frank shifts, one hand supporting your back as the other slides between your bodies, fingers finding your wetness, slick and ready. He presses a finger inside, slow and teasing, dragging a soft gasp from your lips.

Your breath hitches as he circles inside you, fingers moving with expert precision, sending sparks through every nerve ending. You bury your face in his shoulder, needing to muffle the sounds you can’t hold back.

Frank’s lips brush over your collarbone, then down to your chest, teeth grazing your skin, sucking marks into your flesh as he works his fingers inside you. His other hand cups your breast, kneading it roughly, thumb teasing your hardened nipple.

The pressure builds fast, heat pooling deep in your belly. You arch your back, grinding down onto his fingers as a low moan escapes you.

“Fuck, you taste like heaven,” Frank mutters against your skin, voice thick and raw.

You grab the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head, fingers grazing the scars and muscles of his chest. Your hands slide down, wrapping around his thick, hard cock, slick already from his own need.

You pump him slowly, teasing, watching as his jaw clenches and his eyes darken with hunger. He growls, shifting under you, one hand sliding under your hips to lift you higher.

With a sharp breath, you guide him inside, the slow, deep stretch making you gasp. He holds you steady, letting you set the pace at first—each slow roll of your hips driving him deeper.

Frank’s hands grip your hips tight, matching your movements, the wet sounds of your skin sliding together filling the room. His mouth finds yours again, kisses bruising and demanding, tongues tangling in a fierce dance.

The rhythm quickens, hips snapping together as your moans grow louder, mixing with Frank’s low, guttural groans. You can feel the build, the pressure rising fast—your body tightens around him, breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Come for me,” Frank rasps, voice strained, hand tightening on your waist.

Your release crashes over you like wildfire, muscles clenching hard as you cry out into his mouth. Frank follows, groaning deep and low, spilling inside you as he holds you close, both of you trembling with the aftershocks.

You collapse against him, breath mingling, skin slick and warm. His lips brush your temple, soft now.

“Mine,” he whispers. “Always.”

ᴇʟʟɪᴇ ᴡɪʟʟɪᴀᴍꜱ

You’re crashing at Ellie’s for the night. She’s showering. You’re bored. Her drawer’s open — and there’s that one pair. The black boyshort-style panties with the faded waistband, maybe a little worn-in, soft as hell. You grin, grab them, and slip into them under your oversized sleep shirt like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

She comes out of the bathroom in just a towel, drying her hair with that chaotic scrunch-dry move. You’re pretending to read a book on her bed like you're innocent.

But she sees it. The slight rise of fabric through your shirt. The flash of that telltale waistband when you shift your legs.

Her eyes narrow.

“Are those... mine?”

You glance up, all fake-casual.

“Huh? Oh. Yeah.”

“The fuck you mean ‘yeah’?”

She’s already crossing the room, towel barely hanging on, steam still clinging to her skin. Her voice is somewhere between scandalized and turned the hell on.

“You digging through my drawer now, babe? Didn’t take you for a perv.”

You shrug, smiling like you want her to be mad.

“You weren’t using them.”

“Oh, I’m usin’ them now.”

She tugs your shirt up like she’s checking the fit — fingers curling in the fabric at your hips, knuckles grazing bare skin. She’s grinning now, that lazy, smug little smile that only comes out when she knows she’s got the upper hand.

“These look better on you than I wanna admit.”

“I know.”

“Take ’em off.”

“Make me.”

Her hands are already sliding up your thighs, eyes hooded, voice dropping to a husky whisper.

“You’re seriously fuckin’ evil.”

“And you like it.”

The tension in the room sharpens the second she drops her towel.

Ellie’s standing there, bare skin glistening from the shower, her tattoo trailing down her arm like a warning label. She’s looking at you like she doesn’t know whether to yell or drop to her knees — and god, it’s hot.

“You got a goddamn death wish, baby?”

You shake your head, eyes wide and sweet.

“I just missed you.”

She stalks forward, knees hitting the mattress as she crawls over you, body pinning you to the bed. Her mouth is at your ear now, her voice ragged.

“You think you can steal my shit and sit here lookin’ this fuckin’ good and I’m just gonna let it slide?”

You’re already panting, arching up into her, and she hasn’t even touched you properly yet.

Ellie pushes your shirt up — slow, reverent — revealing the curve of your hips in the dark fabric, the shape of you pressed so tight beneath her underwear. Her breath catches, and suddenly she’s not teasing anymore.

She leans down and kisses you —soft at first, like she’s afraid to push too far but it deepens quickly, her fingers threading into your hair, the kiss turning messy and slow and needy. When she pulls back, she’s flushed and glassy-eyed.

“Don’t move.”

She slides off the bed, and you already know what’s coming. You watch her walk to her drawer, pull it open, and take out the harness — black, worn, familiar. She straps it on with slow, deliberate movements, eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re gonna take it so good,” she murmurs. “Wearing my name. My fuckin’ scent. You wanted this, huh?”

You nod, heart in your throat, thighs already trembling.

Ellie climbs back onto the bed, kneels between your legs, and leans over you. Her fingers slip under the waistband, teasing, but she doesn’t take them off yet. Instead, she pulls them aside, her eyes glued to the way you’re already soaked for her.

“God, look at you.”

She leans in, lips brushing your inner thigh, trailing kisses so soft they make you ache. Then finally she lines the strap up and pushes in slowly. Inch by inch. Letting you feel every single stretch.

You clutch her arms, whining her name, but she shushes you gently:

“It’s okay, baby. You’re okay. You’re so fuckin’ perfect like this.”

She starts moving — slow and deep, hips rocking into you with a rhythm that drives you wild. Her hand finds your throat, her mouth kissing your jaw, your cheek, your lips over and over again.

“Tell me whose they are,” she whispers, snapping her hips just right.

“Yours,” you gasp. “Ellie, I’m yours.”

“Damn right.”

And when you come, legs shaking, face buried in her shoulder, she doesn’t stop. She kisses your hair, your temple, murmuring soft praises like she’s praying.

“That’s it. That’s my girl.”

You're still trembling when Ellie pulls out — slow, like she wants you to feel the way you clench around nothing. She presses a kiss to your belly, and then your hipbone, grounding you while you come down, your breath catching in little hiccups.

“Jesus,” you whisper. “That was—”

“Yeah,” she murmurs, brushing your sweaty hair off your forehead, “I know.”

You expect her to lay beside you. Maybe unbuckle the strap. Maybe pull that ruined pair of panties the rest of the way off and toss them to the floor. But she doesn’t. Not yet.

She leans back on her heels between your legs, tattoo flexing along her arm as her fingers spread your thighs open again. You’re a mess — slick pooling, thighs sticky, pussy raw and red from the way she worked you. But Ellie’s eyes darken like she’s seeing you for the first time.

“Fuck,” she whispers. “Look at you.”

You whine softly, hips twitching, overstimulation making your breath stutter. But Ellie just grins low and lazy and leans forward.

Her mouth meets the inside of your thigh, tongue dragging upward in one slow, wet stripe. You suck in a breath, but she’s already licking again, tongue flicking at the edge of your folds, tasting everything she left behind.

“Ellie—” your voice breaks. “Too much…”

“Nah,” she murmurs against your skin.

And then she dives in.

Not gentle now. Not teasing. She devours you — tongue circling your clit, then plunging inside, moaning like she’s starved and you’re her last meal. She holds your hips down with both hands, fingers digging in hard, nose bumping your swollen clit as her mouth works you.

It’s too much. It’s not enough.

You're clawing at the sheets, at her hair, babbling broken pleas and curses as your body tightens again, heat coiling fast and brutal.

“Taste so fuckin’ good,” she pants. “Could do this all night. Gonna make you cum again for me, pretty girl—”

And you do.

It hits like lightning white-hot, your back arching off the bed as you cry out, thighs locking around her head. She keeps going, tongue flattening and curling and sliding through everything, drinking it down like she’s desperate for every drop.

When she finally pulls back, her chin’s wet, her eyes heavy-lidded, hair a mess. She crawls up your body and kisses you deep — slow and filthy, letting you taste yourself on her tongue. You sigh into her mouth, dazed and blissed out and barely holding on.

She grins against your lips.

“Still wanna steal my panties?”

“Every damn pair,” you whisper. And Ellie just laughs — the kind of laugh that means you’re never getting out of that bed again.

ʙᴜᴄᴋʏ ʙᴀʀɴᴇꜱ

It starts in the training room. Just the two of you. No Steve, no Sam, no Natasha — just you and Bucky, circling each other on the mat, breath heavy, knuckles bruised, grinning like you’re both enjoying the hell out of this.

You’re a little too mouthy. He’s a little too cocky.

“You fight dirty,” he pants, brushing sweat off his brow.

“And you like it,” you shoot back.

He lunges, you dodge. You sweep his leg. He grabs your wrist, twists, pins you down with that infuriatingly hot weight and looks down at you like you’re his prey.

“Gonna tap out?” he smirks.

“Bite me.”

Eventually, you call it a draw. He hits the showers. You wander back to his room for a change of clothes (like you always do). But this time? You find the shirt. The one he wore during sparring. It's still damp. Still warm.

You slip it on.

His shirt is too warm.

Not in a bad way — in a him way. It smells like his cologne, and clean sweat. It sticks to your skin as you lean back on his bed, one knee bent up, stretching in a way you know makes the shirt ride high.

You don’t have to look at him to know he’s staring. You feel it — the weight of it, molten and low. You glance up, see him standing there, towel around his shoulders, shirtless, still damp from the shower. His chest is rising and falling fast.

 You glance at your reflection and smirk — and that’s when you hear the door.

“The hell are you doin’?” he asks.

You turn, hands on hips, full of mock innocence.

“Borrowing.”

His jaw tightens. His eyes drag over you — over his shirt plastered to your curves, the swell of your breasts, the peek of your bare thighs.

“That’s my favorite one,” he mutters.

“I figured.” You stretch, showing off the cling. “It’s comfortable.”

He’s already crossing the room, eyes dark.

“It’s not just comfortable, sweetheart. It’s dangerous.”

You lean back onto the edge of his bed, legs parting slightly — shirt riding up just enough to drive him wild.

“So take it back.”

He’s silent for a beat. Then—

“That’s not how that shirt’s supposed to fit.”

You shrug, a smirk playing on your lips.

“Fits me just fine.”

He stalks closer. You can see it in the way his jaw ticks — the slow burn crawling up his spine. You expect him to take the bait. To grab you, maybe toss you back and make good on all that fire in his eyes.

But he stops. Just stand there. Looking.

“Do you even know what you’re doing to me?” His voice is hoarse. Quiet. Reverent.

Your smile softens — but only a little.

“No. Maybe you should show me.”

He finally moves. Not rough — slow. Deliberate. He kneels between your thighs on the bed, fingers dragging up your bare legs, stopping just under the hem of his shirt. His eyes flick up to yours.

“You were tryin’ to get a rise outta me,” he murmurs. “Actin’ like a brat. You know I don’t like that.”

You grin, breath catching as his hand moves higher.

“Yeah. You love it.”

He exhales a short laugh through his nose — but there’s no humor in it. Just hunger. His metal hand presses against the bed beside your hip, while the other cups your cheek. His thumb traces your lips.

“You’re gonna ride me in that shirt,” he murmurs. “Make a mess of it. Make me clean it with my fuckin’ mouth after.”

The heat rushes to your core. You nod, barely able to breathe.

He leans in — kisses you. Not rushed. Deep. His tongue licks into your mouth like he’s tasting the words he wants to say. His hand moves lower, sliding beneath the shirt, dragging up the line of your waist.

“Look at you,” he says softly. “All worked up and I haven’t even touched you right.”

You whimper as he brushes your nipple with his knuckle — and then pinches, just enough to make your hips buck.

“Bucky—”

“C’mon, baby. Get on top. Let me feel how bad you want it.”

You straddle him slowly. He sits up, arms locking around your waist, mouth finding your throat. He pushes the shirt up just a little, exposing your thighs as you rock your hips down against the hard bulge in his sweats.

“You this needy from just wearin’ my clothes?” he mutters. “Shit. Gonna have to put you in my whole fuckin’ closet.”

