#comforting while causing the need for comfort

[julietcpulet]

Why Jinshi is perfect for Maomao 💜

Some people think that Maomao and Jinshi couldn’t work because she lacks any ability to feel romantic connection. That she rejects his advances because she either doesn’t like him personally or that she was born with an inability to feel in that way at all. Neither are true. In actuality, Jinshi is the one person best suited to Maomao. Why? Because she doesn’t lack the capability to feel romantic emotion, she’s just emotionally closed off.

Due to an upbringing where her needs and wants were ignored, along with abuse and complicated early relationships, Maomao has learned to shut herself off out of protection. She’s come to believe she’s incapable of feeling love because to her love is something seen as undesirable and scary. Viewed through the lens of the pleasure district, love was always a game. It was likely if you love someone you’d get hurt. Also, when she cried and expressed the need for something, no one answered her so she simply stopped expressing those needs and wants.

“You’ll never find some fine prince whose heart will never change. That’s one lesson you can’t escape here. What does trust ever get you? When you come down to it, I’m a whore, and you’re a whore’s daughter.”

So, I would argue that Maomao, as a person who has become emotionally reserved or closed off due to past experiences, is best suited for Jinshi who is very emotionally available. He counters her reservation head on. While this is often what is seen as “forceful” or ignoring her wishes, I’d disagree. It’s him trying to break through an exterior Maomao has learned to put up to protect herself. When she only sees herself as a tool and expendable, Jinshi finds ways to make her feel valuable, to work within how she sees the world and hopefully expand her view of her own worth little by little.

"Do you hate me so much?" he asked, his face now less like a wild dog and more like a puppy. Love, hate some people wanted the world to be so black and white. Why wouldn't he give her the choice of a gray area? "I suppose I don't hate you as such," she said. She might even think of him favorably.

"If you want to send me off wherever, well, if I'm just a pawn who makes no difference to the strategic situation, I guess I have no right to object. Am I a pawn to you, Master Jinshi?" He was silent. "Is there something you'd like to say to me?" - "Yes, I want to..." He started to answer, but refused to look her in the eye. Finally, he said, "I want to have another bowl of that stew." - "Sure," Maomao said after a second. "I'll go get some more." Apparently, she figured, this was his way of saying she was useful enough to keep around.

Jinshi’s steady and honest nature is what allows Maomao to feel comfortable enough in their dynamic to push back at him, to demand things of him and banter with him and be herself with him in ways she cannot express with others. Because he proves he is safe. That he will not hurt her, that he will not leave. He shows she isn’t just a crush of proximity but someone who matters to him and continues to show that over and over through words and actions.

"Jinshi was a man who could have had anything and everything he desired. And yet, he was such a straight shooter that it caused him to beat around the bush like this. He didn't want to take the shortest route to what he wanted, but the one that would be best for the other person."

"Jinshi suspected that if he asked Maomao what had happened to her since he had seen her last, she would give him only the most businesslike report. There would be no attempt to make him worry for her or sympathize with her. - Did she do that so that she wouldn't be a burden to him? Or simply because she saw no point in getting emotional about it? If the former, then Jinshi wouldn't be content until he had done something about this infuriating, cat-like creature."

He shows her he will give her what she needs, he will listen to her when she expresses a fear, a reservation, a want. And that's not something she's had in this particular way before. She's used to being ignored, so Jinshi's ability to push past her outer defenses of nonchalance and ambivalence reveals that she may want things, she may have desires but fear and insecurity often keep her from voicing them. In this way Jinshi's unwillingness to let her be continually evasive is a kindness.

"So I should be clear, should I? Unequivocal? I should say what I mean? If I did, would you actually listen to me? Is that what you're telling me? I'm going to hold you to that! Right this minute. I'll say it all. Don't plug your ears, listen to me!" He grabbed her hands as she was in the process of trying to put her fingers in her ears. He took a breath. He was looking at Maomao, but somehow he seemed almost embarrassed. Finally he managed, "Now listen to me, y- I mean, Maomao! Listen close! I am going to make you my wife!"

"But then, was it any less mad, what Jinshi had been forced to live with? He had the power; he could have done any number of even crazier things. That he had the generosity of heart to listen to Maomao's words made it hard to shout at him now."

This availability and openness is what I’d say is the perfect counter to Maomao’s inner deflective tendencies. In his prodding and affectionate pursuit, he gives her time and the opportunity to open up to someone in a way that feels comfortable to her. It allows her to see that any heartfelt reciprocation will be met with appreciation by the right person. Something even others affirm for her.

"I know you have your circumstances, Miss Maomao. It's important not to get carried away by your emotions! But..." - "You can't let that be an excuse either."

“Maomao, you're very fortunate. This person is clearly very persistent, extremely stubborn, doesn't know when to quit-" - "and is good enough that even you were willing to let him win." Maomao looked down, which was something Joka knew she did when she was trying to hide embarrassment.

So Jinshi truly is the perfect person for Maomao because she doesn’t lack the ability to love, she simply needs someone who can wait for her to express it. Which Jinshi has been able to do because of his growing appreciation of Maomao as a person and willingness to understand her gentle displays of affection that keep him eagerly pursuing her as he can see her sincerity underneath layers of feigned disinterest.

“What she felt for Jinshi was not, she suspected, a burning passion. She couldn't respond to him with the same feelings he brought to her, but at the same time, there weren't that many people in the world with whom she could feel this safe.”

Their love isn’t about one being forceful and the other relenting to it. It’s about one creating a sense of comfort through persistent faithfulness, so the other isn't afraid of expressing emotions they've always had but felt were inadequate or were given no outlet for. By Jinshi giving Maomao a feeling of protection and love beyond what she expects, she can come to the realization that it’s not all a game, some love can be real, honest and selfless 💚

[lovelytsunoda]

Don’t Stand So Close to Me | Oscar Piastri

Summary: YN tries on a few of her old bikinis to pick something she can wear to a beach bonfire. Unfortunately for them, Oscar can’t control himself, and as the fashion show devolves, they might just get later and later

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Girlfriend!Reader

Warnings: 18+ content, Oscar being a simp for his girlfriend (so nothing new) hey if ur new here i write smuts about men who like to shower their women with praise and love and affection and laugh a lot during sex.

"Os, babe, what do you think of this one?"

"Love, you've tried on three already-" Oscar's protest died in his throat as she stepped out of their shared bedroom. Her toes, which were delicately painted butter yellow, padded softly across the small beachfront cabin's tile floor. The sea breeze caused the gaudy curtains that separated the living room and bedroom to flutter in the wind against their glass doors, framing her figure and making her look positively ethereal as she came towards him.

"I thought this one would match my nails." She smiled shyly, brushing some hair behind her ear. "What do you think?"

The pale yellow fabric hugged each of her curves, the straps on her bikini bottoms hiking dangerously high on her hips while still allowing a comfortable amount of cover at the front and back. The push-up bra top pushed her breasts together just enough to toe the line between innocently beautiful and downright pornographic.

"That the United Nations could use pictures of the way you look right now to stop wars."

She laughed, hands delicately covering her midsection. "That good, huh?"

Oscar's warm hands slid up the back of her thighs as he leaned in for a soft kiss. He smelled like teakwood and Old Spice, his usually unrly hair curling around his ears as he smiled at her.

"This is the best one so far, no competition. But you do plan on wearing shorts over this, right? I don't fully trust Lando's friends, and I'm not thrilled with the idea of spending another night in the drunk tank for fighting."

She giggled, resting her hands on his biceps. "Oscar, the last night you spent in jail was because you were playing beach volleyball with Hattie and lobbed the ball right at the windshield of a cruiser."

"Yeah, and it was the most uncomfortable bed that I've ever tried to sleep on."

"There's no need to fight anybody over me, Oscar. I'm all yours, body , mind and soul. And I know you feel the same way about me."

"I love you." He hummed softly, leaning down to kiss her, wandering hands tugging at the sides of her swimsuit bottoms.

Her bare leg curled around his as the kiss deepened, his hands gripping her tighter before he bent at the knees, hands gripping her thighs as he lifted her into the air. She giggled his name, joy and warmth in her chest as he spun them both around once, her body over his shoulder in a fireman's hold as he headed towards the bed.

He placed her down reverently, nothing out pure adoration in his eyes as he began to kiss his way down her body, lips soft and gentle, hands smooth and delicate over her legs as he trailed his tongue down her collarbone, and then her breasts, and then her stomach.

“Osc…” she whined softly, bucking her hips up towards his face.

“I’ve got ya, pretty girl.” He hummed, looping his thumbs through the sides of her bikini, gently pulling the fabric away from her tanned thighs. “You just lay there and look pretty f’me.”

She gasped softly as he kissed her clit, the pads of his fingers brushing over her entrance before his mouth dipped lower, licking a wide stripe up the place where she needed him most.

“Oh, baby!” She whined, meeting Oscars eyes.

“My god, baby. You’re so fucking beautiful. Most gorgeous girl I’ve ever fucking seen.”

With a wicked grin and an evil flint in his eyes, he flicked his tongue inside of her, rapidly tongue-fucking the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Her hands fisted the white cotton sheets around her, a delicious, pleasure-filled moan escaping her throat as she ground her hips up against Oscar’s face.

that was the thing about Oscar Piastri. He always made her feel so loved, so wanted. Even when his dick was inside her and he was all but whimpering in her ear. She always felt precious and cared for, and came away from every scene feeling full and happy, chest warm in a way that it hadn’t been with her few past partners.

“Atta girl.” He hummed, gently kissing her thigh. “So good and perfect for me.”

“Feels so good.” She hummed.

“Taste even better.” Oscar laughed, gently pinching her sides in a way that made her throw her head back against the sheets in laughter.

“Let go for me, honey. Show me how good I make you feel. This is all for you, sweet girl.”

She came quietly, less like a wave of pleasure and more a deep hum of satisfaction, followed by a hearty sigh and soft giggles, her chest rising and falling, bra straps falling down her upper arms.

“I love you.” Oscar whispered, kissing her thighs. “To the moon and back.”

“You always did have a way with words, didn’t you love?”

“You love it.”

“You know I do. And I love you even more than I love your smart mouth.”

[uniquecutie-puffs]

Heartstrings & Hellfire: Chapter 03

The Next Day…

The streets of Myeong-dong, famous for shopping, fashion, and street food, were unusually crowded. Under the bright sun, a group of four friends strolled through the crowd in casual streetwear, though for them, these outfits were more of a disguise. After all, they were well-known K-pop artists.

Rumi wore a hoodie layered with a blazer and sweatpants, opting for comfort and concealment. Miro went with a classic hat-and-glasses combo, a white sleeveless shirt, and denim pants. Zane sported a laid-back streetwear style that blended perfectly with others their age.

(Y/n), however, stuck to her signature white aesthetic: a cute lolita-style white dress adorned with a black bow at the collar, her hair in low twin pigtails tied with white scrunchies, and a classic white face mask covering half her face.

“He’s got this special tonic. Apparently, it can heal anything from sore throats to relationship problems,” Zane said excitedly, loudly enough that Rumi immediately hushed him.

“Shh! Quiet, Zane.”

“Why are there so many people today?” Miro asked, scanning the overly packed streets.

“Oh, it’s down that alleyway,” Zane pointed to his phone and began walking ahead. Rumi, (Y/n), and Miro quietly followed him down a side street.

What they didn’t notice was the buzz among the crowd, all holding flyers advertising a free noon concert.

“Who are the Saja Boys?”

The group finally stopped in front of a modest building with a neon sign that read ‘Han’s Clinic.’ Miro looked unimpressed.

“Yep. About as legit as I expected,” he remarked sarcastically.

“Earthy and herby. Smells legit to me,” Rumi said with gentle optimism, not wanting to hurt Zane’s feelings. He appreciated the effort.

“Yay! That’s the spirit!” Zane cheered, hugging Rumi before pulling him into the clinic. What none of them noticed was that Rumi had unconsciously grabbed (Y/n)’s wrist and pulled her in with him.

“Hurry before someone sees us,” Miro urged, quickly slipping inside behind them.

Inside Dr. Han’s office, books, awards, and certificates filled the space. Rumi sat in the middle chair while Miro, Zane, and (Y/n), now maskless, sat on either side. Zane, clearly the most excited, flashed two thumbs up at Rumi, who returned the gesture with a small smile.

While the boys distracted themselves, (Y/n) observed the photos on the wall. Most were obviously photoshopped, but one stood out: four boys hugging each other. She tilted her head in curiosity, which all three boys noticed at the same time and unanimously thought: Cute. Before she could think more, the office door opened.

“Rumi-nim,” Dr. Han greeted, recognizing all members of Huntrix and Korea’s beloved Angel. Everyone stood and bowed respectfully.

“No need. Sit, sit,” the doctor chuckled, motioning them back into their seats.

“You need no introduction. So… a problem with your voice?” he asked, pausing in front of Rumi for a quick assessment.

“Yes. We need one of your awesome tonics, something that works fast,” Zane said eagerly.

“Okay, let me see.” The doctor adjusted his glasses and examined Rumi.

“Ahhh,” Rumi complied, opening his mouth.

“Uh-uh-uh. To heal the part, we must understand the whole,” the doctor corrected, gesturing to Rumi entirely. He then inhaled deeply, opened his eyes dramatically, and stared at Rumi wide-eyed, startling (Y/n).

“Uh…” Rumi leaned back slightly, unnerved but willing to try anything for a cure.

“I see… no, actually, I don’t. Very strange. You have many walls up.”

“Whoa! He’s good, right?” Zane whispered to Miro and (Y/n) in awe.

“So many walls.”

“Walls? I don’t have walls,” Rumi scoffed, dismissing the idea.

“Uh, yeah you do. He’s kinda right,” Miro admitted, lowering the magazine he was reading. (Y/n) nodded beside him.

“I’m just trying to stay focused,” Rumi defended.

“Focus is good, but focusing on one part causes you to neglect the others. It makes you… separated. Isolated,” the doctor explained.

“Ooh! Emotionally closed off?” Zane blurted out.

“Yes! Yes!” the doctor confirmed.

“He’s also a workaholic. Doesn’t know how to relax,” Miro added.

“I do know how to relax!”

“He bottles up his feelings,” (Y/n) added softly.

“(Y/n)! You’re supposed to be on my side,” Rumi whined.

“I bet he refuses to go to the bathhouse with you,” the doctor guessed.

“Oh my gosh, yes! How did you—”

“We’ve been trying forever,” Zane and Miro said in unison, cracking up.

“How is this helpful?” Rumi grumbled.

“It’s helping me a lot,” Miro smirked.

“Whoa, how’d you know all that just by looking at him?” Zane asked the doctor. But then the doctor turned his eyes to Zane.

“Hm. I see…”

“Wait, why are you looking at me?”

“Eager to please. Maybe a bit too eager.”

“What? Ahahaha! I'm not like that. You'd tell me if I was like that, right?” Zane turned to the others for reassurance.

“Um…” Miro and Rumi exchanged glances.

“It’s okay, Zane. It’s not eagerness, it’s concern. That’s what makes you, you. And I love that about you,” (Y/n) said sweetly, patting his hand. Zane turned red.

Next, the doctor tried to analyze Miro, but the moment their eyes locked, a silent battle began. Miro grunted. The doctor whimpered. Miro smirked in triumph.

“Yeah. That’s right.”

Finally, the doctor turned to (Y/n), who smiled gently at him.

“I see… nothing, yet everything. Kindness, innocence, faith in goodness. You really are an angel,” he said in awe. (Y/n) smiled, tilting her head.

“But how does this help my voice?” Rumi asked again, frustrated.

“To heal the part, we must understand the whole,” the doctor reiterated, this time gesturing to the whole group.

“Okay, but we came for the tonics.”

“Just give us the voice juice,” Zane begged.

“Hm… I know just the tonic you need,” the doctor relented, knowing they weren’t ready to understand his full message. But (Y/n) was still thinking about it, feeling like she was missing something important.

As the two boys waited outside the clinic, Rumi and (Y/n) sat together in the waiting area. Her head rested gently on his shoulder. Rumi glanced down at her, and a giddy warmth filled his chest. He loved the way she smelled, the gentle weight of her against him. But not wanting to overstep boundaries, he quickly looked forward, redirecting his thoughts—only to spot something that made him pause.

“Is that us? And (Y/n)?” he muttered.

Two framed photos were hanging on the wall. One was a promotional picture of Huntrix, each member holding a canned drink, except the doctor’s own photo was poorly glued beside them. The second frame featured (Y/n)’s perfume ad, but again, the doctor had inserted himself into the photo, posed in such a way that the perfume was being sprayed on him. Rumi felt creeped out and hoped (Y/n) wouldn’t notice.

“Ugh. Zane…” Rumi muttered under his breath, exasperated.

“Your tonics are ready!” the doctor suddenly announced, holding up a box with the clinic's logo and intricate design.

Both Rumi and (Y/n) stood, and Rumi took the box to carry it himself. They thanked the doctor and the staff before exiting the building, where Miro and Zane were waiting outside.

“We got the tonics! We got the tonics!” The two boys chanted as Rumi opened the door, letting (Y/n) exit first before following.

As they began walking toward the main street, (Y/n) suddenly stopped and started rummaging through her purse.

“Something wrong, (Y/n)? Looking for something?” Miro asked, cool and composed.

“Yeah… I think I left my face mask inside the clinic,” she replied, still searching.

“Want me to go get it?” Rumi offered, already stepping back.

“No need, I’ll go get it myself. Just wait here for me, okie?” she said cutely before heading back inside. All three boys sighed dreamily at her adorableness.

Back in the alley...

“Yay! Once your voice is fixed, we can get back to the important stuff, like the fans!” Zane said excitedly. But just then, the boys heard approaching footsteps and saw shadows moving toward the alleyway. “Totally... nice,”

“Fans!” Miro exclaimed, panicking with Zane.

“We can’t let them see us!” Zane and Miro quickly hid behind Rumi and yanked his hoodie up. Rumi, caught off guard, used the box to hide half his face. The three of them silently thanked the heavens that (Y/n) was still inside.

“Hurry!”

“Be cool. Look normal.”

~ “Oh yeah!” ~ 

The sunlight poured into the alley as four unfamiliar yet stunning boys walked confidently, almost in slow motion.

~ “Come on.” ~

“Hmm?” The three Huntrix boys stared, captivated by the approaching group. It felt… hypnotic.

~ “Take your time.” ~

Miro and Zane were clearly in awe, their jaws slack. Rumi looked at them with disbelief.

~ “Na-na-na-na, na-na-na-na.” ~

All four boys flipped their hair in perfect sync, enhancing their flawless appearances.

~ “So tonight…” ~

One of them, wearing a tight Hawaiian shirt stretched dramatically. The shirt grew tighter… and then—

Pop!

The buttons burst open one by one until the shirt flowed open, exposing perfect abs.

~ “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah…” ~

Zane and Miro stared, stunned. Popcorn inexplicably began streaming from their eyes. Zane tried to catch it with his bucket hat, while Miro happily munched.

“So hot…” Zane whispered.

“Ugh, you guys are disgusting,” Rumi grumbled, watching them drool over the stranger’s abs. But then his attention shifted to a figure behind the four. A black-haired male. 

Ethereal. 

Otherworldly.

Rumi’s breath caught.

The mysterious boy flipped his hair, causing a sudden gust of wind that blew Rumi’s hoodie back and revealed his purple hair. Just as Rumi was hypnotized, the male brushed against him, knocking the box from his arms. The tonics scattered across the floor as Rumi fell in a very ungraceful heap.

The tall boy extended a hand to help him up but then brushed his own shoulder, implying Rumi had dirtied him by touching him.

“Watch yourself,” the boy said coldly.

“Huh?” Rumi blinked. Then he gasped. “Did he just insult me?!”

Before Huntrix could say anything else, the five mysterious boys bumped into someone.

“Oof! Ah, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there,” (Y/n) said kindly, having just exited the clinic. 

But for the five boys, time slowed. To them, she sparkled. Her lashes fluttered. Her voice echoed like a melody.

“Rumi!” she called sweetly.

Minutes earlier...

After stepping out with Rumi, (Y/n) had realized her face mask was missing. She stopped to search her purse.

“Is there something wrong, (Y/n)? Looking for something?” Miro asked again.

“Yeah, I think I left my face mask inside the clinic.”

“Want me to get it?” Rumi offered.

“No need, I’ll go get it myself. Just wait here, okie?”

Inside, (Y/n) spotted the doctor still at the front desk.

“Yes, (Y/n)-nim? Is there something else you need?” he asked.

“Uh, yes. I think I left my face mask here. Also... do you have any medicine for abdominal pain?”

“Hmm… as I said before, to heal the part—”

“We must understand the whole,” she cut in gently. “Yes, I’m still figuring that out. But right now, I just need the medicine, please.”

He nodded. “I have just the thing.” Moments later, a staff member returned with both her mask and medicine.

(Y/n) paid, bowed respectfully, and stepped out, only to walk into the chest of one of the mystery boys, who caught her gracefully.

“Oof! I’m sorry, I didn’t see you,” she said, looking up at the handsome stranger and the four others behind him. She noticed the ab-boy’s shirt was completely open and ruined.

(Y/n) reached into her purse and pulled out a small sewing kit. “Here, you might need this,” she said sweetly, offering it to him.

For the first time, the shirtless boy blushed. But (Y/n)’s attention quickly moved past them.

“Rumi?” she called in concern, seeing him on the ground while Miro and Zane helped him up. She brushed past the boys and rushed to Rumi’s side. The five strangers looked after her in stunned silence.

(Y/n) knelt beside Rumi, checking him for injuries before helping gather the scattered tonics.

“Watch my… Watch yourself!” Rumi snapped toward the retreating boys. “Ugh! Look at this mess!”

“They’re not even that cute. What were we thinking?” Miro muttered.

“They’re so blah!” Rumi added grumpily.

Zane gagged. “I feel sick for even admiring those abs…”

“No, they’re—” Miro began, but couldn’t even finish the sentence.

“Come on, guys. Be nice,” (Y/n) giggled as she helped repack the box.

“But (Y/n), they’re…” All three boys dramatically retched.

“I’m gonna throw up,” Zane said dramatically.

Suddenly, music began blaring from the main street.

“Wait… What’s that?” Rumi asked.

They peeked toward the street, where pink smoke was rising and a crowd was gathering. Zane and Miro quickly fixed their outfits. Zane tugged too hard on Rumi’s hoodie, accidentally choking him.

“Oof, sorry!” Zane gasped.

Rumi stood straight, inhaled deeply, then exhaled before walking with the boys and (Y/n), heading toward the pink smoke as the beat of the music grew louder.

~”Hey, hey!”~

A crowd was beginning to gather around a sudden street performance.

~”Hey, hey! Don’t want you, need you. Yeah, I need you to fill me up. 마시고 마셔 봐도 (masigo masyeo bwado), 성에 차지 않아 (seong-e chaji ana).”~

“It’s those stupid jerks again,” Rumi muttered to Miro and Zane, irritation laced in his voice. Meanwhile, (Y/n) watched the performance, noticing that the five mysterious boys were almost looking directly at her. The dark-haired male even winked in her direction, though the boys beside her were too distracted by their anger to notice.

An ajumma squeezed between Miro and Rumi to get closer to the handsome performers, only to be blown back by a dramatic body roll from the dark-haired boy that created an absurd gust of wind, sending her flying back into her group.

~”Got a feeling that, oh, yeah (yeah). You could be everything that. That I need (need), taste so sweet (sweet).”~

“They’re a boy band?” Rumi asked in disbelief and slight horror—another potential rival group.

~”Every sip makes me want more, yeah. Lookin like snacks 'cause you got it like that (woo). Take a big bite, want another bite, yeah. 너의 모든 걸 난 원해, 원해, 원해 (neoui modeun geol nan wonhae, wonhae, wonhae).”~

On the giant screen behind the performance, a close-up of the dark-haired male’s Adam’s apple appeared as he drank one of Rumi’s tonic pouches. A wave of delighted screams erupted from the ajummas.

~”너 말곤 모두 뻔해, 뻔해, 뻔해 (neo malgon modu ppeonhae, ppeonhae, ppeonhae).”~

“Did he? One, two, three, four, five, six, HE STOLE ONE OF MY POUCHES!” Rumi gasped.

Zane and Miro scowled while (Y/n), despite everything, found herself bobbing along to the music. “You have to admit... it’s kind of catchy.

~”When you're in my arms, I hold you so tight (so tight). Can't let go, no, no, not tonight. 지금 당장 날 봐 시간 없잖아 (jigeum dangjang nal bwa sigan eopjana). 넌 내꺼야 이미 알고 있잖아 (neon naekkeoya imi algo itjana).”~

~”'Cause I need you to need me. I'm empty, you feed me, so refreshing. My little soda pop! You're all I can think of, Every drop I drink up. You're my soda pop. My little soda pop.”~

Zane’s shoulders started to sway to the beat. Rumi shot him a look. Zane froze... then subtly resumed. Rumi found himself doing the same. “It is... annoyingly catchy,” he admitted through gritted teeth.

~”Cool me down, you're so hot. Pour me up, I won't stop. You're my soda pop. My little soda pop.”~

“It’s infectious,” Miro added, now also moving slightly to the rhythm.

~”Ho-hoo-hoo. Ho-hoo-hoo. Ho-hoo-hoo.”~

(Y/n) blinked as two of the boys, specifically the pink haired male and the male in the pink sweater, blew kisses into the crowd, literal hearts flying into the audience. The special effects were so real they almost seemed dangerously real.

Miro, with excellent reflexes, caught one heart before it could hit (Y/n) in the face.

“They can make hearts out of thin air?” he muttered, bewildered. Crushing the heart in his fists.

Another heart slammed into Zane’s face. (Y/n) immediately helped him up, checking if he was bruised.

Suddenly, her breath hitched. She caught flashes, demonic eyes and glowing patterns briefly flickering over the boys’ bodies. She looked at the others. The same stunned realization was written across their faces.

“They’re demons!”

“Magicians!” Zane blurted.

“Demons. Obviously demons,” he quickly corrected himself.

~”My little soda pop. Uh, make me wanna flip the top. 한 모금에 (han mogeume), you hit the spot. Every little drip and drop, fizz and pop, ah. 소름 돋아 soreum doda it's gettin' hot.”~

“Dang, they’re good,” Zane grudgingly admitted as one of them rapped with smooth precision.

“Incredible... but a demon boy band? Why?” Rumi questioned.