You grind again, moaning his name, and he gasps — biting your neck, pulling you tighter, hips lifting just enough to press against your center.

“Take what you want, doll,” he groans. “You earned it.”

And you do. You sink down on him slow, your hands planted on his chest, his shirt hiked up around your ribs. His eyes don’t leave you — watching the way your body swallows him, the way the fabric clings tighter from your sweat, your heat, your movement.

“F-fuck, you wear it better than I do,” he pants.

You ride him slowly. On purpose. Every roll of your hips dragging a deep groan from his throat, his hands gripping your ass, then your waist, then cupping your face as he stares up at you like you’re a dream.

And when you finally fall apart on top of him shaking, gasping, and face buried in his neck and he flips you onto your back.

Your chest is still heaving, body buzzing from the slow-build orgasm that wrecked you, but Bucky doesn’t give you time to come down.

The second his shirt is peeled off your body, he drops it to the side like it never mattered — like you’re the only thing that does. He kisses your chest first, then lower, chasing the trail of sweat and slick down your ribs with his mouth, hand splayed wide over your stomach to hold you still.

“Told you I’d clean it up,” he murmurs, his voice low and ragged. “Gotta taste ya…”

You let out a breathy laugh that turns into a gasp as his mouth hovers over your cunt again, lips barely brushing your inner thigh.

“Bucky—”

“Shh,” he coos. “I know, baby. Just let me take care of it.”

And he does.

He devours you like he’s starving. Like you’re the only thing in the world that’ll fix the ache in his chest. His tongue licks through the mess he made earlier, slow at first — just a tease, just enough to make your thighs tremble — and then faster. More desperate.

His hands grip your thighs hard, pulling you closer, spreading you wider.

“So fuckin’ sweet,” he mutters against you. “Can’t believe you’ve been walkin’ around all day like this — wearin’ my shit, makin’ me crazy—”

You can’t respond. Can barely breathe.

He flattens his tongue against your clit and sucks, just once, and it’s too much. Your hips jerk. Your hands tangle in his hair, tugging hard, but all it does is make him groan and push in deeper, tongue flicking, curling, lapping like he needs every last drop of you.

“Gonna come again,” you gasp, shaking.

“Good,” he growls. “Wanna feel you fall apart.”

You do hard and fast. A cry rips out of you, back arching off the bed, thighs clamping around his head as he keeps going. Doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. He groans into your cunt, rutting against the mattress, grinding like he’s the one about to lose it.

When you finally collapse, spent and twitching, he pulls back slowly. His mouth is soaked. Chin wet, lips flushed, eyes wild.

He kisses your thigh once. Then again.

And then — without a word — he rises to his knees at the edge of the bed, grabs your hips, and flips you over.

“Oh my god—”

“No, sweetheart. Not yet.”

You’re on your stomach now, cheek pressed to the mattress, legs spread. You can feel him behind you — feel the weight of that metal arm sliding along your spine, the sound of his sweats being shoved down, the way his cock pressed to your entrance, hot and heavy.

“You take it so good,” he rasps. “Every time. But I need more.”

He thrusts into you in one smooth stroke — deep. You cry out, gripping the sheets. His hand presses between your shoulder blades, keeping you down, while the other wraps around your hip, holding you open as he starts to fuck you slow and thick and deep.

“You steal from me,” he grunts, pounding into you. “You get fucked like this.”

“Yes—yes, Bucky, please—”

His metal hand curls around your throat, not choking, just holding, grounding. His hips slam into yours harder, faster, filthy sounds echoing through the room. You’re soaked. You’re ruined. And he loves it.

“M’gonna fill you up,” he pants. “So deep it’ll be drippin’ down your thighs. That what you wanted, baby? Wearin’ my shirt like a little tease?”

You nod desperately, voice gone, fingers clawing at the sheets.

He presses a kiss to the back of your neck, breath hitching.

“Then take it. All of it.”

And when he comes — groaning your name, burying himself to the hilt — you feel it. The heat. The weight. The claim.

He collapses on top of you, chest heaving against your back, arms wrapped tight around your waist.

“Next time,” he murmurs into your skin, “I pick what you wear.”

“What if I steal your boxers?” you whisper, breathless.

He laughs, kisses your shoulder, and growls—

“Then I’m never lettin’ you leave the bed.”

ʀᴏꜱɪᴛᴀ ᴇꜱᴘɪɴᴏꜱᴀ

It’s too hot to do anything useful.

The sun’s beating down on Alexandria, making every surface shine, every shirt stick, every conversation lazier than usual. You’ve been doing laundry — or pretending to. Mostly, you’re just folding things while sipping lemonade and staring at the line where everyone’s clothes hang to dry.

And there they are.

Rosita’s green shorts. The ones. Tight, frayed, mid-thigh. Infamous. You’ve caught yourself staring at her ass in them more times than you care to admit. The shorts practically have their own reputation.

So.

Maybe it’s the heat.

Maybe it’s the way she smirked at you earlier.

Maybe you want attention.

But you grab them. Tug them on. They cling in all the right places, barely button, and ride up when you bend down.

And when you turn, Rosita is there. Arms crossed, one brow raised, smirk slow and deliberate.

“Interesting look.”

You freeze for a second, then recover, leaning back on the porch railing, pretending like your thighs aren’t burning and your heart isn’t hammering.

“What? Figured I’d give your shorts a spin. You leave 'em out, they’re fair game.”

She hums and walks closer, slow. Catlike.

“Yeah? You think you can just put those on and get away with it?”

“I don’t hear you asking for ‘em back.”

Rosita stops a foot in front of you, tongue in her cheek. Her eyes trail down, slowly — over your hips, the way the shorts dig into your thighs, up your stomach, across your chest. She lets her gaze rest on your mouth, then finally locks eyes with you again.

“Cocky little thief.”

You smile sweetly.

“Only when I know it’ll get me what I want.”

“What’s that?”

“You.”

She blinks, just once, and the look in her eyes changes — just a little. Less amusement, more heat.

“Yeah?” she murmurs. “It’s been a minute, huh?”

“Too long,” you agree, stepping closer, until your chest brushes hers. “We kept saying later… then we got safe here and—”

“Started playing house,” she finishes.

“Mmm.” You ghost your fingers along her waistband. “I missed touching you.”

“Well you didn’t have to steal my damn clothes about it,” she says, laughing breathlessly.

You lean in, lips brushing her cheek.

“I thought it’d speed things up.”

She kisses you first and it’s hard, like a bite. Her fingers grip your waist, tug you in. You cup the back of her neck, slip your thigh between hers, and when she ruts just slightly against it, the whole vibe shifts.

The air’s humid, sticky, charged. You press her back against the porch post, hands on her hips, lips locked with hers, and grind your thigh slow and deliberate. Her hands fist in your shirt.

“You gonna let me take care of you tonight?” you whisper.

“Just want you,” she rasps.

“I don’t need anything else.”

Her mouth tastes like lemonade and heat.

It’s a messy, breathless kiss, mouths sliding, teeth clacking, all hunger and pressure and hands gripping anything they can find. She rubs against your thigh like she needs it, like the week of late patrols and early meetings and pretending not to look at you has pushed her to the edge.

You pull back just enough to whisper:

“Let’s go inside.”

“Took you long enough.”

She grabs your hand, lets you tug her down the hall to your room, the door shutting behind you with a thud. She spins you by the waistband of her shorts — her shorts — and kisses you again, this time slower. More intent.

You let it happen for a second.

Then you flip it.

Push her back until she’s seated at the edge of the bed, legs spread, eyes wide.

“You’re not calling the shots tonight.”

She leans back on her elbows, a grin growing.

“No?”

You kneel between her legs and press a kiss to the inside of her knee.

“No.”

Another kiss, higher. She hums. Still smug. She thinks she can handle it.

You place one palm against her chest and push — not hard, just enough to make her lie back. Then you crawl up, straddling her hips. The little green shorts ride up even more as you grind down, slow and deliberate.

Her hands grip your thighs.

“Fuck,” she breathes. “You’re gonna be mean about it, huh?”

“Only if you keep talking like you’re not seconds away from begging me.”

She opens her mouth like she’s got a retort, but you roll your hips again and her breath catches. Gone.

Your mouth is on her collarbone, teeth scraping gently. Then down. You suck a mark into her neck, one that’ll bloom dark and satisfying. She groans.

“Get this off,” she mutters, tugging your top. “I wanna see.”

You pull your shirt off, slow. Let her look. Her eyes are greedy, hands already moving up to cup your chest — but you catch her wrists.

“No touching unless I say.”

She moans softly. Nods. Bites her lip.

You lean down, kiss her lips gently, then trail kisses lower — down her neck, between her breasts, down her stomach. Your fingers trying​​ to work open the button of her pants before she can catch her breath.

You tug them down and no underwear.

“Goddamn, Rosita.”

“What?” she says innocently. “It’s laundry day.”

You smirk.

“Mmhmm. You did this on purpose.”

You press a kiss right above her mound, watching her hips twitch. Then lower. Lower.

Your tongue swipes through her folds and she gasps — her head tipping back, thighs spreading further.

“Oh fuck—baby—”

You lap at her slowly, deliberately, hands locked around her thighs, keeping her pinned. She’s already dripping, already twitching under your tongue. You flick her clit, then suck it between your lips.

Her hands fist in the sheets.

“Please—please, don’t stop—”

“I’m not stopping until you come on my mouth,” you murmur.

She moans so loud you have to slap a hand over her mouth. She loves that — hips rolling, clit throbbing against your tongue.

You keep going. Circling her clit in slow, tight patterns, then flattening your tongue and dragging it up through the slick heat of her. Your fingers tease her entrance, but you don’t slide in. Not yet.

You want her to ask.

She whines, hands pulling at your shoulders.

“Need—your fingers—”

“Say it pretty.”

“Please. Need your fingers. Want you inside—”

You ease two fingers in. Just like that. Curl them slow. Press them deep. Your mouth never leaves her clit.

She’s a mess now — hips grinding, legs shaking. You let her fuck herself on your hand while your mouth works her over, letting every moan vibrate through her.

When she comes, it’s with a gasp and a shudder, clenching around your fingers so hard you nearly lose it yourself.

But you’re not done.

You crawl up her body, licking your lips, and kiss her slowly.

She’s breathless, dazed, her body limp beneath yours.

“You okay?”

“Mmm.” She smiles up at you. “Gonna have to steal more of my shit if this is how you act.”

You kiss her again, then settle beside her, dragging the shorts back up your thighs.“Oh, baby,” she murmurs, pulling you into her chest. “You can keep ‘em.”

────────────────────

divider by @cursed-carmine 🏷️ @zevrra @xodilfluvr @millersdoll @littlejoels @inbred-eater @grayandthyme @mybvalentine @mysticalgalaxysalad @moonstone2323 @blv3rd @cosm1c-babe @tokkiwrites @soapypits @annulmaelae @studioghibelli @funkycoloured @fckmebarnes @aj0elap0l0gist @bleed-4-bey @bvtchbait @bluevelvetpedro @deardev0teddelicate @ssssc0m @pandapetals @millers-angel @millersgirl44

[palajae]

than ever! | nrk.

PAIRING... rich kid! riki x reader | GENRE... angst, romance, fluff | WC... 3.9k | warnings... curse words, not proofread | listening to happier than ever by billie eilish :)

may 2025. 

your practiced smile meets the bajillion flashes of the cameras, screams by love struck fans, and questions from the nosy reporters. yet all you could focus on was the cold, firm hand placed perfectly at the small of your back. 

your husband and you make the picture perfect couple. an ideal appearance for your second year anniversary—you yourself cannot believe how much time has passed. 

how you ever managed to make it this far, this long—it’s almost unbelievable. 