“I don’t care. A demon’s a demon. We kill them,” Miro said, stepping forward with intention.

Rumi and (Y/n) both blocked his path. “No, it’s too public.”

“What if they hurt someone?” Miro asked, clearly torn.

“They’re not hurting anyone,” Zane pointed out. “They helped that girl at the corn dog stand, gave those stressed kids gifts. Not a single soul sucked.”

~”난 절대 놓칠 수 없어 (nan jeoldae nochil su eopseo). 널 원해 꼭 (neol wonhae kkok)”~

“In fact, they almost seem nice?” Zane pondered aloud.

“Demons are never nice!” Rumi and Miro snapped in unison.

But then all three boys simultaneously stomped on the corn dog the girl had been holding. “Don’t eat that!” Rumi warned.

“Ah, nooo!”

(Y/n) quickly offered the girl a replacement corn dog with mustard. “Here, this is much tastier. I’m so sorry about my friends.”

“Angel?” the girl whispered, awe-struck.

Meanwhile, the boys ripped the kids’ gifted items apart.

(Y/n) sighed, mortified. “Here. I know it’s not the same, but I hope these help.” She pulled out handmade cookies from her purse, giving them to each child.

“Thank you, Ms. Angel!” The kids chorused with bows before walking away.

~”Come and fill me up. Just can't get enough, Oh. You're all I can think of, Every drop I drink up. You're my soda pop. My little soda pop (yeah, yeah).”~

“They’re going after the fans. We’ve gotta stop this now,” Rumi growled, determined.

“Rumi, wait!” (Y/n) shouted, hurrying after him.

~”Cool me down, you're so hot. Pour me up, I won't stop (oh, oh). You're my soda pop. My little soda pop.”~

Each Saja Boy posed for the crowd, feeding their charm. But one by one, their eyes flicked to the girl in white.

Captivated.

Entranced.

She stood out like a dream in the chaos.

~”Ho-hoo-hoo. Ho-hoo-hoo. You're my soda pop. Gotta drink every drop”~

The performance ended. The boys blew kisses and waved. Rumi stood fuming beneath them. The dark-haired male dusted his shoulder again, mocking him.

“That’s it for now! See you tonight on everyone’s favorite variety show. The Saja Boys love you!” the lead announced.

~“My little soda pop.”~

Beside Rumi, (Y/n) scanned the five of them. Each one sends both flying kisses and winks towards her.

All three Huntrix boys witnessed it and snapped. The boys vanished into pink smoke as the crowd screamed. Behind them, a large screen flashed the title of the show: “Play Games With Us.”

(Y/n)'s eyes widened. She was scheduled to be on that show tonight.

“That was incredible.” “I like that group!” The crowd buzzed with excitement over the new boy band, causing Rumi to growl in irritation.

“To be fair... that’s also something a magician would do,” Zane muttered.

“Oh, those aren’t magicians,” Rumi snapped. “Those are demons. And we’re gonna kill them. Let’s get battle-ready.”

The group turned back toward the tower, but (Y/n) paused, glancing at her phone, a moment that didn’t go unnoticed.

“(Y/n)? Aren’t you coming back home with us?” Miro asked.

“Uhm, actually, I have a scheduled appearance I need to attend,” she replied, keeping her tone calm.

“How will you get there? Do you want us to drop you off or something?” Zane offered, always concerned for her safety.

“No need,” she smiled. “Bobby’s sending a car to my location. You guys go ahead. Be safe, alright?”

“Okay,” Rumi said with a sigh, still concerned. “Just, text us when you arrive, alright?”

“I will. Happy hunting.” She waved as the car pulled up, and the boys watched her drive away before heading back home to prepare for battle.

[callieisto]

got some thot thoughts for you because your superman fic was quite literally PERFECT mygods i cannot stop reading it

anyhoo since. david’s (the loml) clark is giving VERY big bottom at the very least switch or heavy service dom and being superman and parent trapped by an obsessive bald man is just so hard🥲 he needs to get a load (or multiple) off his ‘chest’ basically my request is reader overstimming ts out of clark give him a taste of his own medicine and making him cum soooo many times before even putting it in

he loves it we love it and he cant take it! he’s a big boy! thank you very much and happy writtings while i probably read everything youve made

Hey anon! I got this message and blacked out bc I got so wildly horny. I’m serious this filled me with primal lust.

Figured it would be a nice present for Clark on his debut day. Happy Superman 2025 watching everyone! I want to [REDACTED] on his [REDACTED] until he [REDACTED]

(Gn!Dom!Reader, Sub!Clark, [both are switches in my mind however], kissing, overstimulation, bondage, begging, traffic light system, subspace, I want Clark in ways concerning to my sexuality)

… ☆ …

“Color?”

Your voice floats so prettily into his ears as you bind his wrists behind his back, tighter than he would do for you, because the mild discomfort makes it feel real. Makes it feel human.

He can feel the comforter beneath his knees, can hear the buzz of the ac. His glasses are on the bedside table, laying next to your stack of books. He likes your apartment, really likes it, if only because you live there. He makes a note to ask if you want to move in with him, and ask what you want for dinner, and see if you maybe want to see that new movie-

Clark exhales slowly through his nose, clearing his mind, then inhales the smell of you, fresh out of a shower. Your warm hands skim over his shoulders to show that you’ve finished tying him up, and he shudders.

“Green.” He murmurs, and it feels good to say. Life had been so stressful lately, and he just wants to let the world fall away until it’s just you and him and the pleasure you bring. “I’m green.”

The bed dips where you move, causing Clark to wobble a bit. A laugh escapes him, soft and gentle as he ducks down to meet the kiss you bestow upon him. When you pull back, he chases, a whine on his lips, but your hand at his throat stops him. Not hard enough to choke, not hard enough to do anything to him, but the simple command is one he knows to follow.

Stay. Be good.

So he stays. Sits back on his heels, watching, waiting. Your hand moves down his chest, his abs, until it finally wraps around his cock. He bites his lip to keep from gasping pathetically, fangs nearly puncturing skin.

“Does it feel good?”

He nods, not trusting his voice as you start jerking him off, slow and teasing. He had forgotten how good your touch felt, how nice it was to let you take control. It’s been months since he dropped into this headspace, months since he allowed himself to even consider it.

“You can speak, Clark.”

And oh. He loves it when you say that.

“It feels so good,” he breathes, voice shaky and already filled with so much emotion that he might burst. “It feels- feels so good, please don’t stop. I love it, I love you, gh- fuck, fuck, please.”

He’d maybe laugh at himself, if he was more present, because he’s already leaking precum like a faucet and bucking his hips into your hand like he’s never been touched. But he’s not exactly in the headspace to think about how he sounds, or looks, or even what he’s saying.

So he keeps talking.

“It feels so good,” he repeats, because his brain is practically leaking out of his ears. “You’re so- mmgh- I wanna cum, please, I wanna, I know it hasn’t been that long but I wanna cum, I’ll be good, I promise, I won’t even break the rope this time, p-please-”

“-You can cum as many times as you want.”

He sobs, tipping his head back, tears beading at his lash line already. It’s almost funny how you can get him so desperate from just a few minutes of touching. “Really?” He asks, righting his head so he can meet your eyes. His eyes are shiny with unshed tears, and he’s flushed a pretty pink from the tips of his ears down to his collar.

“Are you second guessing me?”

“No,” he gasps, shaking his head feverishly, already fighting off an orgasm. “No, ‘m not.”

“Good boy. Go ahead and cum for me, I know you’re close.”

His body tenses, and he cums, watching the way it splatters on your hand and his stomach. You don’t stop jerking him off, not even for a second, and the tidal wave of overwhelming lust nearly knocks the air out of his lungs.

“Thank you,” he whines, voice cracking with the weight of knowing what’s about to happen. Knowing that you won’t stop, you’ll keep on touching him until he can’t cum anymore, and then you’ll fuck him just the way he needs. “Thank you, mngh, thank you…”

“Color?”

“Green.” The response is instantaneous, almost mindless. “Please don’t stop, baby, please.”

You don’t respond, but your free hand squishes his lips together so you can kiss him. He sobs into your mouth and cums again, whimpering your name and kissing back feverishly. He loves it when you do that, when you take over thinking about what he needs, what he wants. His brain feels blissfully empty.

“I love you,” he whines into your mouth, fangs scraping your lower lip. “I love you, I love you, I love you, gh-”

“I love you too, Clark.”

And it’s murmured so low and sweet that it makes Clark’s head spin, knocks the air out of his lungs. How powerful you must be, he thinks, to bring Superman to his knees with five words.

It’s around the third orgasm that Clark forgets what he was thinking about entirely. And when you push him face first into the mattress, well… his thoughts about that are filthier than anything he’s ever thought.

… ☆ …

When Clark comes back to himself, the ropes are gone, and you’re rolling him onto his back to finish cleaning him up. He’s silent for a bit, not trusting his voice.

“I think the neighbors dislike me,” he croaks finally, and smiles crookedly when you look at him. “They’re talking about how loud I was.”

You roll your eyes, and he just laughs.

“You know, my apartment is basically soundproof compared to yours.” He says, sitting up on his elbows. “And I always have room for you.”

“Let’s focus on this first.”

His smile softens impossibly. “Okay.” He whispers, relaxing as you wipe up the cooling cum from his stomach. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Clark.”

And you kiss his forehead, and he just melts into the bed. “I could go another round.” He murmurs.

“I don’t think you could.”

“No, not for me.” When you raise an eyebrow at him, he just pouts and grabs your wrist, bringing it to his lips so he can kiss it softly. “It’s your turn.”

… maybe moving wouldn’t be a bad idea.

[rainbowbutterfrosting]

I think there's some missed potential people aren't seeing in TagTeam/ao3blr and I swear to god I'll write it if I don't see it

ao3, aka "filled with 100k word smut and angst fics that will make you question who you are as a person"

Tumblr, aka "filled with shitposts made by pissing on the poor and also (tried to) ban porn"

So hear me out

ao3 = might be reserved and take time to open up, but they're quite intense once you get serious

Don't get me wrong, they'll tell you things right away, but it's generally a slow burn to actually get to the meat of the relationship

Part of it might be hidden angst/trauma

Maybe they use their tropes as a sort of comfort; familiarity, versus every other platform rapidly changing

Tumblr = more chaotic and carefree, loud and unafraid, but gets flustered when things get sexual

Think of "WOAH WOAH WOAH. WHEN I SAID I WANTED TO SUCK YOUR DICK, I DIDN'T MEAN- UMMMM-"

So infinite sex jokes but actually a virgin kind of vibes

BUT

Tumblr isn't a little bitch. Tumblr WILL up their game if they need to

And ao3 doesn't show much reaction that often (god think of ALL the smut fics on that site, they can totally be stonefaced)

So queue Tumblr aggressively flirting with ao3 (for attention? pride? who knows anymore) only to get flustered themselves

Ao3 looks at them for a while, just staring down, grabs their chin and whispers a crude line, before Tumblr can't take it anymore and eventually leaves because FUCK that site is good

Tumblr just wants to wipe that DAMN smirk off of their face, FUCK THEM FUCK THEM FU- oh god... fuck... them...?

Ao3 just sits in Tumblr's head rent-free, causing a cycle of pining and aggressive flirting to cope over and over

^^ I can see SOOOO much slow burn between them. Not even as enemies to lovers or really rivals to lovers, but rather as

(Homoerotic) Roommates to lovers

[littlelovelunette]

I'mma sneak this in while reqs are still on 🤭

Butch4butch sevika, but they're both buddies, and sevika falls inlove with butch!r hehe (could be fluff, or smut, OR BOTH hihihi)

“𝐃𝐔𝐃𝐄, 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓?” ── .✦

⋆⑅˚₊ warnings : fingering, implication of drunk sex, kinda ass (im sorry :c), submissive sevika, butch reader

You and Sevika had talked about things like this countless times— casually, shamelessly, as if it were just part of the air between you. So why the hell did today feel different? Why did it suddenly make your thighs clench, your boxers grow damp, your cunt ache with unspoken need?

You tried to bury it— deeper, and deeper, and deeper still… but it pulsed inside you, insistent and electric.

“I’ve never been dominated before,” Sevika murmured, arms folded lazily across her chest as she leaned back against the couch.

Her legs were spread in that infuriating, cocky sprawl wide, territorial, like she owned the goddamn room. And your thoughts?

They were anything but pure. All the depraved things you wanted to do to her flashed behind your eyes in filthy detail, and for a moment, you couldn’t form a single coherent sentence.

Still, you forced yourself to push through it. You lifted your glass and smirked, voice laced with teasing. You ran a calloused hand over your jaw and smirked, voice dry.

“That’s rich. Figured someone like you would’ve had your ego knocked down by now.”

You both laughed— familiar, easy.

Sevika took a slow sip of her drink, her throat working around the liquor like she enjoyed the burn. She always did. It was her kind of ritual.

“Yeah,” she said, tongue swiping her bottom lip, “But most of the time, it’s just me putting those bitches in their place.”

You chuckled and leaned back, one arm draped lazily over the couch, fingers tapping against your thigh. “What a fucking tragedy.”

A comfortable silence filled the air between the both of you and Sevika flicked her lighter on and off with a bored aura, her grey eyes drunken. Well, only slightly drunk actually considering how high her alcohol tolerance was. You didn't know when it happened and then you both ended up in your apartment. Your hands palmed Sevika's waist and breasts drunkenly and watched the way her head hung back slowly.

“Oh, you're beautiful,” your lips dragged back over the column of her throat and kissed the underside of her jaw, then her jaw— then her lips. Slow, heated, wet.

The kiss lasted for a while before you slowly pulled back and grinned at her. “Fuck…” Sevika exhaled deeply, letting you take control and hold her. You pushed her onto your bed, her body causing the mattress to dip as your hands rested on either side of her legs.

“Oh my goodness you're beautiful.” you said breathily and tugged at her top.

Sevika nodded and you started undressing her. The night went by like a blur, you didn't have a clue that happened. Both of you were shit-faced drunk after all.

Well, to be fair— just you were drunk.

The morning light peeked through the grey curtains, hitting your eyes instantly causing a frown to curl on your lips the moment you woke.

“Oh Janna,” you mumbled and dragged yourself out of bed. Then you froze. What? You whipped around so quick you almost got nauseous. Was that Sevika in your bed?

Oh, hell… yes. It was very real.

Sevika in your bed— naked.

BUTT-FUCKING-NAKED.

In YOUR bed. Your cheeks flushed, eyes widening.

“Sevika,” you choked out her name, slowly climbing back in bed. You wanted to wake her but she looked dazzling— her short dark strands framing her tired face as her lips remained parted.

“Fuckin’ hell…” you breathed.

You stayed there a minute longer, then finally leaned back into the mattress, one arm behind your head, the other resting over your stomach.You’d figure it out later. Sevika woke a little later, cheeks still flushed from whatever you both had going on last night. She moved, mechanical hand whirring to life as she flexed it in front of her groggy eyes.

“Mornin’ baby,” you watched as she blushed furiously from the nickname alone. “You were rough yesterday…” Sevika said almost shyly and tucked her hair between one ear, her grey eyes darting around the room as if plotting her great escape.

“Does that mean you didn't enjoy it?”

You asked, leaning closer to her just so your breath would fan her face. Heat rushed to her face, her thighs clenching together as she moved back in instinct.

“Ummm…” your hands found her pussy, fingers scooping up her wetness from under the blanket and you pulled your fingers up.

“Oooh, look at this.”

You teased and took a taste, “Mm, come here, darlin’,” you kissed her deeply, making Sevika squeak in surprise. She was so vulnerable it was almost funny. Her flesh hand awkwardly rested on your waist as you kissed her, your tongue tasting like her pussy. Sevika didn't fight it, she even pulled you closer at a point.

Your hand cradled the side of her face as you kissed her, fingers spreading wide over her jaw like you were anchoring her there— reminding her who she belonged to. When you pulled back, you took your time looking at her. Her swollen lips. Her flushed cheeks. That twitchy hesitation in her eyes like she didn’t know what to do with this kind of softness.

"You okay?" you asked, tone low, fingers idly drawing patterns on her inner thigh like you weren’t seconds from wrecking her again.

You knew what the answer was— her cunt was still dripping, practically begging for your fingers again, but you liked the way she squirmed when you asked. She nodded, slow, but she couldn’t look you in the eye.

"Use your words, baby," you said, lips twitching. You leaned down to press a kiss just below her ear. "You gone all shy on me now?"

"I– yeah, I’m okay," she muttered, her voice cracked, soft in a way that made your chest ache.

“Good.”

Your fingers slid back under the blanket. Her breath hitched when they dipped inside her with zero resistance. You didn’t even have to try— her body opened up for you like she needed it. You moved slow, deliberate, curling your fingers just right while your thumb pressed against her clit. Her hips jerked.

“Still so fuckin’ wet,” you muttered, lips brushing her neck. “That from me, huh?”

She whimpered. Sevika whimpered.

Her hand, flesh one, gripped your bicep, hard. The strength of it made you grin.

“You can take it, baby,” you whispered, voice gravelly. “You’re mine now, yeah?”

She nodded again, breathless. “Yeah…”

“Good girl,” you rasped, and you kissed her so deep she moaned into your mouth, her whole body arching into you.

You pressed your forearm over her waist, pinning her gently, not to trap, but to hold. Keep her there. Ground her. She was close. You could feel it. Her muscles twitching. Her legs trying to close around your hand.

“Don’t run,” you said quietly, almost amused, eyes still locked on hers. “You’re gonna come on my fingers just like this. Don’t even think about holding back.”

Sevika let out a ragged gasp— high, sweet, desperate.

And when she came, it was messy. Shuddering. She made a noise you’d never heard from her before, something broken open, something honest and you rode her through it, whispering nothing but praise and filthy promises against her skin. You eased your fingers out and muttered the first words for the beginning of an extensive aftercare, one like never before:

“You a pancake or a waffle kinda girl?”

[ferrarifinnick]

FIX IT! | MEN OF SQUID GAME HEADCANON

you're upset and isolating because of something he did, and he just has to find a way to fix it...

includes: junho, sangwoo, gihun, daeho warnings: sfw. themes of guilt and regret, yearning, loneliness, unpleasant memories, tension. wc: 0.9k

note: yeah, daeho's version made me a little emosh ngl. he's just a sweet boy who deserves the world. also, gihun's is based on season 1, where he's a little whiney and pathetic (just the way i like him). let me know if you agree/disagree. enjoy! <3

── ✦ JUNHO (THE DETECTIVE)

he isn’t too proud to admit when he’s wrong, but when you aren’t ready to talk or willing to accept a verbal apology yet, he’ll show up for you in other ways. the kitchen will be subtly reorganised, and those dishes by the sink from breakfast are washed, dried, and stored away neatly. he’ll throw out the old vegetables in the fridge, change that one lightbulb that flickers sometimes, might even take a look at fixing that barstool that squeaks. all little things you might not notice, but ones you’ll appreciate, even if only subconsciously. he doesn’t do any of it for recognition, or even to encourage you to warm back up to him. he does it because he’s sorry, and he wants to bring you happiness in any little way he can.

he won't let himself dwell in his regret, but it doesn't mean it doesn't kill him when the only thing he needs after a long day at work is a hug that you won't give him.

── ✦ SANGWOO (PLAYER 218)

it's the distance that eats at him. returning to a silent home after work, eating dinner at the table alone, falling asleep on separate ends of the bed without a goodnight. it's worse than physical pain, because at least then he'd have a wound to clean and bandage. but instead, there's just guilt. and it gnaws. he'll try working late at the dining table, go for a run when the thought of walking into the silence of your shared bedroom is too unbearable, but it isn't distracting enough. it isn't good enough.

on his way home from a run, he'll stop by the market to pick up some ingredients to use for dinner. he isn't normally one to cook, not alone at least, but he'll make you something that he finds comforting. a warm broth, something nostalgic that his mother might've made him as a child. he won't force you to eat with him, but he will wordlessly bring you a bowl and cutlery, hoping that you'll accept his peace offering. if not to reconcile, then to at least make sure you're fed and spared the burden of cooking or starving for the evening.

── ✦ GIHUN (PLAYER 456)

it's not so much your absence that hurts. instead, it's the crushing weight of being responsible for it. it's a hard pill to swallow, and one he can't face for a little while. he sets up in the empty living room. puts on the tv just a little too loud like he usually does, but this time it's so you hear him. hear when he laughs at a sitcom, when he guesses the answers to a quiz show. all so you can't ignore his presence. and if he's feeling especially guilty, he'll self-soothe with a bottle of beer, maybe two. it looks like sulking because it is.

but at the bottom of that second bottle, he'll find the courage to face the fact that he's to blame for it all. it's something he has to sit with before he can think of ways to make it up to you, but when he's processed it, accepted responsibility for causing your hurt, he gets busy. the dishes you've been nagging him about are washed, the laundry is folded, the trash is emptied and disposed of. heck, even the couch cushions are neatly tidied, just how you like them to be. it's nothing that shouldn't have already been done, but he hopes you'll see him trying to be better. it is performative to an extent, he wants you to see it and be grateful, but it is wholeheartedly an admission that he acknowledges his wrongdoings and cares about you enough to express his regret to you.

── ✦ DAEHO (PLAYER 388)

distance between you frightens him more than a loud noise in the middle of the night. at least there's a procedure to follow there. barricade the door, hide under the bed, arm himself with a lamp if he has to. but with you hiding from in the bedroom, the shoe feels like it's on the other foot. he feels like the late-night intruder, shut out by the barricade that is your closed bedroom door. Sure, he could open it, it's not like it’s locked, and he won't find you under the bed or holding a lamp. but what he will find is worse. because there is nothing worse than your cold shoulder. 

he desperately struggles with being shut out. it brings him back to those times where his sisters would be gone for weekend sleepovers, and he'd be all by himself. forgotten. watching cartoons alone, eating cereal alone, trying to enjoy the silence around him but feeling just so helplessly alone. it feels just the same, only he feels ashamed when he cries about it now. he can only pull a blanket that smells like you over his shoulders, hug a couch cushion like it’s you he’s holding. look at your smile in picture frames and long for you to come back to him. 

but he will try to speed up the process, in his own way. he lights candles in the apartment, just so when you leave the bedroom you might smell them. he puts toothpaste on your toothbrush after you've gone to sleep, so that when you wake up you won't need to. he even lays out fuzzy socks and fresh pyjamas on the bed for when you get home from work, just so you can find comfort sooner. they're only little things, but he prays you recognise the love and longing behind them, and he hopes it's enough to bring you back to him. 

sorry for the image of poor daeho all alone and upset, there's tears in my eyes too i promise. like, comment, reblog. love <3

[creatingblackcharacters]

Sorry to detract from any discussions, but I wanted to bring up something I feel is important and ask for anyone who experienced similar to speak out.

So I used to be in the Epic the Musical fandom. Left because of the anti-Black racism (especially towards the actors for Eurylochus, Calypso, and Ares).

Recently, one of the artists who worked on one of the official animatics for Epic (Liam, AKA Eldelta) had come out explaining how Jay had strung him along with the promise of a contract to develop a video game based on the IP, causing him to miss out on potential jobs and leave him unemployed for a year.

Currently, the fandom is writing him off and sweeping it under the rug. Ignoring it and hyping up Jay's next musical.

Which Jay posted a joke video/small update that he's only named the first song. Not even a genuine update on how far he is in the process. Just as Liam's video was starting to gain traction and spread in the fandom.

Which beings me to the reason I'm here in the inbox.

If there's any Black artists who worked with Jorge Rivera-Herrans and had a similar experience to Eldelta's, I want to ask if they'd be willing to speak out about their experiences. Because knowing how this fandom is and how Jay talks on social media, I sadly know there's a high chance that there is probably quite a few. And I don't want their voices to get buried in the excitement of a new project while the creator continues to exploit others.

Ah yes, The Iliad musical. I gotta hurry and finish my tenure in the Patrochilles fandom so I don't shoot myself from sheer boredom with White™ character design and "quirky" or "academic" racism. It's already bad enough on the Outskirts of the Greek Mythology fandom as it is 🙄

Here's the thing. You're asking Black creators to speak out if they've been mistreated by a popular creator, risking their own status and job opportunities in the field.... but you weren't even willing to send this off of anon. You are asking them to speak from a target of fear and threat and retaliation, that you yourself weren't willing to do for less 😅 And I'm not even saying that to hurt your feelings, but honestly to make you (and ALL of you reading) reflect- where are you going to be, if/when they make this statement? Will your voice be heard? Will theirs? Because Jorge knows that his fan base will accept anything, be damned the antiblackness in his content. They already did!

Who's going to support these Black creators and platform them when they speak? Who's going to take the brunt of the hatred and cruelty and racism and shield them from it, other than other Black people? I do believe speaking up is important (and they should, if they feel safe), but I also think we need to recognize that sending Black people into the mouth of the beast in order to "save themselves" is not the strategy we continue to think it is. Hell, I just dealt with that racist bitch last week, and for all of the people who she and her friends bully for creating Black characters, there were crickets when she was called out by an actual Black person. 😐 We can't all want someone else to speak (and everybody isn't me)!

If I see anything I'll absolutely platform it. I think that space is far too comfortable and I for one think you shouldn't get to be antiblack and comfortable! But secretly agreeing in backrooms that someone is racist has NEVER gotten them removed from a position of power or influence. Y'all are gonna have to respond with your chests, so your Black peers can hear you supporting them- otherwise, we need not ask them to speak up.

[kentbot]

Novelty

Superman | Clark Kent x Reader

Chapter 1: Pilot

Summary: Superman never used to stop for reporters, until he met you

word count: 1k

This was the third time in a week that Metropolis was under attack by cosmic intruder Gevaltron. Still, I guess these things become common and even expected when you live in a society where superpowers, meta-humans, and aliens are common.

Clark defeated the intruder quite easily, and while he wasn’t particularly concerned for his safety or the threat that Gevaltron posed to the civilians on the street, he was worried about being late to work again and being chewed out by the chief

“Superman, Superman over here!”

“Superman, can I get a quick interview?”

The moment he landed, he was accosted by hungry reporters desperate to get a soundbite, clawing at his hands, cape, anything they could get their hands on. Most superheroes would fly off after they neutralized the threat to the public, but Clark liked to fly down and check on the civilians who were most in harm's way, comforting and personally transporting those who were most hurt or vulnerable. This may make him a very juicy target for journalists and newscasters, but he figured it came with the territory; after all, he’d do the same thing if he had to

He parted the crowd like water, speaking occasionally to a reporter he’d recognize, but mostly kept his focus on greeting civilians and checking for those who were gravely hurt.