“what are the lovely couple’s plans after the gala?”

your smile falters just a smidge. probably not even perceptible from any outsider’s perspective.  

plans?

ha, says who? 

your plan—from the start—was to remain the ideal wife. appear at every public appearance with your husband, by his side, just like this one sponsored by his parents. 

and obviously, pretend that you’re happier than ever. every damn time. you laugh softly, smile as bright as the extravagant lights and decor all around you.

the car ride home is silent, as per usual. it’s not like the atmosphere is cold—your driver eyes the both of you through the rear view window—it’s simply dead. 

your hand fiddles with the pearl earring on your left ear. mentally, you review your plans for tomorrow. another photoshoot, another interview. once upon a time, you only could’ve imagined a life like this. 

what would your parents say? seeing you like this? they gave you away happily, as happy as you tried to seem in front of them. 

you feel his eyes on you. it makes you shudder. for a split second, you allow your eyes to flicker over to the body sitting next to you.

you can’t even hate your own husband—you can only feel absolutely fucking nothing towards him now. 

his family was one of the most prominent ones in the entertainment industry. and their successor son was the golden child. 

you could only dream of the past, the what-ifs and all the warm nostalgia. how your life could have been so different. if you didn’t succumb to fame and success. would your life be utterly different? like back then?

with him? 

all your memories contained him smiling, running, fighting, and sweating. he was human—able to love and be loved. so, completely different from the man you married. his flawlessly styled hair and porcelain skin piss you off.

maybe you were too late. grew your power and status, rising to the top of the modeling industry a little too late. if only you got to him, found him, a little bit earlier. 

the car comes to a halt. you simply blinked, and suddenly you made it back. it was an unintentional skill you had developed to make the car rides back quicker. you open the door for yourself, automatically walking out. 

you can hear his footsteps follow you, the click of his shoes cause you to frown. your husband is following you, yet you want the distance to grow. 

you walk faster, only stopping when you hear the pace of his footsteps quicken. your lip curls up in disgust. so, you whip around, crossing your arms with an emotionless expression on your face. you can’t believe you’re wasting your breath again.

“don’t. you embarrass me.”

his eyes are unreadable. “you left your purse in the car.” 

your eyes narrow at his grip on the delicate strap. an expensive purse ruined by such a simple action. it almost hurt you like it used to. 

you look him dead in the eye when you say, “everything good i have is ruined by you.”

you mean it. 

with that, you turn and walk the paved path into your house. with him, you could never call it a home. he made you hate this city. you once thought your husband could be your everything. now it all makes you fucking sick. 

unlike before, you’re happier than ever to be apart from him, while you can only dream of the one that got away. 

there’s only one rags-to-riches, real life cinderella, story. and it’s yours.

your humble background is what allowed you to become so successful—to be named the “it-girl” of the nation. it allowed you to meet and marry the perfect man. your life now is what others dream of, what people talk about on the internet and what fans obsess over. 

looking back, would you do it all over again? 

august 2017. 

you wipe the sweat off your forehead as you clean the table with one final sweep of the rag. you hear the whistle blowing from the field across your family’s small store. 

was it time already? 

growing up next to the most prestigious academy in the nation came with its pros and cons. 

pro: the rich kids stopped by. 

cons: the rich kids stopped by. 

but business was business, after all. when business was slow, you would watch the faint figures, looking like peanuts, run across the field with a ball, about the same size as a pin. it made you laugh to yourself, seeing such tenacious, rich boys freak out over a rubber sphere filled with air. 

“do you guys sell taiyaki?”

you blink at the boyish frizzled hair, glistening honey-kissed skin, and ruffled grass-stained jersey.

“…this is a convenience store.”

“well, then-anything with custard?”

you fumble before quickly stalking over to the small refrigerated area at his expectant look. you doubted it, but maybe… sometimes, your mother stocked up on the desserts—when he was in a good mood.

looking past the glass, you exhale before turning to the soccer player sheepishly, “um.. no, but we have frozen red bean buns?” 

you trail off awkwardly, scratching the side of your head. you gesture towards the exit, “you know, there’s a bakery down the street… you could’ve gone there first,” you add with a mumble. 

he simply nods and leaves without another word.

you cross your arms, peeking out the door to watch his figure get smaller and smaller until it eventually disappeared. you scrunch your nose up—what a weird guy. 

you squint at the fine print on the back of his jersey:

nishimura #09 

must be a soccer player at the nearby academy. what were the chances you watched him play on that field without knowing? 

the players often came after a long practice to grab drinks and snacks, but this was the first time you had ever seen him before. when you told your mother about the weird encounter, she only shook her head. 

it’s only after that day you begin to hear whispers of the next upcoming pro soccer star—nishimura riki. you’re a little surprised to find out that strange guy was a soccer prodigy. 

you’re even more surprised when nishimura begins to become a regular. some days he comes in nonchalantly, asking for a protein drink, and other days he simply comes and sits down without some made up excuse. 

“don’t you have school work? a house to stay at and family to be with?” you ask, not out of annoyance, but genuine curiosity. your mother shoots you a sharp glare that you look away at. 

“soccer is my life,” he replies simply. you observe his designer backpack and newest model phone. what kind of life did riki live in which he never wanted to go home? 

“that’s okay. here, you can relax,” your mom assures him. that’s the first time you see riki smile. 

his soccer friends will occasionally join him. you have to actively hide the disdain on your face when all the ruckus and stink of them enter the store. you could stand nishimura riki, but not him with his friends. 

you didn’t really notice until the fan girls started piling up at the door, it causes you to study riki with a sigh. your cheeks warm, you suppose…

he was sort of handsome? 

pinching your nose bridge exasperatedly, you glare at riki. “can you tell them to leave? they’re disturbing customers and blocking the door. this is horrible for our business.”

riki looks up, “who?” 

you grip the broom tighter in your hands and point it outside like it was a weapon. 

“they’re not my problem,” he only shrugs. you roll your eyes, “please?” 

your mom shoots the two of you an amused glance from the cashier desk. 

riki groans before getting up with a click of his tongue, “since you asked so nicely.”

you watch his games with stars in your eyes, sitting in the far bleachers with your mom. a bag of freshly cooked side dishes sit by your feet, waiting to be given at the end of the match that riki would win. your gaze could never leave him. 

every movement of his, the sheer determination and fire burning in his eyes, it only inspired you. you never knew how much love a person hold towards a passion until you met nishimura riki. 

he was born for soccer. or, soccer was made for him. maybe, one day, you could find your own spark. 

during christmas, riki helps you set up a small tree outside the store. you giggle as he struggles to hang up the ornaments. 

seeing the wonder in his eyes, akin to a small child opening presents for the first time, it makes you wonder if he has ever done this before. after all, he spent all of his time at the convenience store with you whenever he wasn’t practicing. he never once mentioned his family or home. he never acted snotty or spoiled like the other academy kids, no matter how talented and rich he was. 

you learned although riki has such a lavish life, it could never be as rich as a life like this—full of love and happiness. right? 

his hands linger over yours as you put the finishing touch, the twinkling star, on the top. 

“it’s best to share the christmas spirit with everyone,” you say decisively and the smile he sends you after makes you think… 

you may have a small crush on him. 

you’re the most surprised when a rather intimidating lady in sunglasses pops by the convenience store one afternoon, handing you a business card. 

“why do you look shocked? you’re pretty.” 

you blush at riki’s simple statement. 

modeling? you had never considered it, that’s for sure. you always thought you were going to become a writer. after all, your mother always praised your literature skills. 

her face is unreadable, she was only looking at you the entire time the scouting manager was talking to you. 

“what do you think, mom?” you glance at her curiously. 

“it’s your choice…of course.” 

you study the card with scrunched up eyebrows. trying it out wouldn’t hurt, right? and some extra money for the family would be nice, as well. 

the first gig that you you were able to book, your life changed forever. 

your mom smiles and kisses your forehead. a small, white dainty bag is shoved to your face. you blink, eyes focusing on the words. they bulge as you gasp at riki. 

“how much was this? you-“

he huffs as he pats your head, “congrats. it’s nonrefundable, so don’t try to return it.” 

you glance up at him, emotions swirling through your eyes. suddenly, your arms are thrown around him. he’s speechless, eyes wide and wind knocked out of him. for a moment—you really felt like your hearts stopped. together, in sync. 

for just that one second, the world stopped revolving. 

however, he isn’t able to respond when your mother comes back in the store with an unreadable expression. 

“riki.”

you feel him freeze, turn cold right in your arms. you glance out, at the polished mercedes benz parked and waiting outside. perhaps that was the start of the end. 

riki suddenly bows to the both of you. “thank you. for everything i, um…”

the car honks, and he gives you one last lingering look before heading out. you stare at the bag, and then your mom, whose expression makes your stomach drop. 

“he’s not coming back, is he?”

february 2023. 

“aren’t you excited?” 

“obviously! i would be if i was marrying a rich guy like him. plus, just look at his face! and body-i mean, his proportions are crazy.…”

you tune out the chatter, closing your eyes. the hair stylist puts her finishing touches on your hair while the makeup artist sprays a fixer on your face. 

“-y/n?” 

your eyes fly open. “hm?”

they look at you, more excitement in their eyes than you ever had when finding out. 

“aren’t you happy? this is going to be the wedding of the century! all the top idols and celebs are invited…”

“a love story just like in the dramas-!” 

you stare at your reflection in the mirror. every day not already booked with your work schedule was spent on the wedding. it made you sick. 

trying on different dresses, experimenting out makeup and hair styles, you simply  nodded to it all. whatever made your mom happy, sure. 

how many flavors of cake were you going to taste? how many tiers were there going to be? none of it was necessary. 

you were sick of planning all the flowers, and draperies, and light fixtures like you even had a say in the first place. 

you always imagined that you would get married in a simple courtyard, with only close friends and family. wearing your mom’s dress, eating home cooked food family style. 

all with your groom right by your side. your husband who would happy with anything, as the only thing that mattered was getting married to you. one time, you had dreamed of marrying him with that forever smirk on his face, smelling constantly like grass and men’s deodorant that you never found out the name of. 

but a fantasy would always remain a fantasy. 

how long would you stay stuck in the past?

you close your eyes again, and the words ring in your ears just like when your now fiancé spoke to you. 

my parents were going to set me up with a stranger. i thought this proposal would be for the best. 

your eyebrows twitch. 

you motherfucker. 

it all made sense. the media would eat it up. your parents would eat it up. and now that you had established your presence in the industry, so would his parents. 

how could you say no? 

you didn’t even have a choice. the agreement was signed faster than you could open your mouth and protest. this marriage—no, this agreement, was the best thing that could’ve ever happened to you. 

and yet, all you could wonder is, 

did he actually come up with the idea? 

or was it all a business tactic? 

october 2019. 

the wind blows the crispy leaves across the pavement. you don’t have to wear a mask or any sort of identity-covering clothing, yet. but you do have a manager who has allowed you two hours of free time. 

your parent’s convenience store closed down last year in order for you to focus on your rising career. it was a simple curiosity that dragged you back to check on the spot.  

although it’s a tech store now, you’ll never forget the time you spent here growing up. and then, meeting someone you never expected to change your li-

the call of your name breaks you out of your trance. 

that voice. 

it can’t be.

you whip around, hair flying behind you. your jaw drops, “r-riki?”

you can’t believe it, hands shaking. in front of you stands a taller, sturdier nishimura riki. gosh, how much time had passed? 

you lost his number when you switched to a newer, better phone and subscription plan. you thought you had lost him forever. 

he slowly walks up to you, identical smiles mirroring each other and growing on both of your faces. 

“i can’t believe it… w-what are you doing here?”

unconsciously, you grip his track jacket. as if, you had to check and make sure he was actually in front of you. you weren’t dreaming again, right?

“i finally got a break from training. my coaches said we could go anywhere and…” he shrugs before gesturing at the former convenience store. 

“i didn’t know it closed down. this is the first time i was able to come back.”

your eyes sparkle, “you’re still playing?”

he nods and you breathe out a sigh of relief. “good. you’re too good for the sport.”

he laughs and you almost melt at the sound. 

“wanna take a little walk?”

it’s too comfortable, you fall into your old rhythm again. a pleasant silence falls over the two of you as you walk past the stores, the old soccer field, strolling past your childhood. 