After surveying the scene and finding nobody requiring immediate attention, Clark preps to launch, and hopefully make it to the Daily Cosmopolitan in the next 10 minutes after his quick change.

“Superman, it took you five minutes to take down Gevaltron, your fastest takedown this week, yet you still caused around an estimated 1 million in property damage. Any comment on that?”

Your voice floats up to Clark like a song, and it would’ve been pretty if the question hadn’t been so mean-spirited

He turns his face away from the sky and slowly looks down to face you, A short -though everyone is short compared to him- but very determined journalist, who looked like you were one second away from writing a scathing review of his takedown of Gevaltron. For a split second, he thought you beautiful, undercut by the hard look on your face, but he pushes the thought away quickly to focus on answering your pessimistic, albeit honest, question.

Clark puts on his best Superman smile, showing all 32, while posing his hands on his hips

“I assure you that I tried my best to minimize any damage to public property while engaging threats; however, my focus and utmost priority is civilian safety-

“So you don’t care about public property damage?” You interrupt quickly

“I never said that! I just…” Clark fumbles

“Do you know how much taxpayer dollars go towards meta-human damage yearly?”

“No but…”

“How can you say you truly care about Metropolis if you’re not concerned about what kind of damage you do to the city while you attempt to 'save' it?”

Clark pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath to avoid saying something he’ll regret. Squaring his shoulders, Clark faces you head-on with a stern face

“Look, I care about Metropolis as a city, yes. I love its buildings, public parks, mom and pop shops, and public monuments, but most importantly, I love and care about the people in it, so If I have to damage a few skyscrapers to neutralize a threat to public safety, then so be it”

Your face breaks then, taking in his impassioned rant as you begin to smile coyly.

“Thanks, Superman, that’s all I needed.”

“Wait, what even-”

“See you next time!” You call out as you turn and begin to walk away

“Wait, I-“ Clark calls out, but you fade into the crowd quickly, allowing him to be crowded again while you disappear

“Shit,” Now he was gonna be 20 minutes late

───────────────────────

“I know, I know, I’m Sorry, Chief,” Clark says, rushing to his desk while avoiding the most lethal side-eye from Perry

“That’s the third time this week Kent. The next time I should fire you,” Perry says cooly, making Clark wince and Jimmy snicker

‘It won’t happen again, ' Clark promises, settling into work while Lois whispers “Liar” behind him

“You’re lucky Superman likes you so much”, Perry remarks, sipping his black coffee while reviewing Cat’s OpEd on fashion fatigue. “I still don’t know how you get all these exclusives.”

“Just luck, I guess,” Clark murmured, earning him a glare from Lois, as he smirked quietly behind his desk

“No matter, you just might be on the chopping block soon, Kent. We’ve got a new reporter coming in from the Gotham Gazette. She’s written great articles on Batman and just submitted a superb Superman piece today for review.”

Clark ignores the dig and focuses on compiling his interview bits. “Cool, it’ll be nice to have a new face around here.”

“Ooh ooh” Jimmy chimes, raising and waving his hands, “Is she hot Chief?”

Perry shoots Jimmy a dirty look, refusing to dignify his comment with a response, while Lois throws a pencil at him from her desk, hitting him square in the chest

“Ow Lois! what the hell”

“Shut up, Jimmy.”

“Get back to work, Olsen”, Perry says, rolling his eyes as he walks away. “And everyone else too, I’ve got a Newspaper to run people.”

It’s quiet for a second after Perry leaves, with Cat being quick to interrupt the silence as she rushes into the space in her red stilettos.

“OOOOH I’m soo excited for the new journalist!!”

“Yeah, I’m tired of it being a swordfest around here,” Lois cajoles

“First of all, gross,” Clark says

“And second of all, you love us,” Jimmy finishes

Lois rolls her eyes, but she’s laughing as she turns back to her desk

“Speaking of drinks, are we still on for tonight?”

“Nobody was talking about alcohol, you degenerate,” Jimmy shoots back, “but yes, I’m coming.”

Lois waves a pen in Clark’s and Cat’s direction without missing a beat, “Clark, Cat?”

“I will be there,” Clark smiles

“Ooh, sorry babes I forgot I have a date tonight, but you guys have soooo much fun for mee!” Cat winks, speed walking away from Lois’s disappointed pout

The group laughs as Cat retreats back to her desk, everyone refocusing back on their work, with Clark attempting to put together this week’s Superman piece before the workday ends.

───────────────────────

author notes: watched the Superman movie yesterday and was EXTREMELY inspired LMFAO. Will I continue this? idk yet

[rhettrosunsets]

Post Mission Cuddles - Robert Reynolds X Fem!Reader

Pairing: Robert Reynolds X Fem!Reader

Category: Fluff. Hurt/Comfort.

Summary: After an absolutely brutal mission you want nothing more to just curl up in bed and go to sleep. Luckily Bob's right there waiting for you with open arms, a first aid kit, and cuddles that could cure any sore muscle.

Masterlist

Warnings: Reader is injured and has scrapes on their knees, arms, and a gash on their temple. Mentions of violence and reader being an assassin. Reader is alluded to being shorter than Bob. Reader wears Bob's hoodie. Mention of reader having a hard time letting others help her. No description of reader. No use of Y/N.

It’d had been an agonizingly long day by the time you had gotten back to the tower. Your shoulders were slumped as your boots thudded heavily against the tower floors, your body just defeated from the mission.

The mission itself had gone mostly fine, but you weren’t some majorly superpowered-being like the others. You weren’t a super soldier that could take a billion hits and be fine, and you weren’t some equivalent of a god either. You were a talented assassin and knew how to get jobs done when they needed to be, but you still got hurt, and when you did? It absolutely ached, and hurt like no other.

You knew from the moment you got on the plane to come back that you’d be feeling this mission for the next few days, and you knew the ache when you woke up tomorrow was going to be excoriating.

Each step you took through the now mostly quiet tower felt like your bones were being melted in molten lava as the ache spread due to the adrenaline wearing off. The large blisters on your feet rubbed against the tight leather of your boots and socks causing you to wince with each step you took. While there was a gash on your forehead from where you’d been hit with the back of a gun, and while the bleeding had stopped, the blood was now crusted along your temple line making you irritated as you knew that would sting to clean and be a pain to clean out of your hair.

You wanted exactly two things as you made the short walk to your room, your boyfriend, and some extra strength Advils. You finally reached your door and opened it with a groan, as your shoulder was killing you and even the motion of lifting it to open the knob was excruciating at the moment. But the sight you saw on your bed when the door opened made it entirely worth it.

Bob was laying on your bed in a pair of sweats and a hoodie, one you’d probably ask to steal later. He was laying against the headboard, his legs crossed as he read a book. And god if the sight of your boyfriend looking so cuddly on your bed didn’t make you just want to dive into bed and say fuck it to cleaning your wounds. But you knew the moment Bob spotted you, that plan wouldn’t be an option. 

Bob’s head snapped towards you the moment you fully stepped into the room, his eyes immediately widening in concern at the sight of you. Bob instantly put his book down, not even bothering to mark the page and got off the bed, quickly closing the space between you two as he raced over to you.

He reached out and gently placed his hands on your shoulders, his eyes quickly studying over your aching and bruised body. He didn’t ask if you were okay, he didn’t start lecturing you about being safer on your missions, instead he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you gently into his chest, wrapping you up in the hug you so desperately needed.

You slumped into him letting your body deflate into his and letting him hold you up. It felt like your entire body could finally exhale and breathe for the first time since you left.

Bob felt the way your body leaned into his, and gently kissed the top of your head before whispering. “You’re safe, you’re home, you're okay, baby. We’re gonna get you cleaned up.”

You just nodded, your face pressed into his chest and your hands gripping the back of his shirt like he was your lifeline.

You could feel him checking over your body, his hands gently sliding down your arms and back, trying to see where the worst injuries were, gently pressing down when he found a bad spot, trying to make sure that your injuries weren’t worse than you may be playing them off to be.

He pulled back just enough to look at your face, his hands gently reaching up to cup your jaw, leaning in to give you a gentle kiss before quietly muttering “c'mere baby, let me fix you up.”

You let him help you change out of your suit and into some sleep shorts and a tanktop, and then let him guide you to sit on the edge of your bed. He wandered into your bathroom and came back with the first aid kit that the two of you kept under there for moments like this. He quickly knelt in front of you as he gently opened the swabs and started disinfecting the cuts along your legs.

You winced at him cleaning one of the worse cuts on your knee, and he paused immediately, looking up at you with a concerned gaze as his other hand reached to your wrist and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Am i being too rough, darling?” You shook your slightly drooping head no, your hoarse voice muttering out a barely audible “no, just stung a bit. M’just tired.”

He kissed your knuckles softly before starting to clean them up too. “I know, m’sorry baby. I'll try to be quick and we can get you into bed.” 

He continued cleaning you up, making sure to be as gentle as he possibly could with you, stopping if you even let out the faintest wince to make sure you were alright.

He was finally almost done and was finishing up on your temple. He reached up to tilt your chin, his thumb tracing lightly along your cheek. “Thank you for letting me take care of you baby. I know it’s not easy for you to let others help, but m’grateful you let me take care of you, even if it’s hard.”

Your eyes welled up a bit, you were exhausted, your body ached, and your boyfriend was the most amazing person alive who has walked with you throughout countless missions where you once would’ve been too stubborn for him to even come near you. But now? Now you know you’re safer in his care than anywhere else.

“I love you.” you whispered back, reaching down to squeeze his hand. He just smiled and pressed a quick kiss to your forehead, before finishing cleaning up the small gash on your temple. He quickly finished, and unwrapped a yellow smiley face bandaid, something that made your lips quirk up at the sides.

Bob saw your slight smile and gently chuckled as he said, “We ran out of the plain ones, so smiley faces is what you’re getting, baby.”  You shook your head before letting a shaky laugh for the first time that night. “smiley is good with me.”

Once he placed the bandaid, he gave one last kiss to your forehead before taking off his hoodie and gently placing it on you instead, letting you curl into the feeling of it. He pulled down the comforter on the bed, and gently motioned for you to lay down. 

You crawled into the warm bed and let out a huge sigh as Bob gently covered you up, before climbing into the bed next to you and pulling you into his arms, being as gentle as he could and minding the bruises littering your sides. You curled against him immediately, tucking your head just below his jaw and tangling your legs with his. The ache in your body, while still present, began to slowly fade at just the feeling of being in his arms.

Bob looked down at you, and ran his hand slowly up and down your spine, quietly whispering to you “I love you baby. Thank you for letting me help you. I know it’s not always easy.”

Your voice was quiet, but assured as you curled deeper into Bob’s hold “I always wanted your help, I just didn’t think I deserved it and didn’t wan’to be a burden to you.”

Bob just hugged you a bit tighter, his hands never stopping the gentle rubbing against your spine causing you to melt into him. “You’ll never be a burden to me. You’ve seen me at my worst and you didn’t run, so i’m not going to run at yours either baby. I’ll always be here to clean you up, even if it takes a lifetime to convince you of it.”

You didn’t respond, but the way your body sagged into his told Bob all he needed to know. You knew you didn’t have to be strong all the time now, and you knew he’d always be the one there to clean you up when you needed it.

[pretenddisorder]

Home

Synopsis: Waking up in the middle of the night to you missing, Xaden finds more home than he could imagine in his own kitchen.

Tags: Fluff, domestic life, Xaden X Reader, Tyrrendor Week Day 2/3

WC: 2.5K

Thank you so much @empyreanevents for putting this week together :)

Waking up to echoes of clanging from deep in the Riorson house was not new for Xaden. Patrols happened at all hours, and the middle of the night was no exception. Despite the initial annoyance of a disturbed sleep, the noises were almost comforting, a reminder that he wasn’t alone in the huge house, an announcement that everyone had made it back from their flights safely.

Reaching over to pull you closer to him and finding your side of the bed empty and cold, however, was anything but. He shot up out of bed, eyes immediately adjusting to the dark and his need to scan the entire area. Your side of the bed had the covers laid down flat, no sign of a struggle out of them, which allowed a little bit of oxygen back into his lungs. Your flight jacket remained as it always did when not in use, hung up on a hook you installed while he was gone one day, a permanent addition of you into his house that, on a normal night not taken over by panic, would bring a smile to his face. Still analyzing, he found your boots lined up neatly next to where he had kicked his off after hours of meetings that day, worn down soles knocking into your smaller ones next to the door he was now up and moving toward. 

As his hand hit the handle, his gaze met the desk you had been occupying for hours at a time recently, also empty. Not just of you, but of all of the books that had been making themselves home on the surface all week and his own flight jacket that he had tossed onto the back of the chair. 

He opens the door, his shadows darting out and through the house before he does. They spread out, checking every possible area as Xaden looked for anything out of the ordinary. The top floor was pitch black, and each of the rooms were silent. He crept towards the stairs, eyes sweeping for any movement his shadows weren’t catching, and then he heard it. 

A yelp sounded from the kitchen, one that he could know from miles away to be yours, followed by an avalanche of clattering.

His own footsteps joined the horrific orchestra as he thundered down the steps to reach you. His heart beat louder with each one, roar in his ears from the panic drowning out any other sounds as he approached. He slid around the corner into the arch of the room, grabbing the stone wall to stop him before fully entering at what he saw. 