“i wanted to come back, so many times,” he murmurs. you cautiously glance up at him, waiting silently for him to continue. 

he scratches the back of his neck, “but playing for the u-20s doesn’t really allow that so…” 

“i-i tried looking for you online, though.”

you mask your laugh with a cough. “ah. that must be because my manager controls all my accounts. they must’ve thought it was spam or a prank. sorry.” 

riki’s quick to shake his head, “no, no. i get it. we’re both busy. but maybe we could, like, stay in touch this time.” 

you kick a stray leaf with your foot, hiding a bashful expression. 

“we should.”

he turns to you, and you realize you made it back to where your store once stood. it’s much darker—your manager is going to be mad. your mother, too. 

“promise. promise you’ll make it to the world cup and promise you’ll keep me updated.” 

“i promise. you’ll be right by my side cheering, right?”

when he takes a step closer, you swallow. then, you close your eyes. a beat passes, two beats.

a sharp inhale and then you feel something warm press against your lips. only for a second. 

it’s nice. it feels.. right.

you decide then and there: nishimura riki just might be your first love. you hope, secretly and privately, somehow, he’ll be your last too. 

july 2021. 

“y/n!” your manager hisses and you hold back a huff. “come here-there’s someone you need to meet!”

you quickly bid farewell to a friend, a recently debuted idol in the industry, and scramble as fast as you can over in those damned heels. 

as soon as you reach her, you slow and the inviting smile is wiped off your face. there, standing right in front of you, is a man you don’t recognize. 

you refuse to recognize him. 

“this is nishimura riki! you might have heard of him on the news recently. he’s the future successor, taking over-“

that’s actually hilarious. she knew you didn’t have time to check the news anymore. her words are drowned out in the realization of it all. 

for the first six months, the two of you were good at staying in touch. you couldn’t really meet with you flying all over the world for shoots and riki with his rigorous training schedule. 

but you were convinced you could keep it up. maybe he wasn’t. or maybe it was a mutual understanding—busy schedules and changing lives were a lot to handle. you don’t know who sent the last message and who failed to respond. it’s been a little too long to remember anything but the lingering feelings. 

you frown, “your hair is up.” 

he falters, before fixing his tie. “yeah, i-they told me it looks more professional.” 

the nishimura riki you knew hated having his bangs out of his face. he hated stiff, restrictive clothes and all that fancy attire. 

“you look nice.” 

you take a step back. 

future ceo? 

you weren’t dumb. you knew the nishimura family was powerful. you just didn’t know he was weak enough to succumb to it. you actually thought he would be the one to break free and follow his dreams. 

“i thought… i thought you had finally done it, riki,” you say softly, staring sadly into his dark eyes. they don’t hold the same light and energy as they used to. 

“why are you doing this to yourself?”

he takes a step closer and you bite the inside of your cheek. you hate this riki. you hate the fancy, expensive smell that wafts off him. you want to wash it off. 

his confused expression makes you want to puke. 

“i don’t have a choice.”

“you were right there!” you jab a finger accusingly into his chest, before your hand drops lifelessly to your side. you turn away with confusion, disgust, and hurt brewing internally. you didn’t know this man. 

“i love you.” 

your heart stops. your feet still. yet, all you can do is shake your head. 

“stop.”

he takes your hand and it’s cold and smooth and not like the calloused, warm hands of nishimura riki. how could he change this much in less than a year?

“i’ll do anything to get you back—please! i don’t care that my parents want me to find a rich heiress, i’ll tell them my eyes are only for you.”

his words only made you wonder—did he ever notice your face plastered on billboards? read any of your interviews posted online? 

you turn around with mirth swimming in your pupils, “oh, that’s very kind of you. use all the power and fame you’ve gained.”

he frowns.

“aren’t you just saying that because you’re scared? you aren’t any different--you’re just like me.”

at that, you feel your heart shatter. you weren’t any different from nishimura riki? 

after everything, you’d never understand him, you guess. and he’d never understand you. 

“just fucking leave me alone.”

present day. 

the interviewer sits in front of you with a warm smile, your eyes fall on the giant vogue printed on the microphone. 

the majority of the questions are simple and surface-level, you run through them with practiced ease. it’s not until she reaches the end and pulls out the heavier ones that you falter. 

“did you always want to become a model?”

“no, actually.. to be frank, i never considered it before.”

“oh, really? what did you want to do?”

you cross your arms, then uncross them. your heel clacks against the polished floor. you swallow harshly, looking away from the bright lights. “actually, i… don’t know. i never really had the chance to think about it before i was scouted.”

the interviewer notices the change in your energy, which makes her laugh cautiously. 

“that’s fine! enough of the past, let’s move on to the present. and this’ll be the last question: do you feel like you’re satisfied with where you are now?”

her inquisitive eyes suddenly makes your mouth dry. you lick your lips. sensing your apprehensiveness, she tries her best to smooth over the heavy question. 

it backfires. 

“most say you’re in your prime—after all, you’ve reached the peak of your career and you’re married to your childhood sweetheart, nishimura riki ! you must be content, or do you still feel like there’s more to accomplish?”

you pledged yourself, in sickness and in health, to the man you once loved and lost. you hate that your “dream” came true. you simply smile, voice cracking only the slightest when you answer,

“couldn’t be happier than ever.”

a/n: hi guys!! i wanted to try something different from my usual works with side characters, humor, and an "ideal" relationship, etc. haha. i just felt like exploring the more darker, deeper, and more problematic concepts. i think with this reader and riki, there are a lot of unresolved issues on both sides. idk, i enjoyed the pressure of not having a happy ending or resolution. sorry for being mia but hope you enjoyed anyway <3

[bluubunbun]

ROVER NATION IS STARVED AND WE ARE ON OUR KNEES FOR ANY SORT OF FOOD TO GET BY 😭😭😭 I loved your rover hcs post oh my goodness!! so I couldn't help but come by to drop some ingredients 💛💛

MRover whose resting face is just that damn puppy eyes like his (spiritual) tail is perpetually wagging...Reader cannot handle it with their cuteness aggression and ends up pinching the hell out of his cheeks!! Rover playfully fights back but you know, Lord Arbiter and Mighty Godkiller and all that he easily overpowers them without thinking...which ends in them mutually flustered 🤯🤯🤯

- RoverGlazer9000 💚

𝐂𝐔𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐀𝐆𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍

Probably OOC, swearing, Rover being a cutie, misspelling,

HELLO SORRY THIS IS A BIT LATE I HAD STATE EXAMS BUT I'M FREE NOW‼️ Also this is so cute. I'M SORRY ROVERGLAZER9000 IF I GOT THIS WRONG OR IF IT'S NOT TO YOUR LIKING I TRIED MY BEST💔. Also real cause why is there no Rover things.

Travelling with Rover was certainly something. Adventurous for sure, caught up with a lot of drama and finding out who he was and what he did. Because what do you mean you're standing besides the founder of Jinzhou and the Black shores??

Anyways, it was difficult to believe such things. Especially when you as much as glance at him, a hard task to keep a straight face when serious situations happen. All because he was too..

Cute.

And it's not only because you had happen to like him, he was generally pleasing to the eye (in your opinion at least), but it was the way his resting face made you notice that he resembled a puppy, especially around you. Sometimes you even think he actually had a tail when you ask him for something, you have to blink a few times or subtly pinch yourself just to make sure you weren't going crazy. Most of the time, he would stare at nothing in particular while he was thinking, his face would relax and it would simply remind you of a puppy.

Maybe it was just your imagination.

So here you are, walking besides him while you stare at his face. He was staring ahead, yet he couldn't help but start to wonder why you were suddenly so fixated on him. Was there something on his face? Did you want him to start a conversation?

It wasn't until you got a hold of his arm, making him stop on his tracks while he turned his head towards you. Your blank face beginning to make him nervous, were you made at him?

"Whats wrong?" He asked as he maintaining his composure. And for a moment, for a split moment you swear you saw dog ears droop and the tail stop wagging.

"..." You only stared and stared, it was starting to get him more nervous than he already was.

"[Name]..?"

You let go of his arm, reaching up to his face with both hands before cupping his cheeks. His eyes widened, and right there and then the tail starting wagging fast as his ears perked up.

His puppy demeanor had enchanted you.

"You're so.." You inhaled, eyebrows furrowed. He was so cute. Why was he like this? It was like he had bewitched you so you could look at him and never tear your gaze away. Like it was intentional to have your attention and eyes on him at all times.

"Wha— ACK!" He flinched when you suddenly started pinching his cheeks. Stretching them and making them sting by the slightest, his hands coming up to your wrists and holding them. But he didn't tear them away, not yet at least.

"[Namesh]! T-that shtings!" He whined, he had absolutely no idea what had gotten into you. You started moving his head around gently, your eyebrows pressed together as your lips pressed into a thin line.

"You're too cute!! WHO GAVE YOU THE RIGHT TO BE SO CUTE??!" You began to shake him a bit, a difficult task to keep your emotions in check as you try not to make him fall.

You suddenly feel hands hold your cheeks, stretching them the same as you were to Rover. He managed to grab yours in return, now both of you pinching each others cheeks.

"Letsh go.."

"Yoh firsht.."

A battle amongst you both in who would release first. You? Or the all mighty God killer.

It didn't take long before you both started shaking each other, not enough to make you both stumble to the ground, but enough to show the gentle aggression held for one another.

It didn't take long before Rover was the one who managed to get control of the situation, coming out as the victory when you let go of his cheeks and held onto his wrists.

"Yeah doesn't feel so good now does it??" With a playful jest, it was his turn to shake you a bit. His cheeks still stung but he ignored it, a small price to pay.

"I'm shorrryy.." You whined, eyes shut as he tormented you cheeks while he chuckled.

It didn't take long before his cuteness aggression died down (not really) and he let go of your face. You held your face with a small whimper as it stung, consequences of your actions.

"Sorry sorry.. I didn't hurt you right?" He chuckled again.

"Other than pulling on my cheeks as if they were made out of rubber.. No, you did not" you sent a playful glare at his direction.

"A haha..." He cleared his throat, avoiding you gaze as his cheeks were coated in a red. Most likely from pinching them, you think.

"So.. You think I'm cute?" He asked.

"Huh?" You blinker once, twice. Then it hit.

Oh my God you called him cute without even thinking. You might as well as kill yourself on the spot got letting that slip out.

"Uhm.. I mean, y-yeah? Well you're cute in general— I'M NOT SAYING YOU'RE NOT TO ME!! I just meant it like— everyone finds you cute yeah!—"

"I'm glad."

"..?" You blinked, looking at him as his head was turned away from you. Yet you managed to spot the bright red color on his ears. Now it was your turn to be red, face and all, head to toes.

[bobur-the-berry-guy]

So uh these are for my friends mostly but also WHY IS THERE SO LITTLE PHANTOM BUSTERS CONTENT💔

Anyway

Mogari relationship hcs!

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆.˚✮•🌶️•✮˚.⋆✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

So uh my condolences

Listen he's sweet but babe do you have enough patience? I hope so

He is so not playing about you

Just tell him if something or someone's bithering you and you won't have anything to bother you anymore

Spirits especially

He's protective but not possesive

He wants to have you safe and sound even if that means putting real work into it

Anyway

Even pre-relationship he's so painfully obvious

It's not like he's really trying to hide his fat crush but still damn

You might catch onto it even before he does

Give him anything to match with you and it becomes a part of his body I'm not even kidding

He will always have that on him be it bracelet, phone charm or whatever

He's finding the any excuse in the book to hang out with you and touch you

Will ask about help if it gets him the attention he wants

Be it something with school or general things he has yet to experience, he will ask you for help on it

Doesn't mean he relies on that strategy too much, it's actually the opposite

He's gonna pretend he's so cool and he knows exactly what's up and next thing you know he answered Leonaredo DiCarpio instead of Da Vinchi on a test

(would you believe me if i told u ts actually happened at my school these mfs make me less faithful in natural selection bc these are whole young adults bro)

And if he's going somewhere new he's definitely taking you with him even if you've been there before

Other than generally just wanting you to be there when it's his first time going wherever, he also wants to learn if you like that place and exactly what you like about it

I feel like he's big on affection

Do whatever you want with him, you won't hear a peep about it

Matter of fact he prefers you to be affectionate

He wants you all over him period

It makes him feel warm and wanted ok

And as for him

Not only has he been raised away from people and the modern societal norms but also he's just dense as to why can't he do that

He loves you so much, what do you mean he can't do that??