It was a warzone in there, but, thankfully, not the kind on the borders that he had anticipated with the panic in your previous yelp. All of the counters were covered in something, not a single ounce of space unoccupied. 

On the island, piles of flour surrounded different consistencies of dough in varying sizes and colors. A lumpy tan one was neighbors with a wheat like powder and a concerningly dry rock of mixture. Further down, the dough sections became smoother, but their colors began to vary, some more yellow and others…green? He noticed flecks in some and while others wore the color throughout the entire mound, all united in how they were rolled into palm shaped spheres.

Inside the fire pit alcove in the wall had a large stone pot.  He could hear sizzling from inside, hinting at more solid contents than the typical liquid the pot suggested. Flames danced up the side of the high gray walls and smoke hugged the space around it, yet not escaping the inside of the space, causing his head to tilt to the side and eyebrows to furrow in confusion at how. 

Looking at the pot closer, he could see looped etchings in the stone. Swirls of interlaced divots ran diagonally across it in connected, scratched knots. They were jagged and shallow at best, obviously etched by a novice, but still clear in their nature–old Tyrrish cooking runes he hadn’t seen since childhood. His eyes widened in surprise, looking above to see their inked form on paper taped above the alcove, edges jagged and ripped from the journal he had seen you hurriedly writing in all week. Beside them were more pages plastered to the next, all with the light penciling of your handwriting but too far to make out the words.

On the counter next to this lay more bowls than he knew the Riorson house even held, all filled with differing vegetables cut in different ways. Sweet potatoes were cut into discs in a clay pot adorning damp fingerprints against the red siding in the same spacings of your hands. In shallower bowls were a variety of different green herbs that he had seen with the dough, some fully powdered in black stone dishes and some with its individual leaves separated from thin stems in wooden saucers. Next to them, all uncut except for the darkest of the bunch, was probably every pepper ever grown on The Continent, he thought.

Beneath them, on the floor, is where Xaden finally found you. His flight jacket swallowed your form, its black leather covered in a light dusting of white on the sleeves. Your hair had been hastily managed, pushed back from your face but with pieces frizzing in every direction in the back. Sweat stuck the edges to the sides of your face and matted slightly with chunks of the green dough. One of your hands, dripping with water, was pressed up against a closed eye while the other was picking small round seeds off from where they had been stuck on your cheek. 

He kneels down on the floor next to you, dusting more flour off your forehead and smiling as your uncovered eye flickered over to him in surprise

“Why aren’t you asleep?” You ask, removing your hand from your eye and blinking a few times. It was red and irritated, but you could thankfully see fine now. 

“Heard some noise down here and you weren’t in bed. Had to make sure you were alright,” He brushed more hair from your face, getting a better look at you, “Why are you in the kitchen floor?”

You look away sheepishly, picking up the end of a pepper and a discarded knife that had clattered to the floor as you had. “I got pepper in my eye.”

He took the knife from your hands and stood to set it on the counter, pushed back out of reach. Taking your hand in his, he gently pulls you from the floor and rubs his hand down the side of your arm. 

“Why are you even anywhere near peppers right now? What are you doing down here?”

You drop your head in defeat, playing with your own fingers nervously. “It was supposed to be a surprise, but looks like I couldn’t get that right either.”

He takes your hands in his, stopping your fidgeting and getting you to look up at him. Slight concern covered his features, furrowing his brows and tightening his lips into a small frown. 

“What’re you talking about, love?”

You sigh, stepping back but keeping your hands in his to lead him around the kitchen as you talk. You start at the stove, gesturing to the pages. 

“You kept saying how it felt weird to be back here with things so different, so I wanted to try to do something that made it feel like it did back then.”

Finally close enough to see, he read all of the notes on the papers.

Each one held Tyrrish written in your own handwriting with rough translations underneath, copied from a recipe and then attempted to be put in words you understood. There were question marks taking up more spaces than words, whole words crossed out and rewritten on top of. Beside a few, he noticed familiar names, including his own.

“None of the recipes I found said what kind of pepper it was, just that there were peppers in it. And I’m not even sure if that is even true”

Looking down at the variety on the counter, he glanced back at the recipes above him. 

Imogen said spice here meant like seasoning, but down here it means like heat? Like peppers? She didn’t know what kind. Can’t believe I took her patrol shift for this. 

Stepping toward the dough, you look at the different pieces in disgust, picking the most promising candidate up in your free hand and holding it to Xaden like a science specimen. 

“Does this even look right? I remember you saying it was an herb dough, and I figured out that part, but nothing explains how the herb was in the dough.”

Confirmed with Bodhi and a few other readings that the herb is definitely basil, but he still didn’t know what “in the dough” meant? Is it like sprinkled on top? Chopped up in it? Or is it like, mainly herb and no flour? That can’t possibly be right. What about old recipes make them the perfect candidate for gatekeeping. 

Approaching the pot is when you sigh the loudest, breath making the smoke inside the alcove sway as it billows up. 

“And I ruined this pot with runes that only work half right. I’m sorry.”

He pulls you to him tightly, wrapping his arms fully around you and pressing your head into his chest as he reads the final note, heart warming up more than the fire in front of him. 

Xaden said the meat was his favorite part when he mentioned the dish in the dining hall last fall. Lamb for sure, and definitely smoked based off of all of the other customary preparations in everything else I’ve read. There’s no smokers around anywhere, but something about a rune? To add the smokey flavor? Guess I’ll have to man up and ask Cat to teach me the rune. FML, but it’s his favorite part and he’s my favorite, so Regina George it is

“It’s perfect,” he whispers softly into your hair. 

You pull back slightly to look up at him, scoffing slightly. “Don’t humor me. I didn’t even get halfway through the dish. There is no dish to be perfect. I couldn’t figure out what even goes in it, let alone how to–”

He dips down and slams his mouth on yours, shutting you up. He presses at the base of your back, melding you to him as he does, and cradling the back of your head softly despite the intensity of the kiss. You grab the sides of his waist for balance as he leans you back, deepening it before pulling back, smile evident in every part of his face. 

“It’s perfect,” He steals another kiss, brushing hair behind your ear and rubbing his thumb against your cheek. “You’re perfect.”

Your face heats up, blushing as you shove him playfully. He grabs your hand as you do, tugging you back to the island. 

“It means folded in.”

“What?”

He turns and grabs the bowl of basil leaves that have been chopped and a chunk of dough from the original mixture. Clearing an area from the cluttered space, he sets the two down and stands behind you. 

“The basil is folded into the dough.”

He grabs your arms from behind, leaning his chest in to your back and resting his chin on your shoulder as he guides your hand to the dough. He flattens it out into a rectangle, sprinkling the basil onto the layer before folding it into stacking layers. His voice rumbles through you as he speaks, soft tone making its home in your ears.

“The balling comes right before it's cooked.” He turns you to look at the spheres you had scattered all down the line. 

“Tyrrish recipes, especially ones originating in Aretia, explain preparation ingredient by ingredient instead of chronologically to help prevent waste of leftover parts,” He explains, one hand drifting from your arm to wrap around you and squeeze lightly as he presses a reassuring kiss to your temple. “That’s why you were having so much trouble figuring out what goes where. Recipes were more of a shopping list, in a way, while the making part was more of an oral process.”

Rotating in his grip again, you see him smiling faintly at the mess of a kitchen. His eyes were calm, nostalgic as they scanned the familiar bowls and ingredients interwoven with all things you. Your slippers were discarded next to the wooden trim of the kitchen where he had traced his fingers against the grooves impatiently waiting for dinner growing up. Next to the knives was your favorite pencil, one you had made him grab for you many times from the bottom of the bag that sat in his favorite stool by the breakfast nook.

And then you. In his arms, in his kitchen, smiling at him in a place where many had yelled. Filling a space that was frequently empty in later years, fending for himself as adults were busier and busier with plans and consequences. Here you were, decoding languages you didn’t understand and going out of your way to try everything to make a dish he mentioned once just to make him happy. Just for him. 

You press your lips to his, breaking him out of his thoughts. 

“Well then what’s the rest of the process? Tell me more, Chef.”

Xaden leads you around the kitchen as he explains each step of the dish, not breaking contact with you the whole time. Arm around your waist as he explains how you figure out which pepper to use when, hands jokingly covering your eyes as he cuts them, legs slotted between yours when he sits you down on the stool next to the alcove as you wait for the dish to finish cooking. 

He takes one out, blowing on it to cool before offering it to you. You take it from him, pulling it apart to observe the inside. You smile excitedly when you see the dough has cooked perfectly, holding the meat, peppers, and sweet potatoes roasted nicely inside. 

“It looks delicious,” You turn it out to face him, “Does it look right? Like you remember?”

He stares. His flight jacket has slid down your shoulder to expose one of his thread worn shirts you love to wear to sleep beneath it. Your eyes shine up at him, twinkling with the wave of the fire next to you. Your legs cage one of his to keep him close, and you hold the food, one he has been wanting again for years, out for him to have a bite first, always putting him first. 

“Yeah,” he says, looking right into your eyes. 

“Looks just like home.”

[olgasaysso]

Has anyone ever noticed that Angel is very misoginistic?

I think it's the easiest to prove when comparing him to Spike. We see both of them with and without their souls after all...

I haven't seen anyone mention it before but the comparison between Angelus and Spikes victims supports my theory that Angel hates women.

Because who are the most mentioned/known victims of Angelus?

Teenage, defensless girls that he became obsessed with, ruined their lives and t0rtured them to death.

Compare that to Spike who is known for killing slayers. Also women, but the strongest of them. The ones vampires are scared of.

Angelus loves to torment girls who have done nothing wrong and have no way of defending themselves while spike loves to overpower the strongest women in the world (and he gives them quick death, it's not about causing pain).

Of course neither of them is good... but there is a big difference in what they are proud of and enjoy.

Another example would be that Halloween episode where Buffy dresses up as some lady from the past and later tells Angel that she wanted to see what it was like to be a girl he probably had a crush on in his youth.

His response? His "comforting" response? "I hated the girls back then" and then added something about all of them being idiots and Buffy being "not like other girls".

Again, let's compare that to Spike. Spike who, as a human, was brutally (she really didn't need to be THAT cruel about it) rejected by a woman he was in love with and yet didn't show any sign of resentment towards her. I know if he was Angelus he would've come back to ruin her life after he got turned. He did with Buffy and she loved him.

And yet, that never happens. He even meets her later on in the story (she became a demon) and there seems to be some fondness in their short interaction.

And my last example would be the fact that Angel "fell in love" with Buffy when she was 14. I really don't understand how this isn't an ick for so many people.

Because it's the same as if Spike decided to fall in love with Dawn in s5. Just imagine it, if you think Angels and Buffys relatioship is okay.

[alloftheimagines]

abby anderson | smoke & tears

masterlist | send abby requests pls

words: 2.3k warnings: 18+. violence, trauma, injury, hints towards physical & sexual abuse, post santa barbara!abby x firefly!reader, guilt, whump, hurt/comfort, so much angst synopsis: In which Abby has a nightmare & accidentally hurts you. 

Abby sleeping is a rarity. You’ve known her for just over a year now, since she arrived at your Firefly base with a barely alive Lev. Injured. Broken. You can think of only a handful of times where you’ve actually seen her eyes close, despite having partnered up on days’ long supply runs before now. You always try to take first watch. She never lets you, claiming she won’t sleep either way. But clearly, fatigue has won out tonight, because, with the campfire flickering across her weary features, the impossible has happened. 

There’s a strand of hair over her nose that you so badly want to brush away, but you know better. Whatever happened to Abby before you met has carved her into a woman whose instinct is violence. It took months for her to even be signed onto duty, incidents piling up like dirty laundry whenever other Fireflies didn’t respect her boundaries, keep their distance. Especially if Lev was involved. For him, she would bare her teeth like a wolf, a detached, frenzied look in her eyes. Upon seeing it for the first time, you'd wondered, for a second, if anyone was safe around her. 

Yet you’ve never felt otherwise. Maybe because you know what causes flinches to become punches. Why armour becomes necessary long after the threat has passed. You can’t blame her for protecting herself, her family. You just wish you could help her to realise that she doesn’t need to anymore.

Sometimes, you think you’re getting through to her. You’ll make her laugh, or find her favourite snack while picking over food stashes, and it feels like you’ve unlocked her. Sometimes, she touches you like you’re hers, pulling your hair from beneath the straps of your backpack before they get trapped or helping you work out first thing in a morning, keeping your punching bag steady with words of encouragement. 

You’ve shown her patience, understanding, and she’s rewarded you with pieces of her she hasn’t given to anybody else. Sometimes, her touch lingers long after it needs to, leaving you shivery and wanting, but you refuse to give into that. Know that what she needs is a friend, even if you sometimes catch her looking at your lips when you speak, as though she’s thinking it, too.

With your back pressed to the crumbling shed you’ve made your makeshift camp at, you stoke the fire and try not to look at her. It’s impossible not to, perhaps the only opportunity you’ll ever get to see her without that fierce frown on her features. Even in sleep, her hands are balled into fists against her chest, tension an ever-present companion. But the rest of her is smooth as marble: forehead lines ironed out, freckled nose twitching at that little hair, breaths falling from softly parted lips. 