Sure, if you tell him to give you more space he will

He will probably sulk about it tho

Other than that, you'll have him constantly around you

Hugs, kisses, you name it

Will have an around around you whenever possible, be it around your shoulders or waist, he just wants to hold you close

He will be happy with you holding onto his arm too tho

Lowk has a sleeper build so i don't think you would rlly complain about it

He wants to kiss you constantly

It doesn't even have to be on the lips, he just wants to kiss you

You're too cute for existence in his eyes

You'll have to exprerience being attacked with kisses at least once a day soldier

He's a cuddle bug and I'm absolutely sure of it

You cannot escape the cuddling

He doesn't care about position or place, he just wants to cuddle

You're sitting there just scrolling trough your phone and he's gonna plot his head on your shiulder to watch whatever you're watching

Might even ask you about it if he doesn't know it

"Yo, what's that? It looks cool"

He's probably nuzzling his face into you a lot

Whatever spot he can get his nose into - cheek, neck, shoulder,, anything

He's like an oversized clingy cat

Has the appetite of one too

The biggest bigback istg

I don't think there's anything he doesn't eat??

Will certainly eat anything off your plate that you don't like

Will take a bite of what you like too

Always shares his food also

He's willing to try anything, maybe twice or thrice just to see if he really doesn't like the food or maybe it just wasn't cooked well

Also insistent on you feeding him a bite or two (or the whole damn thing)

Sure, he can put it in his mouth himself, but what's the fun in that?

Beware! He may bite your fingers every now and then

He doesn't go overboard with biting you when you feed tho, he doesn't want you to stop feeding him completely

Also he will just bite you in general

As in cuteness agression biting

Sometimes just showering you with kisses isn't enough he needs to bite you too

But at least he doesn't bite you too hard?

I mean, look at his teeth

Bro looks like he could punch holes trough a drywall with these bloodsucker ahh teeth, he's a bit dense but he knows to be mindful with going overboard

Could leave a mark but would never actually draw blood or hurt you (unless you ask for it you freak)

Along with the biting he's definitely licking your face

I KNOW IT SOUNDS WEIRD AF but what is he if not a lil weird

He'll just randomly lean in, lick your cheek and run away

He's always doing the weirdest shit anyway

Sometimes he knows just how absurd something is, but if it's gonna get a laugh out of you he's doing it

Will ask you to film him trying to do something and fuck up in every way possible even if he doesn't mean to

Imagine he wants you to film him tryna climb a tree and when he finally gets to a stronger branch he gets the bright idea to pretend to be a monkey and the branch just fucking snaps under his feet

He will fall face or ass first too

You can make a whole folder out of his ugly pics and him just doing fuckassery

He's very much a "my gf is mad at me i hope i die💔" type of bf

Also texting him and social media with him is definitely an experience

He's a sponge for stupidity

If he finds a meme funny enough you have a new nickname

You're now his princess with a disorder or his pookiebutt

He's def reposting some stuff like "damn i want her" or "hey(with the intention of {insert smth incredibly sappy here})" and thinks he's so slick

He's so begging you to hop on roblox and you see he's playing some brainrot like escape hormy gojo or some shit

On calls he's screaming his head off at the horror games

You've seen these dumbasses on tiktok w the deep ass voices that scream like dog squeaky toys? Yea, that's Mogari

He's either yapping away or as quiet as a chruch mouse, no inbetween

Like he's mostly chatty and he's expressive and making sounds and generally just being noisy

And then there's some times he's just, quiet

Maybe he's a bit tired or sleepy or there really isn't any reason, he's just feeling it

And he's just gonna stare at you

Doesn't matter if you're talking to him, watching something, doing an activity or whatever else you could be doing, he's just staring

You can really see just how much he loves you by the look on his face right at these moments

Just squish him dude

๑Requests are open btw(⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)⁠✧⁠*⁠。

[edenesth]

Arrows and Affection

Pairing: warrior!Yeosang x fem!reader

AU: historical au (Joseon era)

Word Count: 4.8k

Summary: Admiral Kang never misses his mark—until today. No matter how many times he draws his bow, the bullseye remains untouched. The wind hasn't changed, nor has his skill faltered. The only difference? The presence of a certain someone who has somehow turned his unwavering focus into a battlefield of its own.

Genre: fluff, comedy

A/N: Y'all when I saw these damn pics Yeo posted, I knew I'd have to write something. Then I heard Fallin' by Bang Yedam and couldn't stop thinking about this scenario.

ATEEZ MASTERLIST

I still cannot believe this man is real.

The thought echoed in your mind as you struggled to tear your gaze away from him. With effortless precision, Kang Yeosang drew his bow, his stance steady, his movements practised to perfection. Years of training had made archery second nature to him—so much so that watching him was almost hypnotic. He wasn't just any warrior; he was the Admiral Kang, the youngest and most revered commander in Joseon, a man whose victories in battle had cemented his place in history. And yet, despite his fearsome reputation, you still found it surreal that you could stand this close to him.

"Wh-what are you doing here? You shouldn't be here right now!"

The urgent whisper jolted you from your thoughts. A senior maid stared at you in horror, eyes wide as she took in your pitiful attempt to hide behind a paper door—one that did little to conceal your presence. You flashed her a sheepish grin and waved the washcloth in your hand. "Relax, I'm just cleaning. No one pays attention to a maid doing her job."

She sighed, exasperated. "That may be, but the admiral specifically requested complete silence during his training. We cannot risk disturbing him."

You huffed. "Well, then that doesn't make him a very good archer, does it? If he's truly the best, he should be able to shoot well anywhere. The battlefield isn't exactly a peaceful place, now is it?"

Her face paled at your audacity, and she frantically motioned for you to lower your voice. Then, as if realising she wouldn't win this argument, she reached for your washcloth. "Please, just this once, listen to me. Besides, you know very well you're not—"

Before she could finish, you pressed a finger to her lips, silencing her. "I've been good all week, haven't I? I did everything you asked—no complaints. Just let me stay here for a bit and enjoy the view, yeah? You can have my meal again tonight," you added with a wink.

She shook her head, already resigned to her fate, too tired to argue or remind you that everything you had done over the past week was merely your duty. "Fine. But promise me you won't distract the admiral, and make sure you return to your quarters before—"

"I will, I will," you interrupted, beaming. "And I promise, you won't get in trouble because of me!"

You clapped soundlessly in victory as she handed your washcloth back, shaking her head in disbelief before walking away. But not before shooting you one last pleading look, silently begging you not to cause any more trouble. You only grinned in response, sticking your tongue out playfully and waving goodbye before returning to your so-called task—wiping down an already spotless door. A door that, conveniently, gave you the perfect view of the admiral, deep in focus as he trained.

A small sigh of awe slipped past your lips, your earlier mischievous grin softening into a dreamy smile as you watched him. He checked his bow with practised ease before getting into position once more, gripping it firmly. You bit your lip, anticipation bubbling inside you—this was your favourite part. He raised his bow, holding an arrow in place, lifting it just high enough to aim. Then, with calculated precision, he closed one eye to focus on his target.

Damn.

This pose—this was the one that always left you weak in the knees. Just when you thought he couldn't possibly be any more attractive, he went ahead and proved you wrong. Every. Single. Time.

Despite his fearsome reputation on the battlefield, Admiral Kang was, at heart, a little... adorable. When he wasn't fighting wars, he always seemed lost in his own world, absentmindedly staring at whoever was speaking to him with that cute, dazed expression. He was a unique character, to say the least. And maybe that was why you loved seeing this side of him even more—the version of him that was serious, focused, and completely in his element.

It was just so freaking hot.

Until it… wasn't.

Your futile wiping came to an abrupt halt as you furrowed your brows, watching the unfamiliar scene unfold before you. For the first time in all the years you had known him, he let out a sharp curse, frustration flickering across his usually composed face. He reached for another arrow, aiming with a little more force than necessary. Your gaze darted to the target board—only to realise that he had missed the bullseye.

Your mouth fell open. He missed?

A tiny gasp escaped you because, quite frankly, that was unheard of. Admiral Kang never missed—not once since he had built his legendary reputation. It was practically the first rule of the universe: the sun rises, the rivers flow, and Kang Yeosang hits his mark every single time. Yet here he was, missing the target like some rookie foot soldier.

You bit your lip, suddenly concerned. Was he okay? Maybe today just wasn't his day. Maybe that's why he had insisted on training alone.

And then—thunk! Another miss.

Your concern quickly morphed into something else entirely as you took in the sight of him, all tense muscles and narrowed eyes, jaw clenched in frustration. Oh. Oh no. Why was this... hot?

You didn't think you'd ever witness the day Kang Yeosang would be this visibly mad—not at you, not at anyone, but at himself. And somehow, instead of feeling purely sympathetic, your brain short-circuited with an entirely inappropriate thought: angry Admiral Kang was stupidly attractive.

His brows knitted together as he grabbed yet another arrow, muttering a string of curses under his breath, his voice lower and rougher than usual. It was such a stark contrast from his usual soft, slightly dazed self that it sent a shiver down your spine.

Oh, this is dangerous.

You had to press a knuckle to your mouth to stifle the delighted squeal threatening to escape. Because good god, if this man got any hotter, you might just pass out right then and there.

"Goddamnit," Yeosang cursed under his breath, his eyebrow twitching as his fourth shot missed its mark.

With a sigh, he closed his eyes, forcing himself to quell the frustration bubbling inside him. He couldn't believe he was letting this affect him. He wasn't a fool. He was the youngest admiral in Joseon, after all—he had noticed your presence the second you stepped foot inside.

But he hadn't said anything.

At first, he assumed it was just some clueless new maid who had wandered in, unaware of the rules. He was ready to ignore it altogether. But then—he heard your voice. His sharp hearing picked up on your hushed negotiation with a senior maid, who was desperately trying to shoo you away. His pulse quickened.

It was you.

And like a complete idiot, instead of brushing it off, he found himself wanting to impress you. That's where he had gone wrong. His focus had wavered, and now, for the first time in his career, his shots were landing anywhere but the bullseye.

Who knew a single woman could have such an effect on him?

Annoyed—mostly at himself but also at you for making him embarrass himself like this—he finally cleared his throat, loud enough for you to hear.

"Just how long do you plan on hiding there?" he called out, finally turning toward your direction.

He had to bite down on his lip to keep from laughing at your absolutely pathetic attempt at concealment. Pressed flat against the paper door like it would somehow make you invisible, your familiar silhouette was outlined perfectly against the thin material—especially with the sunlight streaming in from behind.

He sighed, setting down his bow and taking a step closer. "I knew you were there the moment you walked in. Show yourself."

Crap. Crap. Crap.

You thought you had been sneaky, but apparently not. If he had known you were here all along, that meant trouble—because you were supposed to be elsewhere. And, worse, he knew that because you weren't just any ordinary maid.

Your only hope now? Act like one.

With your head lowered, you stepped forward hesitantly, bowing respectfully. "A-apologies, my lord. I was only here to clean. I know you asked to be left alone today, and I shouldn't have lingered," you murmured, voice small. "I'll leave at once."

You turned on your heel, ready to flee, but his voice stopped you cold.

"Hold on a second."

Your heart slammed against your ribs. Oh, no. You had promised the senior maid you wouldn't cause trouble, and now you were on the verge of dragging her into this mess.

"If you knew I asked for privacy," he mused, his voice deep and steady, "why did you come here in the first place?"

You gulped, fingers tightening around the washcloth in your hands. This was not how today was supposed to go. You had planned to admire him for a while, soak in the view, and then sneak back to your actual post. Not get caught red-handed.

"Answer me," he pressed.

Your breath hitched. His voice was much closer this time.

Too close.

"I-I was wrong, my lord," you stammered.

He sighed. "That's not what I want to hear. Because of you, I lost my focus. Look me in the eyes and tell me the truth."

Slowly, you turned—only to find him standing right behind you. There was no escaping now. No more excuses. It was time to own up to your mistake.

"I… I just—" you blurted before throwing your hands up in defeat. "I missed you, okay?! I wanted to see your stupid face before going back to my boring duties. Is that a crime?"

Silence.

Then, Yeosang smiled. "See? Now, was that so difficult?" he teased, leaning down slightly to meet your pouting face.

"You knew it was me all along?" you asked, narrowing your eyes.

He nodded.

"How?"

He smirked, fingers tilting your chin up until your eyes met his. "How could I not? You're far too beautiful to be just a maid, my lady."

Heat rushed to your cheeks as you huffed, swatting his hand away. "Ugh, I really thought I had you fooled."

His grin widened. "So, does this mean you finally admit you missed me? What happened to 'I don't want to see your dumb face again'?"

Your jaw dropped. "You did not just bring that up."

"Oh, but I did." He leaned in, voice dripping with amusement. "Verbatim."

Scoffing in disbelief, you pushed at his chest—though, of course, he barely budged. "You're impossible."

Turning away with a dramatic hmph, you muttered, "Go ahead, tell your mother I sneaked out. I'll take whatever punishment she has for me, as usual. Not like you'd ever stand up for me in front of her."

Before you could take another step away from him, Yeosang moved swiftly, wrapping his arms around you from behind. His voice was softer now, warm against your ear.

"I'm sorry, my love." His embrace tightened slightly. "You know how she is when it comes to the duties of a daughter-in-law. I wish I could do something, but as the admiral's wife, you have to set an example for the people. I know those lessons bore you to death, but she's only here for the Lunar New Year. Just hang in there for a little longer, yeah?"

You sighed, finally allowing yourself to melt into his warm embrace—the very one you had gone without for nearly a week.

You had been giving him the silent treatment ever since he failed to defend you when his mother insisted you attend etiquette lessons for the entirety of the Lunar New Year. You had protested, of course—this was supposed to be the one time of the year when your husband was free from his duties, a rare chance for the two of you to be together. But instead, she had taken that precious time away, forcing you into lessons you had little patience for.

Deep down, you understood her reasoning, but that didn't make it any less frustrating. You had been looking forward to this time for weeks, only to have it stolen from you. And so, out of pure stubbornness, you had refused to attend the lessons diligently. Your frustration had driven you to banish Yeosang from your shared quarters in the heat of the moment—a decision you regretted almost immediately. Sleeping in an empty bed had been unbearable, but your pride had been too strong to call him back from the guest chambers.

So, today, desperate for an escape from yet another dreary lesson, you had feigned illness and slipped away. If your mother-in-law discovered your empty room, there would be consequences—not just for you, but for the poor maid who had dared to help you.

The admiral sighed against your hair, his arms tightening around you as if afraid you'd slip away again. Then, with gentle insistence, he turned you in his embrace, his warm hands cupping your cheeks. His thumbs brushed over your skin, wiping away the traces of your lingering pout.

"You're so stubborn," he murmured, his tone laced with fondness. "But I suppose that's part of why I love you."

Your heart skipped a beat. His gaze, steady and filled with an emotion so tender it made your breath hitch, held yours captive.

"I missed you too, you know," he admitted at last, exhaling as if finally releasing a weight from his chest. "Do you have any idea how hard it was to sleep without you? To wake up every morning and not see your annoying little grin first thing?" His lips quirked up slightly, but there was sincerity in his words.

You blinked up at your husband, guilt slowly creeping in.

"I know I should've defended you more," he continued, his voice softer now. "But it's not that simple, my love. I already defied my mother once when I chose you—when I turned my back on the noblewoman she wanted for me. I chose you because you are everything I ever wanted. You're bright, bubbly, and full of life. You make even the dullest moments feel exciting. And though she may not understand it now… you are the best decision I have ever made."

Your breath caught in your throat.

He let out a quiet sigh, his thumbs still tracing circles against your skin. "I just… I only want the two most important women in my life to get along. That's all I've ever wanted. I know it's not easy for you, and I know she can be difficult, but if you could just try… even a little, it would make things easier. For both of us."

Your chest tightened. You had been so caught up in your own frustration that you hadn't once stopped to consider how hard this must have been for him too. Balancing the expectations of a mother he respected and the love of his life—how exhausting that must have been.

Your gaze softened, and you lifted your hands to rest over his. "I… I didn't think about it that way," you admitted, cheeks warming. "I was so focused on my own feelings that I didn't realise how hard this must be for you too."

He said nothing, only watching you with patient eyes as you let the realisation settle.

You sighed, leaning into his touch. "I'm sorry," you whispered. "I promise… I'll try to be better from now on."

At that, his entire face brightened, relief flooding his features as he pulled you in closer. "Really?"

You gave a small nod, lips curving into a sheepish smile. "Really." Then, with a playful glint in your eyes, you added, "I promise I won't be sneaking off to give you surprise visits like I did today again, Admiral Kang."

His jaw dropped slightly, and you could practically see the flicker of realisation in his expression. You had him. As disciplined and upright as he usually was, even he couldn't deny that your little intrusion today had made things far more exciting. Damn the impropriety of it all—he loved you for that.

"Oh, you little minx," he muttered, shaking his head in faux exasperation before a smirk tugged at his lips. A breathless chuckle escaped him as he dipped down, capturing your lips in a soft yet lingering kiss. His warmth seeped into you, his touch grounding you in the moment. He kissed you as if he had been waiting for this forever, as if every second apart had been an eternity.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his grin utterly boyish. "Does this mean I can move back into our quarters now?"

You huffed, pretending to think it over, watching as he waited—far too eagerly—for your answer. His hands remained on your waist, thumbs tracing gentle circles against your sides, as if afraid you might slip away again.

Finally, you sighed dramatically. "Fine. But only because I missed you too."

His laughter rang through the air, light and full of joy, before he swooped in to kiss you again, sealing your truce with all the love he had to give.

When he pulled away, neither of you moved for a moment, eyes closed as he pressed his forehead against yours again. He simply breathed—cherishing the warmth of your presence after a week apart.

He knew you had been upset, not just about the lessons but because he hadn't sided with you when you protested. But what could he have done? He was caught between the two most important women in his life—his mother, the woman who raised him, and you, the woman he vowed to cherish. It was never a choice he wanted to make, so he had remained neutral, though it had pained him to see the disappointment in your eyes.

Still, that was why he had spoken to his mother later, asking her to go easier on you. You might not have noticed, but she had—she never truly reprimanded you for your inconsistent attendance, and Yeosang had never made a fuss when you kicked him out of your shared quarters, knowing you needed space. No matter how much it killed him to be away from you, he respected your emotions.

But now, feeling the way you held onto him just as tightly as he held onto you, he was glad. Glad that you were willing to meet him in the middle. That was one of the many reasons he loved you so much.

He could still remember the look of surprise on his mother's face when he had, for the first time, broken out of his usual quiet and composed demeanour—other than the time he had first brought you home, announcing with unwavering conviction that you were the love of his life and the only woman he would marry.

It had shocked her then. And it had shocked her again when he spoke up for you, telling her how much you meant to him and how he wished for the woman who raised him to care for his wife the same way she had always cared for him.

And surprisingly, she had understood.

Truthfully, his mother had never truly been against you. At first, she had been wary—sceptical of how well a woman as lively and outspoken as you would fit into their composed and traditional household. But over time, she began to understand why her son had chosen you.

You were bright—perhaps a little too much at times—but she had come to admire your honesty. She never had to worry about a two-faced daughter-in-law who smiled sweetly in front of her but harboured resentment behind her back. You were genuine—straightforward with your emotions, never afraid to show your displeasure or your affection. And above all, the love you and Yeosang shared was undeniable. At the end of the day, that was what mattered to her most. That her son was happy.

And as the admiral held you now, he knew that happiness was right here, in his arms.

"So, tell me," Yeosang murmured, tilting his head as he gazed into your eyes, the ones he adored so much. "How exactly did you manage to slip out of your lesson today?"

You bit your lip, knowing there was no use lying when he was already staring at you so intently. With a sheepish grin, you admitted, "I told her it's that time of the month and that the pain was too unbearable to continue."

He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head as he reached out to squish your cheeks. "And yet here you are, sneaking around in a maid's uniform just to watch your incredibly handsome husband practice. You must've been desperate for me, hm?"

You scoffed, prying his hands off your face only to squish his cheeks in return. "That's right, admiral. I came all this way just to see you fail miserably at hitting a bullseye over and over again. All because your wife was watching."

His jaw dropped in exaggerated offence as he gasped. "You wound me, my love," he declared dramatically before bending down to retrieve his bow. Then, with a smirk, he held it out to you. "If you're so clever, Lady Kang, why don't you show me how it's done?"

"Gladly," you shot back, grabbing the bow with confidence—only for your bravado to falter the moment you realised just how heavy it was. Your arms wobbled slightly under the unexpected weight, but you cleared your throat, pretending as if nothing had happened.

Your husband noticed. Of course, he did. But to his credit, he bit back his laughter, unwilling to embarrass you further. Instead, he simply watched, eyes gleaming with fondness. If only you knew how much his heart swelled with pride and affection at this moment—seeing you attempt something he had always wanted to teach you. He had dreamed of this for so long, hoping to pass on at least the basics of archery, if only as a means of self-defence. But the opportunity had never come—until now.

Clumsily, you reached for an arrow, fumbling slightly as you held it up. He softened, stepping behind you in an instant. His arms slid around you, one hand lifting the bow's weight with ease, the other steadying your trembling grip as he helped you pull the arrow back.

You glanced up at him, feeling the warmth of his breath near your ear, the solid comfort of his presence surrounding you completely. You had never felt safer. It was moments like these that reminded you just how much pride you had in being his wife. That even after everything, you still found it hard to believe that this man—this strong, kind, and loving man—was truly yours.

"Now focus and aim," he murmured. "We'll release when you're ready."

Nodding, you focused on the target, narrowing your eyes as you slowly closed one to improve your precision. You adjusted the bow slightly, remembering one of the things he had always told you—aim a little higher than your target, especially at longer distances, because gravity will always pull the arrow down.

"Ready," you whispered.

And then, together, you released. The arrow soared through the air, cutting cleanly through the space between you and the target. And for the first time that day, an arrow struck the bullseye.

We did it!

You blinked in disbelief, your eyes locked on the arrow firmly lodged in the bullseye. Slowly, you turned to your husband, who stood beside you, mouth slightly agape.

"Did you see that?" you gasped, your excitement bubbling over.

Yeosang let out an incredulous laugh, shaking his head. "I must be dreaming. My wife, an archery prodigy?"

Grinning, you nudged him playfully. "Maybe I should take your place as admiral instead."

He clutched his chest dramatically. "Stealing my title already? You truly are ruthless, my love."

Before you could react, he suddenly scooped you up into his arms with ease, making you yelp in surprise. Instinctively, you wrapped your arms around his neck.

"Yeosang! Put me down!" you giggled, squirming in his grasp.

"No can do," he hummed, pressing a kiss to your temple. "You impressed me today, so you deserve a reward. And since you did lie your way out of lessons just to see me…" He trailed off, a mischievous and suggestive glint in his eyes.

Your brows furrowed in suspicion. "Yeo, what are you planning—"

Before you could finish, he started making his way toward the exit. But just as he reached the doorway, he stopped abruptly. Because standing right there, about to step in, was his mother.

You gasped, tightening your hold around your husband's neck as he froze in place. "M-Mother…" he stammered.

Old Madame Kang's gaze flickered over the scene before her—her daughter-in-law, who had earlier complained of agonising menstrual pain, now dressed in a maid's uniform, being cradled in her son's arms. She blinked. You swore you saw her eye twitch.

"I-I can explain," you started, and Yeosang quickly set you down, clearing his throat and smoothing down your ruffled hair and hanbok as if that would somehow make things better.

His mother levelled you both with a withering stare. "Please do."

You gulped, exchanging a nervous glance with him, both of you shrinking under her sharp gaze like children caught red-handed.

"She just missed me, Mother," Yeosang admitted, gripping your hand firmly. "She didn't know how else to say it, so she… snuck out to see me."

A beat of silence passed.