And then it changes. Brows knit together, mouth pouting, body coiling like a spring in her bed roll. You look away. It isn’t your place to witness whatever she’s dreaming of, and god knows she’s been violated enough. She never told you, but you know. Recognise the signs like you would a friend after so long of trying to heal your own scars. 

Somewhere in the surrounding trees, a bird titters into the night, and Abby twists, blanket tangling around her. “No!” she shouts.

Your heart drops. Nightmare. Of course it’s a nightmare. There is no other way of dreaming anymore, not in a world of monsters. 

“Abby,” you whisper gently, rising from your seat to her side of the fire. 

She doesn’t hear you, fist punching against the ground as she yells out again. It tears through you, makes you grieve for her and hate whoever has caused it. 

“Abby, wake up, love,” you say, kneeling by her flailing body. “You’re safe.”

You only give her shoulder the lightest of touches, but something snaps. The wind is knocked from you as she sends you careening to the floor, inches from the fire. Your skull cracks against one of the rocks, her knee pressed into your sternum as she pins you by the neck. Her hands are so big, so heavy, muscles rippling — and there, in her eyes, is that wild look you know, the one that tells you she isn’t here, isn’t seeing things as they really are. 

You can barely choke out her name: “Ab… Abby!”

It doesn’t touch her.

“Abby, it’s… me!” You’re clawing at her hands, trying to loosen them so you can breathe again, but she’s immovable. You used to envy her strength, but now you fear it. 

It’s your own fault. You shouldn’t have touched her. You just… wanted to pull her out before it hurt enough to haunt.

“Please, Abby!” Tears stream down your face as your sternum begins to cave. “Abby, you’re okay. You’re safe. Abby!” 

It’s on your last wheeze that clarity returns to her blackened gaze. Fingers unfurl as she leans back, breathing heavy, sweat beading in her hairline. 

She says your name in a voice that’s fractured, throwing herself off you with a new urgency as she realises the damage she’s done. 

You blink the tears from your eyes, head tilting limply to the canopy of leaves and stars overhead as oxygen finally returns to your body. 

“I… I…” Abby stutters, which is new. 

Digging your fingers into warm soil, you try to haul yourself up, but your body refuses to obey your orders. 

“Oh my god. What did I do?” She looks down at her hands like she doesn’t recognise them.

“S’okay. You didn’t… You didn’t know.” Your fingers sift through your hair, wincing when you find the tender spot at the back of your skull. No blood. That’s good. 

“I… I could have killed you!”

You swallow the metallic taste from your mouth, dragging yourself away from the fire when it gets too warm. Your head spins, ribs ache, but it’s nothing that won’t mend within a couple of days. It’s the shock that’s driving you now, like your nervous system had been rendered it an afterthought until you’d assessed the damage. 

The agony in Abby’s expression as she watches is what drives you to lie: “I’m fine. It was my fault. I shouldn't have woken you.”

“I don’t know what happened. I… I…”

“It was a nightmare, that’s all. You’re okay, now. We both are.” You school your voice into one that you hope will soothe, but it only seems to inflame her more as she shuffles further away.

Self-loathing curls across her lips, toned stomach rising and falling with jagged breaths. “I’m so… I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. I promise, it’s okay.” But when it comes out hoarse, your hand rises to your throat, just to make sure. It feels raw, like you’ve been battered as much on the inside as the outside. 

“Let me…” She moves forward, then pauses, tears glistening in her eyes. “Can I see?”

It’s instinct to want to say no, to push away. She hurt you, and you’re afraid, and you have been in a million situations where it wasn’t an accident, where they meant to ruin you.

But this is Abby, you remind yourself. It isn’t her fault. She didn’t know.

So you nod meekly.

She crawls on her knees to you, short braid falling over one shoulder as she shakily tilts your head to inspect your neck, using the torch when the light of the fire flickers too harshly. 

“It’s going to bruise,” she whispers thickly. 

“I can deal with bruises.”

“Where else does it hurt?”

“Nowhere.” A lie, one that she sees through when her eyes lower to the hand curled around your ribcage. 

“Did I… Did I break anything?”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Let me see, please.”

“Abby—”

She lifts the hem of your shirt, and you don’t stop her as she exposes the red welt where her knee crunched into your flesh, right beneath the edge of your sports bra. Goosebumps rise on you skin as she traces the large mark, and god, you wish this isn’t the way it happens. You wish she’d touch you so delicately because she wants to, not because she feels guilty. 

Not because she hurt you. 

She shudders, throat bobbing. And because the worst has already happened, and because the disgust on her face is cracking you open more than her strength ever could, you cup her jaw, a desperate plea for her to just stop. Be with you. Forgive herself, because you’ve already forgiven her, even if you’re rattled. 

“I get nightmares too. I wake up with my nails digging into my skin so hard that I’m bleeding,” you say. 

“But I hurt you,” she replies, like you’re the centre of it. The part that breaks her heart. “I never… I never want to hurt you.”

You don’t know what to say. You know that if the roles were reversed, you’d never be able to forgive yourself, let alone sit here and weigh up the damage. You push her hand away to cover your stomach again, and she reacts like you’re pushing her away, shifting back on her haunches. 

“I know,” is all you can give. “I know that.” 

Abby opens her pack to offer you water. When you take it, she switches off her torch and rises to her feet, pacing a few feet away with her back turned. The water helps to soothe your throat, but not the raw churning in your stomach. Not the bits beyond. For minutes, there’s nothing but silence as you both catch your breath, her with her shoulders hunched as she leans against a tree for support. 

“In your dream,” you say finally, quietly, “was someone hurting you?”

An almost unnoticeable tip of her head. 

“I’m not going to ask who, but if you want to talk about it, I’m here.”

“It could have been Lev.” She’s not listening, still stuck in her guilt. You don't want to imagine that: the person she loves most in the world getting crushed in heavy hands. You're glad it's you. Would let it be you every night as long as she never has to feel the pain that harming him would cause.

“It wasn’t.”

“It could have been!” she yells. 

“Abby, you can’t do this to yourself. Lev knows he’s safe with you.”

“No. No, he isn’t. And neither are you.”

You get up, grabbing her, but she yanks away — and you flinch. You can’t help it, too aware now of what those fists are capable of. 

When she sees it, she blanches, stumbling back a few more paces. 

“Abby, please… Please, love.”

At that word, she falters — like nobody’s ever called her it before. 

“I trust you,” you whisper. “I trust you, and so does Lev, because we know you. We know you keep people safe, yeah? We know you fought like hell to get here, because you’re good.”

Her lower lip wobbles, knee jerking like she doesn’t know what to do with herself. Like she’s so, so lost. 

A tear trickles down your cheek. “Is this why you don’t sleep?”

She nods; it’s devastating. 

“Can I hold you?” you plead. 

Another nod, this one that ends in her face crumpling. You don’t waste a second, falling into her, arms looping around her neck as her fingers bunch your jacket. Like you’re all she has to cling onto. A sob falls into your tender neck, racking through you. She smells like the smoke of the fire, and the soap you brought home for her on she last supply run.

She smells like Abby. Not a monster, not someone you’ll ever fear. 

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers again and again. “I never want to hurt you. I’m so fucking sorry. ”

“I know. It’s okay. We’ll take care of each other, okay?”

“I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you.”

“That’s not true. You deserve more than this world has given you.”

She says your name again, a croaked, delicate thing in her mouth. You can’t remember her ever saying it before, suddenly. Can’t remember her ever letting you this close. 

You guide her back to the fire with caution, sitting on her bedroll. She follows, eyes still caught on your neck, on the bruise. 

“How bad is the the pain? I can go back to that pharmacy we raided—”

“It doesn’t hurt.” Another lie, because like hell are you going back now. You're supposed to be on your way home. You want to go home. “I swear. Please, Abby. I don’t want you to beat yourself up over this.”

The corners of Abby’s lips tug down as she finally tears her eyes off you, into the fire. “I just don’t know how to take care of you when I'm the one who hurt you.”

“You don’t need to take care of me.”

“I do. I need it. And I… I want to.” She leans in to brush her knuckle over your neck again, leaving the hair there to stand on end. There is so much sadness swimming in her eyes, so much regret. And the only way you can think of to make it better, with your breaths mingling in the space between you and the smell of campfire smoke curled around you, is to hold her so tightly that she feels safe again. To kiss her until she knows it’s okay.

She must sense it, too, because her lids lower halfway, the point of her nose brushing against your cheek. “You should be telling me to get away from you. You shouldn’t want me anywhere near you.”

“You’re all I want near me,” you admit.

It isn't enough. She shutters, pulls away, bending her knees to rest her elbows over them. “Sleep, okay? You need it.”

It hurts more than her hands around your neck, more than stone against skull, more than knee against ribs. But you understand. Know you have no right to expect anything from her. And asking her to go back to sleep herself would be futile.

Still, when you lie down again, your pillow beside her thigh, she lets out a rough sigh and lightly — so lightly you almost don’t feel it; so lightly it’s hard to believe she could ever do harm — traces the lines of your forehead. 

“All the ways you’ve tried with me… I keep waiting for you to see that I’m not worth it.” Her voice scrapes the wounds inside you like salt. 

“I keep waiting for you to see that you are,” you reply. 

She blinks down at you through smoke and tears. There isn’t anything left to be said, but you’re glad when she keeps stroking the frayed edges of you. Glad when she’s just a little less guilt-addled by morning.

[kancelolol]

On Loop Itoshi Rin x Fem!reader

— You love calling Rin to randomly update him on your day, and he wishes he responded more.

wc: 1.4k || Oneshot || Angst || Hint of fluff? || No happy ending || Implied death/Grief || Swearing || Might be ooc... || Not proofread

"Good morning Rinnie! I hope you've eaten already!"

Rin blankly blinks up at the ceiling as he listens to the sound of scraping and shuffling. His phone laid flat on its screen near his ear, showing off the back of his clear phone case.

On display was a polaroid of you. A personal favorite of his, mainly because you looked so cheerful and wore his favorite smile.

He tries to imagine that you're there with him, using your digital face and voice as a substitute (even when it can never truly compare to the real deal). He lies there in his bedhair, his eyelashes littered with eye crust that he tries to rub away.

A mess was what he was—just like his room that had scattered clothes on the floor and dust cultivating in the corners.

But he smiles nonetheless.

Because he gets to talk to you.

"Morning. Just woke up. I'll eat later." He answers quietly with a slight rasp, already being lulled back to sleep from your comforting voice.

"I'm making myself some pasta right now. Saw a video online last night and started craving it," you chuckle, which is accompanied by sizzling in the background. "You better eat before heading to practice. You can't run on an empty stomach!"

He rolls his eyes, but your words do a better job at warming him than the sun that's peaking through his window's curtains.

"I know. I know. No need to remind me," is what Rin says, exasperation seeping into his tone.

But the way you laugh afterwards makes him think that he wouldn't mind hearing more of your nagging.

Just as long as he could keep listening to your laughter.

He hears your voice again a few hours later while he's at practice. Feets away from his teammates—who were chatting during their break—Rin immediately reaches for his phone.

Even before his towel or water bottle.

"Hey Rinnie! I saw a cat today and it really reminded me of you!" You chirp like it was the highlight of your day, experiencing something so small.

Rin doesn't blame you. He thinks he's the same in some regard when it comes to you.

He still scoffs through his heavy breathing as he remembers the picture of a pleased black cat resting in your lap, "I saw the photo you sent. Is it cause of my hair?"

"It was super cute. It kept looking at me funny at first, and I thought it hated me. But it eventually came up and cuddled on my lap!" You snicker as you recall your meeting with the little feline, "Just like you."

"Since when have I ever done something like that?" He tsks, his lips twitching upward while he finally chugs some water. He takes a moment to pause, contemplating his next words.

They come out soft. Reassuring. And so unlike Rin.

"And I don't hate you. Never have. Never will."

"Who are you talking to?" Isagi appears behind him, causing Rin to whip his head around with narrowed eyes.

His response was a curt—"None of your business"—which prompts Isagi to open his mouth to retort. But a thought seems to flash through his mind, and he quickly shuts it.

"My bad. You just looked happier than usual. Got curious." He shrugs, wearing an unreadable expression.

Rin clicks his tongue, "Curiosity isn't a good excuse to interrupt someone's call. So fuck off. I'm talking to my girlfriend."

He turns his back to Isagi and the rest of the group again, murmuring a small apology as your voice continues speaking from the other end of the line—just barely missing the downturn of Isagi's mouth, and the glimmer of sympathy in his eyes.

By the time he's home and preparing dinner, you have something new to talk about.

"Hi Rinnie! Remember that wedding I'm attending in a few months? Well I'm trying to figure out what outfit to get, but I'm not sure about the color."

Of course he remembers. He could never forget the excited look on your face when you spoke about it, all happy for the bride, who was your friend.

A bowl and spoon clank against one another as Rin plates his meal, intently listening to your struggles with the dress code and purchasing attire that would match it.

"I don't even know what shade of either color would suit me..." You mumble to yourself, loud enough for the mic to pick up and echo throughout Rin's kitchen from his phone speaker.

"I think you'll look pretty regardless of what you go for," he gives a rare compliment that always circled in his mind, but was never quite able to escape his throat. At least, until now, where it comes out quiet, but firm.

As if there was no denying it.

And in Rin's eyes, there truly was no way of doing so.

"Ugh...I can't even decide on a simple outfit for this wedding. Makes me respect my friends who got married. Can't imagine how much of a hassle wedding planning is."