Then, to your utter shock, the elderly woman rolled her eyes. "Is that it?" she huffed, exasperated.

You both blinked. That was… oddly forgiving?

She crossed her arms. "You couldn't have just told me? Why go through the trouble of sneaking out and dressing like a maid just to see your own husband?" Her expression softened, though her tone remained firm. "Do you have any idea how worried I was? I brought you herbs, only to find your quarters empty. I came here to inform my son that you'd vanished, and instead, I find the two of you making fools of yourselves…"

Your eyes darted to Yeosang, who looked just as stunned as you felt. Was this really happening?

"…I swear, you two are impossible," she muttered, shaking her head. Then, as if realising just how ridiculous the situation had become, she pinched the bridge of her nose, suppressing what you swore was a reluctant smile. "So, I take it there was never a real period?" she asked, arching a brow.

You swallowed, nodding slowly, unsure where this was going.

She observed you both for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, with a small shake of her head, she finally spoke. "I'll forgive you on one condition." You perked up, hopeful—until she continued, "Give me grandchildren soon."

Your husband choked on air. You stiffened, eyes widening in sheer horror as heat flooded your face.

Meanwhile, your mother-in-law remained entirely unbothered, watching your reactions with the calm of someone who had just commented on the weather. "Well, now that I know you're perfectly healthy, I'll be on my way. See you at your next lesson."

And with that, she turned and strode off, leaving you both rooted in place, still processing the absolute chaos she had just unleashed.

The moment she disappeared down the corridor, you exhaled a breath you hadn't even realised you were holding.

Yeosang cleared his throat, glancing at you with a look that was equal parts mischievous and smug. With exaggerated flair, he lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a playful kiss to your knuckles.

"Well, you heard her loud and clear, my love," he murmured, his voice rich with amusement. "Shall we begin fulfilling our noble duty right away?"

Your eyes widened in mortification. "Kang Yeosang!" you hissed, smacking his arm harder as your face burned. "She can still hear us!"

And sure enough, a quiet chuckle echoed from down the hall.

Your husband only laughed, unfazed, before intertwining his fingers with yours and gently tugging you forward. "It's fine, my love," he teased. "She understands."

Hand in hand, the two of you strolled back to your chambers, his warmth a steady comfort beside you. His lighthearted humming filled the air, and when he stole a fond glance at you, a smile tugged at his lips.

The admiral had never imagined he could feel anything but frustration over a missed shot—but as he reflected on everything that had unfolded, he realised that if losing his aim led to moments like these, perhaps a little imperfection wasn't so bad after all.

No bc I just love how I started this with a vision and somewhere along the way, I didn't know how to end it so I just kinda winged it lmaooo hope this was decent HAHA

As always, thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts! <3

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@cristy-101

All Rights Reserved © edenesth // DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE, PLAGIARISE OR REPURPOSE.

[sunnami]

the marauders as. . . whatever these love languages are (ii).

“i’m so fucking tired, please god just let me rest for five minutes.”

𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐔𝐒 𝐋𝐔𝐏𝐈𝐍 sees a monster staring back at him in the mirror—you tell him that you see a kind, gentle soul deserving of all things beautiful. he wants to bury himself beneath the ground, where the earthworms burrow and the primroses bloom one day. the mornings after the full moon are always the hardest. a new scar to his growing collection and fresh blood spilt on his wretched hands. he is a monster and there is no better word to define him than that. so why do you burst into his room, much like the morning sun—without a care for the moon’s sorrow—and smile at him like you actually care?

he doesn’t believe you’re real—only a mirage sent by his darkest nightmares to torment him. yet, how can torture feel so delicate and forgiving? still, you insist on seeking him out despite knowing he is a cursed man. you see the bloodied tips of his fingers where claws have grown the night prior, the crimson smudges in the corner of his mouth, teeth stained with the lives of innocent creatures he’s taken. he is a killer, and yet you stay by his side.

don’t you see?

he’s trying to keep you safe by pushing you away. one day, you’ll tire of him just as he has grown weary of living in his own skin.

why do you look at him as though he cannot rip you apart, limb by limb, with just a flick of his hand?

“because you are remus lupin,” you say, a cruel whisper in his ear, holding his head close to your heart, and shouldering his burdens, aches, and pains. “i will be here when the sun rises, and i will be with you until the earth knows the taste of our existence, when the vines creep over our legs and arms, and until you understand that love is not strong enough to explain why my soul calls out to yours.”

ah, remus sees it now.

he needs you just as a canary needs their wings to fly. his tears soak the fabric of your shirt, and you hold him closer until he feels you—and only you. you are the reason his heart still endures, hammering inside his ribcage as though it knows you are nearby. his body is but ruined flesh—even so, if the gods think he is deserving to bear witness to the innocence in your eyes, then perhaps he is not so much of a monster as he thought.

please, he begs to all the deities listening, do not take this pure creature away from me.

he would never ask you to share the weight of his damned fate, but he grieves at the thought of losing you—for remus might know true death, then.

a/n: did i go overboard with this one? probably. . .

[scarlettriot]

Alright. I simply cannot get the idea of getting hot and heavy in the back of some limo with Ei and a little sprinkle of sneaking around too. I don’t know where this came from or anything so here. I’m leaving it. And that’s all.

It’s sorta smutty so no minors or ageless. They’re aged up, in case that wasn’t self explanatory. Reader gets a little jealous. Other than that it’s basically just fluff with fucking.

I did not proof this what so ever. Sorry. I’m tired. I don’t even have a rough word count for you but it’s pretty short.

The two of you leaving together after some big award show after he finally breaks into the top 10. Only you’re most certainly not the woman his agencies PR team has been setting him up on dates with. The super model who’s been all over him, the face of his active wear line, the woman they want to see him with.

He’s been putting on a good show for them. Even dipped her in front of all the camera the red carpet was lined with and kissed her as a hundred flashes went off.

But, gods, she’s just not you. The cute little waitstaff always serving drinks at these events. The black skirt they make you wear hugs your curves so tightly and he can see every dip of your plush hips and he remembers what it was like the first time he got to feel you.

He was stiff in his perfectly tailored pants before the hors d’oeuvres came around. 

The first chance he got, he’d slipped away. Thankfully, his accomplishments were already recognized. He’d done his part, stood up, waved, went on stage, he didn’t give a damn about anything or anyone else. He just needed to find you again.

“I— oh fuck— I’m gonna have to get back before someone realizes I’m— I’m— right there, right there, yes please—!” It was too hard to think when his fingers were buried deep within your cunt.

He had you propped up on the back of his limo. Making you cum with your skirt all bunched up. “Don’t think you gotta go anywhere yet, pretty,” he chuckles and licks off his fingers.

“I do though, I do,” you tried forming a sentence, “I could get fired,”

He pulled your legs around him and carried you around to the door to slip inside with you. “Told you I’d get you a job at my agency, then you wouldn’t have to worry about this job.”

You sucked on his neck as he undid his belt, “don’t know how your girlfriend would feel about me working with you daily… having this happen far more often?” Because you’re not stupid, you knew if you took him up on that offer you’d be on his dick every chance the two of you had.

“She’s not my girlfriend and you know it.” He made that abundantly clear the first time he made a move on you months ago and you questioned him.

He’d just barely slipped his cock free before you were sinking down on it with a groan that would reply in his head for a lifetime. “I don’t think she knows that.”

He chuckles and it makes you clench around him. “You’re real cute when you’re jealous,” hands grip hard on your hips and he pushes you down as he grits out, “and if she does know it, that’s—not— my— problem—” rocking his hips to watch your eyes roll back.

“You’ve said it yourself though, she’s what your PR team wants. I’m nothing like her.”

He huffed before his arms wound under your legs so he could hold you up and fuck up into you as he damn well pleased. “Also told you that I don’t care what they want. You say the word and it’ll be you on my arm at these events, not her.”

You laughed before he made it into a blissed out moan.

“What? Don’t believe me?”

The windows were fogging up, anyone walking by would damn well know what was happening here. And he didn’t care at all. He’d bullied himself into you over and over again, tearing at your little outfit, unable to help himself.

Of course, you didn’t seem to mind with the way you were babbling now, tits bouncing with your head tossed back, pleasure coursing through you. “What’s the matter, pretty? Can’t do anything more than moan for me now? Should I stop and letcha think?”

His pace slowed and you cried out, “noooo!”

“Then answer me, baby, you believe me, don’t you?” Gods, for a man railing you within an inch of your life, his tone was soft and sickeningly sweet. “Promise if ya let me I’ll do this to you all night long.” Not that these quickies weren’t fun but just once he wants to see you splayed out in his bed. “I’ll make you cum over and over, as much as you want.”

He took your chin and made sure you were looking at him as he added. “I want you. For more than just a fast fuck at a party. Lemme take care of you, in every possibly way there is.”

With his cock filling you up so completely, and his eyes carrying so much hope, how could you ever deny him?

[hkthatgffan]

I really did not wanna talk about this stupid topic, but with so many people falling for it, I figured I should; THE DIRECT ARTICLE ABOUT A GRAVITY FALLS REVIVAL IS A FUCKING LIE!! Lemme explain below why!!

Ever since this article by The Direct was published, way too many people are thinking Gravity Falls is really coming back and the usual season 3 belief is spreading yet again. And of course, YouTubers who should know better made videos on it and other "journalists" are spreading this lie. Here's the real facts! The executive in the article NEVER alluded to a revival. All they said is that Alex is publishing a book (The Book of Bill) and there's some shorts being made. All this article is basing its claim on is the phrase, "Never say Never!" Alex has had a deal with Netflix since 2018. Under that deal, he cannot make new cartoons for other networks, including Disney and Gravity Falls. He can voice on non Netflix shows and help in small ways like he did on TOH, but he cannot make a new show outside Netflix.

The shorts they are alluding to are confirmed to be likely stuff like the Broken Karaoke series on Disney Channel's YouTube page or theme song takeover stuff. Disney TVA News, while not 100% the most reliable source, has suggested that as the case and given Alex was at DTVA in April recording something per an Instagram story he made, it makes the most sense. What's more, there is a rumoured short being made for The Book of Bill which this could be meaning. Notice how it has no indication of a revival? Alex Hirsch has said he has ideas for GF stories, but they are more book centric. Heck, in me and Hana's interview alone he alluded to Stan and Ford stories he'd wanna do if given the chance to make another graphic novel. That is all!

And speaking of Alex…he's not said shit on this! He's not tweeted about it or liked any tweet about it. And Alex has said in the past to not believe anyone claiming Gravity Falls is coming back unless he says so himself on Twitter. So, take a guess what I did? I messaged him!! I was in talks with Alex recently for another video I'm making later in the future and asked him about this article during it. Without leaking our DM's, Alex said straight up, this article is all "just talk!" It's clickbait! Alex Hirsch confirmed it is clickbait!!

Direct is lying to you and so is anyone else saying this is real or that Gravity Falls is coming back! It just isn't. The only person who you should believe about this stuff is Alex Hirsch himself and he clearly has said it's not. And even supposing Direct is telling the truth about this executive saying something is possible, it's just gonna be book or small shorts stuff…NOT a season 3 or reboot, or revival or spin off series. I know that stuff is pretty popular to talk about, hell, I'd kill for a Gravity Falls prequel story myself. But it's not happening.

But with that said, I hope this post helped you better understand what is up. This article is a sham and a joke to the field of journalism. Do your damn job and tell the truth instead of making clickbait shit that will get you ad revenue! People who write articles like this are a joke and I feel bad for anyone who falls for their BS! These articles will never stop being made, so it's up to you all to be smart and not fall for them.

Remember, if Alex Hirsch doesn't say anything about it, it's not legit!!

Stay informed properly out there! New videos coming soon :)

[sgiandubh]

Prophetic

Every single time things look hard to decipher or farcical (and this is one of those farcical times), I remember a long post by @hardblazesong, dealing with BTS aspects and the intricacies of this cesspool of a fandom. I am yet to read something more clear and more bravely stated than the things she wrote almost eight years (!) ago, even if I do not necessarily agree with everything. Especially as far as SC's sexuality is considered and examined, for example - but that is secondary, to me.