A corner of Rin's mouth curls up, "I think you're just an overthinker. You'll probably grow grey hairs if you were left alone to host a wedding."

There's silence on your end, except for the faint clicks and swiping of a laptop touchpad.

"...Still, I'd love to try it one day. With you." You admit, barely above a whisper, like it was a sacred dream.

Rin's heart skips a beat, lips tightening to prevent them from wobbling.

"Mm...I think I'll decide on this later. I've got time anyways," the snap of your shutting laptop rings out after a few minutes, alongside a soft laughter, "I'll give you a runway show once it gets delivered too."

Rin's chest hurts, but he snorts with amusement as he sits down with his food, phone in his free hand, "Fine. I'll look forward to it."

"I hope you look forward to it. Because I do." You state at the same time before pausing, and it's dead silent. Not just on your end, but with Rin too.

His apartment feels bigger—emptier—than usual. It's dimly lit where he's seated at his small dining table. Across from him stood a single, empty chair.

"But maybe that's cause I miss you."

You chuckle as the sentence falls off your tongue, meant to be light-hearted.

It's quiet though—too quiet—with an underlying hesitance, like you saying that was the equivalent of confessing a sin.

Rin swallows hard, releasing the grip on his spoon to trace his thumb over his phone like it was your hand.

But it wasn't your hand. It could never be.

No matter how much he tried to delude himself into believing it.

"...Fuck—I miss you too. I swear I do." His chest squeezes even tighter as his voice cracks, the words flowing out in broken pieces like his heart.

His other hand covers his eyes—shielding his impending tears—as he continues, "I think about you so much. It's so difficult to do anything when—"

"I think I'll end it here for today." Your voice perks up again, like you couldn't hear how you had cracked a hole that opened Rin's reality once again.

"Call me back when you can. Good luck with your match! Love you. Take care."

Rin can practically hear—see—the sweet smile that's on your face. One that used to light up his world, but now haunts him with its absence.

"Wait—"

The voicemail ends with a beep before the apartment goes back to silence. Rin just stares at the list of voicemails from all the times that you've called.

All the times that he never answered.

His food is long forgotten—appetite disappearing.

Yet, he still craved something.

He craved you.

Any piece of you. Any trace of you.

Like a wild animal searching for scraps, Rin thinks he will always cling to the memory of you. Even if it's poison.

And so his finger quickly presses the message he just listened to, and allows your repeated voice to lead him to his destruction.

"Hi Rinnie! Remember that wedding I'm attending in a few months? Well I'm trying to figure out what dress to get but I'm not sure about the color. The only thing is—"

Author's Note:

First time posting angst and it's kinda mid 💔 It's fine though (probably) Just wanted to post something to get rid at least one of the like, 50 drafts that I have...

[mimiu3usoft]

Broken Glass| 5 ɪ'ᴍ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ʜᴇʀᴇ

The wind blew past your figure. It had been an hour now since Rumi went off by herself to get some fresh air. You had a gut feeling—you knew where she might've gone. You stood by the balcony railings of the Huntrix building, the city lights flickering below.

"It's been an hour now. She won't even answer her phone," Mira said, pacing back and forth with growing worry.

Zoey glanced at her. "Mira, maybe sit for a moment," she suggested gently, though concern lingered in her voice. 

You turned to look at them, a soft sigh escaping your lips. "I'm sorry, you guys. I know I should've gone with her... but it really seemed like she needed some space," you said quietly.

Mira looked at you, her brows drawn together in a deep frown. There was worry in her eyes—real, raw, and restless. "It's just that... ever since she released the new single, she's been different," she said softly, almost like she was afraid to admit it out loud. 

Her hands came together, fingers twisting nervously as she continued, voice tight. "And I know you've been the one beside her through it all. I see the way she looks at you—like you're the only one who really gets it. Gets her. As to why she's pushing herself, maybe too hard."

"It's also my fault... for not talking to her sooner," you said, pressing your lips together tightly. "I should've told her to rest... told all of you to rest," you mumbled, the guilt sitting heavy in your chest.

'Was it also she who caused that red wave of the Honmoon?'

"I should go and start looking for her," you told Mira and Zoey.

"Be careful out there," Zoey said, offering you a small but sincere smile.

Summoning your umbrella, it glowed in the dark, cold night. The fabric shimmered gently, while the metal ribs glowed in iridescent rainbow hues, and the silver handle rested smoothly in your palm. With a quiet click, you opened it, resting it on your shoulder before leaping gracefully from the top of the building.

"Totally bad timing but... damn, she's badass," Zoey muttered.

______

Closing your umbrella the moment your feet touched the ground, you looked ahead and saw her—Rumi, curled up and shivering in the cold night air. Her jacket lay discarded beside her on the ground, forgotten.

"Rumi..." you called softly.

She flinched at the sound of your voice. "No, no, no—please don't look at me..." she choked out, her voice trembling as she tried desperately to cover marks on her skin with her arms. "Don't look at me..." she sobbed again, curling in tighter, like she could disappear.

You walked slowly toward her, each step deliberate, careful—like approaching a wounded animal afraid of even kindness.

Then gently, you reached for her wrist.

"Hey, hey, Rumi... breathe."

Her whole body trembled, but she didn't pull away this time. You guided her hands to your chest, pressing them flat so she could feel your heartbeat—steady, calm, grounding.

"Feel that? It's okay. I'm here... I'm right here, Rumi."

Her breath hitched again, but as your forehead pressed against hers, something shifted. Her panicked gaze met yours—wide, glassy, desperate—and slowly, her shoulders dropped. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to follow your rhythm.

Inhale. Exhale.

Matching you. Trusting you.

"I'm here," you whispered again. 

"Just why now?" she mumbled. 

"It may not comfort you, Rumi," you said softly, "but perhaps... maybe there's a good reason for it to happen."

"NO!" she shouted, her voice cracking under the weight of her fear and anger. The moment her voice rang out, a sudden pulse of red Honmoon light burst from her—wild, untamed. It rippled out like a wave, casting the shadows around you in crimson.

She gasped, eyes wide in horror, stumbling back as if she'd done something unforgivable. But you didn't flinch. You didn't let go.

Your hands were still holding hers—firm, steady, unwavering.

"I'm sorry, I—" she began to choke on her words, but you gently shook your head.

"You don't have to apologize. Not to me. Not for what you feel."

Her lip trembled, the panic in her eyes flickering like a dying flame trying to burn just a bit longer.

"You're not alone, Rumi," you said, your voice low, anchored with truth.

Her lips wobbled, and her voice came out as a broken whisper. "How can you stay here... looking at me like this?" The tears streamed freely now, each one carrying the weight of fear, shame, and years of hiding. Her blurry eyes searched your face, desperate to understand how you could still look at her the same way.

Without a word, you let go of one of her hands and gently reached up, your fingers brushing against her cheek. She flinched at first—uncertain, unworthy—but when your hand rested softly on her face, she leaned into it. Her skin was cold, but the warmth of your touch made her tremble.

"I'm looking at you," you whispered, your thumb brushing a tear away, "because I see you, Rumi. All of you. And none of this... none of it changes who you are to me."

She closed her eyes, breathing in slow, shaky gulps as she pressed more into your hand—needing it, grounding herself with it. Your presence, so calm and steady, was the only thing keeping her from falling apart.

"You don't have to be perfect. You don't have to hide. I'm still here."

And in that silence, her sobs softened—still there, still heavy—but now wrapped in the quiet, unshakable truth of your words.

Behind the shadows, a figure stood, their frown deepening as they watched the scene unfold—the warm reunion, the comforting embrace, the silent healing. A flicker of something unreadable passed through their eyes before they turned away.

'Why could you be there for her... when you weren't there for me?'

The bitter thought echoed as they stepped out into the dim corridor, footsteps barely audible.

Your head suddenly snapped to the side—heart skipping for a moment. You could've sworn you felt something, someone. A presence.

But the hallway was empty.

______

After that intense breakdown with Rumi, the two of you finally made it back home. The elevator dinged softly as it opened to your floor. You were the first to step out, your eyes immediately locking onto Mira and Zoey, who had been pacing in the living room. The moment they saw you, they stood up at once—worried, alert.

Then, Rumi quietly stepped beside you.

She kept her head down, her hands tightly clutching her jacket around her as if to shield herself. Her steps were small, hesitant, but she stayed close—her shoulder brushing against yours for silent reassurance.

Mira and Zoey walked over to her, gently reassuring her that everything was being handled, especially after missing the live performance for their fans.

______

You decided to give the girls some space, so you quietly excused yourself and left them for the evening. They had made plans to go out for dinner together, and although Rumi made an effort to reach out—trying to get a moment to talk or even ask you to stay—you gently told her that something had come up. Your words were brief, and though she didn't press further, the disappointment in her eyes was unmistakable.

You left her in Mira and Zoey's care, knowing they would be there for her. Still, as Rumi watched you walk away, a part of her silently wished you had stayed, even just for a little while longer. But in the end, she said nothing and let it be.

Running through the shadows, your figure moved effortlessly with them—like you belonged there. Your braided hair swayed behind you, catching on the cold wind that whispered through the alleyways and rooftops. Every movement was calculated, quiet, and cautious. You were trained for this. Eyes sharp, senses heightened, ready for anything.

Your feet hit the ground lightly, not a sound echoing, as if the darkness itself absorbed your presence. The chill of the night air clung to your bare skin, making you shiver beneath your clothes. But you didn't mind. You liked the wind. It reminded you that you were alive. That you were still moving. Still fighting.

You slowed down after that final sprint, your chest rising and falling with steady, controlled breaths. But no matter how deep you inhaled, that pressure in your chest—the weight of unease—wouldn't go away.

Your brows furrowed.

That wasn't just anxiety. That wasn't nerves.

You were sure of it now. Something—someone—was there, hiding in the dark, watching from the corners where the light didn't reach.

'A demon?'

But there's something off. 

_______________________· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·_____________________

Taglist: @doggyteam2028 @ulmban @ridewiththetide3 @pandafuriosa60

Note: I might just continue the story here than Wattpad- cause erm ;-; your comments help me continue the story o((>ω< ))o

[frankskaren]

frank castle | lady lady

authors notes..: it’s past 4:00am for me and i’m all sleepily & fuzzy at the thought of this - hasn’t been proofread… ps; happy superman day!

you made a goal at the start of the year to quit getting so many manicures, if you weren’t tired of what it did to your hands then it was a minor heart attack remembering how much you must spend yearly on it… and for what felt like nothing at that.

but you couldn’t live without any length, so, you settled on growing your own nails - and frank fucking loved it.

sure, you got into bickers about him taking his assigned job to say something if he caught you biting and a couple broken nails took place with day to day activities, which frank took over in a heart beat until you found a couple products to strengthen your nails with.

frank even missed the scratches for a while, almost felt like a cat in need of a scratching post now that you were living without acrylics or builder gel, but it was like christmas when your own nails gained a little length.

and by the six or seventh month mark it was plausible that frank was giddier than you over your nails — you had allowed yourself a salon appointment, to have someone besides yourself neaten up your cuticles, file your nails into a flattering almond shape and paint them a sheer, barely there, milky pink.

"where've you been, huh?" frank asked when you walked in the door, the daily site of him in his black sweatshirt and joggers, drinking a coffee with a book either in his hand or his lap still just as heart warming as the very first time you saw him like that.

he sighed when you announced you’d been inside a salon, his book gently dropping onto the coffee table with his coffee as he stood up from the couch, "bunny, you better be lying to me."

frank almost went on a tangent about the situation until you held your hands out in front of him, causing him to breathe a chuckle as he examined the fresh shape and colour of your nails.

"you like them?" you asked, frank was never one to demand he had a say in the choices you made with your appearance, if it made you feel better it made him happy, but he always appreciated your ways of making him feel involved.

"course i do baby," he spoke, his thumb pads gently running over the glossy but natural polish on your nails, "brings out your freckles." his thumbs now carefully counting each freckle on your hands.

frank was barely patient enough to let you shower in peace after dinner, which he had cooked - of course he cooked often for you, but he was especially pleased to when he wanted something in particular… and you knew that when you’d come downstairs to a homemade dessert post shower.

tonight it was gooey chocolate brownies, topped with caramel and a glass of milk, in your favourite glass with hand painted art work on it.

"this - this is what you buttered me up for?" you spoke, now sleepily laying on the couch with a bloated belly containing a comfort meal of your aswell as your favourite dessert - that the plate of now sat empty on the coffee table.

"mhmm, 's so fucking worth it too," he groaned, his words were more accurate to a kittens purring than it was a coherent sentence as he nestled his face into your waist, as he laid shirtless with his upper body over your lap, "scratch a little harder baby, you won’t hurt me."

you complied, pressing your nails into franks back just enough to cause a shiver from him as you spent the remainder of watching bridget jones’ diary for the millionth time, scratching franks back.

he had you do it that night too once you headed to bed together… then he had you do it again the morning after… you actually don’t remember a time where you went a night or a morning without scratching franks back or head or arms in the end.

and let’s not start on the sex, constantly guiding your arms over his shoulders so you’d scratch his back - it would frequent when he realised how hard you’d scratch while on the brink of an orgasm, and god, the excited glossiness in his eyes when he got a look of his back all red and scratched up it’s shocking he didn’t pounce back on top of you like a puma.