Every word in this quoted passage was confirmed by what happened next, for example. And then, some more, if at all possible:

This is exactly what happened, rinse and repeat to oblivion. 'No one above D level status', with the odd lap dancer/Hooters waitress thrown in, for variety. Gross? Effective on the short term perhaps, to quench thirsty/insistent/too close to the real thing rumors and found tidbits, yet damn penalizing on the long run. MPC's dwindling subscription figures are testimony to it, as are the mediocre projects coming his way. And now he sorely needs a seriously good one to keep his rep at a decent level. You see, the entire kilt-cladded, warrior daddy imagery/fantasy is also quietly wearing off, as OL is coming to its merciful end. But believe it or not, S will survive even this life-changing experiment with fame. The key question here is 'how' and I have no definitive answer to it. But I am confident, and this Soroptimist approach of mine will always be my guilty pleasure, as far as S is concerned. Perhaps the only one, since the guy won't ever make me turn my head for him in the street. Not even sorry about that. But as I have already told you, I do like an underdog and know how to spot them, when I see one.

Now, as far as C is concerned, the 'low key thing' turned into the perfectly artificial farce we all know about. It is my sincere belief at least 85% of her Taliban Stan crowd is simply paying lip service to what they chose to believe and are constantly being reminded of by their trolling Sopranos. So much so, in fact, that it all reeks rather of Pollyannaism than critical thinking, no matter how brutal or self-assured they may sound. And at this point in time, with zero communication on the topic and C who apparently DGAF about narrative continuity when it comes to this, it's only fair to say more oil is being quietly, constantly thrown onto those embers of suspicion and legitimate, logical doubt.

As for going political, we all saw what happened with S's Gaza comment, didn't we? Case in point to never cross obvious red lines and allow your own emotions get in a mix you cannot control and which must not have been addressed, to start with. Especially when you are, above anything else, a media product manufactured on purpose for reaching the widest potential audience. MAGA Mommies crowd included.

Also, this:

Again, this is exactly what happened, and consistently so. Proof of this are the multiple times I had to excuse myself to powder my nose in the middle of a Zoom call or meeting, whenever my cellphone was blinking with concerned messages about this or that insignificant turn of an apparently endless, boring and disingenuous AF narrative. Shippers are worried and potentially even hurt every single time a Fitness Harem representative shows up on the roster. S knows that - how could he not, he is part and parcel of it? Trolls know that: in fact, this is their bread and butter in this fandom. And the reason this happens is an unnecessarily cruel and by now pathetic bout of schizophrenic trivia deliberately being thrown in, from time to time, for... eh... for reasons. Whether this is for 'protection' (complete quiet would be way more decent and effective, I think) or diversion, or remaining relevant, or even shits and giggles is entirely secondary, one more time. These allow to address all the factions of this fandom at once, using what are by now some lazy, well-tried and accessible plot devices (SM twisting reality, cheap pap walks, timeline innuendos, etc). Again, this is wrong and harmful, in the long run. It is refusing to see the forest for the trees and completely ignore the fact this is building the wrong persona and the wrong brand. Back to that sore need for a really good project I have mentioned before and own reasoning nicely tied in, thank you.

As for how SC feel about us, shippers, I suppose things are clear. I don't think they like us, and to be blunt, how could they? Mistakes have been repeatedly made, especially when it comes to projecting going completely, tastelessly out of control, the hyper sexualization and objectivation of both S and C (naively dirty fanfic, anyone? come on, we all read it!) and the liberties some took with decency, as far as C is particularly concerned. And by this, I don't mean stalking - that is pushing Covfefe Pics really too far and being a perfect hypocrite about it, when we know the entire faction was demanding proof, on many tones & in many ways and kept on pressuring for something along those lines to happen. To me, however, the most toxic part of it was definitely Jess' unfortunate drooling all over someone else's love story. It definitely had an impact and it was definitely been used as such, until it wasn't. The rest of all that obsessive approach are just spin-offs, but the bad seeds were gleefully planted there and then.

Before landing here, I carefully weighed in my options. And I chose to be primarily interested in business and legal paperwork simply because it so happened that an irritated reaction while on an Athens taxi ride prompted my arrival here. Then I realized it was the only way to bring something new to an already stalling body of public lore and keep it simple and real. What I did discover and what the trolls across the street chose to dismiss as trash is, in fact, evidence enough of the chasm that exists between what people are being served and supposed to gobble up, no questions asked, and a reality that certainly is more nuanced. This is what really makes me tick and this is why I am still here, while there are so many more useful and enjoyable ways to keep myself busy.

Rest assured, though: I am not going anywhere, even if from time to time life and a very strenuous job take precedence. I hope you can understand this. In the meanwhile, you have been so many witty, kind and warm people coming along my path, that I would feel like betraying you (and myself!) if I went away. And no, I have never felt more sure about SC than probably now, even if this 'SC' doesn't necessarily coincide with your own version of that saga.

Newbies can read the entire @hardblazesong's post here: https://www.tumblr.com/hardblazesong/678440162606350336/the-time-has-come-shipsters-to-write-a-lengthy?source=share

Thank you for reading this very long comment, summing up all the thoughts that nagged me while I was simultaneously translating and slaloming between my two mother tongues, while in Tunis. I am rather good at compartmentalization, you see. This post is also a clumsy homage of sorts to all the brilliant, brave and bold women, past and present, of The Shire, who have tried and managed to see beyond the thick veil of deceit this entire #shitshow is. The fact so many of us, across so many cultures and personal circumstances, saw the same damn thing and questioned it with integrity and wit, should be arresting evidence there are more things.

PS: I think we can all agree on the fact the Biggest Troll in this fandom is 'Erself, the Flip-Flop Blue Nailpolish Goddess. But that's a different story.

[odetojupiter]

how easily these monsters die in the end

versus andrew who’s always been called a monster and is constantly vilified by the media, but who refuses to go down when his people are on the line, will fight tooth and nail and damn the consequences and the potential for harm against himself, just to make sure his people cannot die. he doesn’t go kicking or screaming because he doesn’t go at all, not until he breaks the bone of the person who sliced first

how easily these monsters die in the end

versus neil, a monster’s son, who wears it’s face and it’s mask but only to make sure other people’s monsters can’t bother them anymore. who goes down kicking and screaming because he’s not a monster, he just knows the intricate melody they sing, he knows how to warp it into his own hymn of protection. he knows what it means to be a monster, and yet he’d assume that shape without question if it means the true monsters will be laid to rest.

how easily these monsters die in the end

versus aaron, who killed a man without hesitation despite it putting his life and career in jeopardy, to kill the monster under his own brother’s bed (in his bed, rather). his brother, who’s monstrous reputation spread to him like rainwater down the leash they tied between them. aaron, whose own monster was his lifeline until one day she wasn’t there anymore and he had nowhere else to turn his anger except back at the person who stopped her.

how easily these monsters die in the end

versus kevin, who spent upwards of a decade locked in the monster’s closet, only let out to smile for the cameras. who grieved the boy behind the monster and yet refused to let others paint the boy’s face back over the monster’s real form after it was dead.

how easily these monsters die in the end

versus jean, whose monsters presented him to the world as a monster so they could hide their own sick cruelties behind him. behind the young boy they beat down until he wouldn’t argue otherwise. whose tongue was snipped, wings clipped and bones broken until all he could see in his reflection was a monster that was being given what it deserved. he knows true monsters, and yet he let’s them twist his image into one to keep the ones he cares for safe from them.

how easily these monsters die in the end

versus nicky, who was told his truth was monstrous in itself, who believed it strongly enough that he’d rather die than be that monster, but would rather die than be anything else either. who was ridiculed, exiled, and abused for it but he could never change it and he refused to change it when he realised it wasn’t him that was the monster, it was the ones that hurt him. no matter how much he loved them, he realised coveting the love of a monster only blows back on the people he truly loves, the people who truly love him.

how easily these monsters die in the end

versus jeremy, whose own mental struggles were turned against him to save face, whose family would rather blame him and his sexuality for his brother’s death rather than turn inwards and see how their emotional neglect could spark such a tragedy. they turned him into the monster that they tried to hide from the world, poured their own guilt into him until all he could do was choke it down as though it was his own.

just thinking of the so called ‘monsters’ of the series, and how weighted that word is, the word the neil himself chose, when you consider who has been called a monster in their life, and who the true monsters are. neil, part of a group known as the monsters, points his finger back to the real monsters, as a reminder of what true monstrosity is. cause the true monsters, well, they die so easily in the end, but our monsters? they face that title with acceptance if only it means they can hold out a little longer for the people they choose to help.

[milkamel]

God I love Truthless Recluse so much. He's such a sweet cookie, so precious, so relatable I love him dearly,,

I ADORE his design he's so pretty it's unfair. How can someone be at their lowest point and look so gorgeous at the same time?

He's so broken and sad I can't help but feel pity and affection for him- though ngl seeing him suffer is very enjoyable too. Especially when Shadow Milk plays with him since he knows which buttons to press- just a delight to witness. I have a weakness for kind characters being broken down or challenged by something that affects them greatly. Such a big potential for angst and character study.

It just saddens me how miserable he is, that he wholeheartedly believes that he hurt everyone, that it's all his fault everyone suffered. (Have you heard that line in Korean? God- It gets to me. Ouch) But despite that he still tried his best to protect the children from Shadow Milk even if it meant playing in his games. He tried to defy him but in the end he had to submit whether he wanted to or not. (Though it was meaningless to try to protect them since he pushed them off the tower anyway)

And I love that he managed to understand Shadow Milk, to literally feel his pain and self-loathing. A bit upsetting that this line was mistranslated and it was vague whose feelings were that TR felt. But all of it was Shadow Milk.

I can't help but wonder if his promotion line means that too in a way? That the more he understands the world the more he understands why Shadow Milk despises it? While of course APV is the opposite since he learned to accept every imperfection and embrace it, to love and cherish it. I dunno, maybe I'm reaching here. (BUT GOD HE LOVES SHADOW MILK, HE TRULY DOES EVEN AFTER HE'S BEEN HURT AND ABUSED BY HIM)

Also this line- thought it was a bit funny cause he's rather forward about it but it's also sweet. He doesn't blame you if you can't go forward, he's just gently saying "hey it's okay if you're tired, just take a break" and I love that about him. He's still Pure Vanilla. He's still so caring and sweet. He'd hug you if you're having a bad day even if he's hurting too. He'd shield you from the bitter truth and take the blow. (Costume story TR does that too basically)

Also what's heartbreaking is that in order to awaken he literally needs to stab himself in his chest- he needs to kill himself to ascend to the top and it just 💔💔 Breaks me. He doesn't deserve this. My poor Recluse,,

I remember that briefly after the ep 8 released I made an art that mischaracterizes him so badly I literally cannot look at it rn without cringing. I won't tell which one it is but now that I understand Recluse more... I'd rather not remember it lol. I got it so wrong I'm ashamed of myself rn

Anyway I love Recluse. I love how pathetic and miserable he is most of the time, I love how much he struggles and sincerely thinks that everything that happened is his fault when it's not. He's simply tried his best and did what he believed was right yet it brought him here, at the bottom. As I mentioned, he's relatable and feels so real I'm getting emotional over a cookie,, eueuue

Also how can I not love his smile. Look at it. Beautiful. How can a damn cookie be so perfect?

ALSO LOOK AT THESE GIFS HE HAS NO RIGHT TO BE SO CUTE AND PATHETIC FDHJGHJJDHJGH SOMEONE SEDATE ME I'M GONNA DIEEE KJFDHJG 🙏🙏🙏 SO FUCKING ADORABLE MYY GODDDDDDD

I don't mean to be Shadow Milk but oh my god bring him back I need him he's the only one who'd understand everything I struggle with PLEASE DEVSIS DON'T TAKE THIS GUY AWAY FROM ME BRING HIM BACKKKKK- 💔💔💔

I didn't mean to rant so much but I still don't think I was able to express everything I feel about him. Kinda held back because I'm insecure and scared of saying silly things... Maybe some other time I'll be able to add to it. But yeah would love to discuss him more if anyone has something to say <3