#everything i write i write for the punchline

[wheneverfeasible]

Post Secret

wc: 4k || rating: M || tags: implied sexual content, referenced homophobia, vers bottom Steve, vers top Eddie, bisexual Steve, bisexual Eddie, angst with a happy ending || summary: Steve deals with some insecurities the morning after he reveals himself as Eddie’s secret admirer || ao3

Started writing this during the trend of secret admirer fics being everywhere when I was curious how things might look with a different sort of morning after.

👑 💌 🎸

As awareness slowly returned to Steve, so too did the memories of the previous night. The twinge in his backside certainly helped prove that it hasn’t all been the most amazing of dreams brought on by his months of pining over what he had once thought was unattainable.

He could still feel Eddie’s hands on him, his warm breath ghosting over Steve’s ear as he whispered exactly what he was going to do to Steve, and then the shape of him as he did exactly what he promised. The stretch and burn and, yes, little bit of pain as Steve was opened up and taken in a way he hadn’t been expecting that night.

Maybe he should have, all things considered.

The last letters had gotten pretty…risqué.

Not that he was complaining, no siree Bob. He had thoroughly enjoyed everything Eddie had written to him, even back when Eddie had first thought he was a girl. Which had…been something else, truthfully. Steve had never been so grateful for his experience with girls than he had been trying to pretend to be one.

He hadn’t really expected to get to any of this when he’d first started writing those secret admirer letters to Eddie. The first one had caused Eddie to look apprehensive, however, like it was some joke he was waiting to be the punchline for…maybe literally, and Steve couldn’t help but write him another one to assure him that it was genuinely meant.

It was when he went to drop off the third one that he found something already wedged in the grill at Eddie’s locker, waiting for him. He’d swiftly taken it when he saw that it was a response to him, and from there their secret correspondence continued, though the letters weren’t always exchanged through Eddie’s locker.

It was honestly sort of fun finding new places to exchange their secret notes, and slowly the two of them grew closer together. Even though Eddie assumed it was a girl at first. Which…had fucking sucked, though it should have been obvious to Steve.

Which led to Steve pretending to be a girl until more recently, when he finally admitted that the reason he believed Eddie could never actually return his affections had been because, besides being exactly the sort of person Eddie always railed against, he was also a boy.

Steve had felt so fucking nauseous writing that out. Had felt even more nauseous dropping it off. He knew he was risking a lot more than just a broken heart if Eddie ever found out who his secret admirer was. Steve knew that he could be beaten, chased out of town, or even killed if Eddie took offense to a queer liking him.

It had taken longer than normal for a reply to be given, and Steve was expecting the worst. He just couldn’t lie to Eddie, not anymore, not about this. Not giving his identity was different than giving a false one, and he felt skeevy writing anything sexual when the guy wasn’t consenting to doing that with another guy.

So yeah, he expected so much hatred and disgust in the reply when it finally came.

Except there hadn’t been any.

Instead, Eddie’s letter was full of comfort and care, as well as an apology for making the assumption in the first place, for making his secret admirer feel like he had to pretend to be someone else out of fear or self-hatred.

And then Eddie had said that he hadn’t ever been with a man before, but that he was eager at the thought that his secret admirer would be his first one. And maybe even his only.

Steve had replied that he had also never been with another guy before, and then their next letters were full of their explorations with the idea, with the things they would do together, with how much it didn’t change things that Eddie’s secret admirer was a boy instead of a girl.

Things got…a lot more heated after that.

And then Eddie had told him where to pick up his next letter, and with it had been a pair of Eddie’s boxers. Steve wore them, as instructed in the letter, as he pleasured himself to Eddie’s words about what he was going to do to him. And then, face blooming red, he’d returned them in a baggy with his own letter to Eddie detailing how he had touched himself.

And so things progressed until it was time for graduation. Or at least, Steve’s graduation. It was discovered that Eddie would have to repeat senior year again on some technicality that Higgins cooked up. And Steve…

They had spoken about so much, had revealed more about themselves than anyone else knew, even close friends. Steve had revealed how shitty his parents were, how much they seemed to care about everything else except their son, while Eddie talked about his dad and how he’d string Eddie along before ultimately abandoning him for good when Eddie proved no longer useful and everything that had led to Eddie dropping out his first senior year.

They talked about the kids that Steve had begun babysitting, for lack of a better word, and about Eddie’s uncle who Eddie probably took for granted more than he should. About Steve’s concussions and loneliness, and how Eddie had gotten into selling drugs in the first place because his father introduced him to Reefer Rick and Eddie needed to help Wayne pay bills.

They talked about fears and dreams and plans to escape this shitty town, though Steve wasn’t able to say why he felt like he couldn’t leave Hawkins yet, why he’d wake up from nightmares that had nothing to do with Billy’s fists but everything to do with Max’s terrified eyes. With Mike’s and Will’s and Lucas’s and Dustin’s and even Eleven’s.

Eddie wanted to meet. Was adamant that he wouldn’t hate whoever his secret admirer was, not when he knew who his admirer was at his core. And Steve…

Steve wanted to believe that. He wanted to believe that with every fiber of his being because he’d come to the realization that somewhere between his fifth and fiftieth letter, he’d fallen in love with Eddie Munson. He could only hope that Eddie would see him, truly see him, and see something other than bullshit.

Steve agreed to meet with Eddie and…well.

Though he hadn’t necessarily been expecting to go all the way with Eddie that first night, it was like a gravitational pull existed between them. Eddie had been shocked to say the least, but he had shyly admitted to Steve that a part of him had not only suspected it might be him, but that he had hoped that it was him.

They talked for a while, clarified feelings and that Steve’s identity didn’t change anything, and then suddenly they were kissing.

And then suddenly they were doing a lot more than kissing.

They’d fallen asleep, spent and sated, in Steve’s bed with the promise of speaking more in the morning.

With the morning light streaming warm and golden through his windows, a contented smile curled at Steve’s lips as he slowly woke. He had rolled away in the middle of the night like he always does, spread along the edge of the bed like usual, though now with an arm dangling off in a subconscious move to be closer to the bat under his bed.

With a small and sleepy hum, Steve shifted slightly to turn his head towards Eddie and reached a hand out to settle on his chest…

And met an empty bed instead.

Steve’s brows puckered in a small confused frown, opening his eyes as he lifted his head to see the spot Eddie had been in the night before, only to see it very much missing the metalhead he had been crazy about for months now. The metalhead he had bared his soul to in letters ever since Nancy breaking up with him let him realize some truths about himself.

The metalhead he had trusted and let past his defenses and into his bed.

The ache in his core stopped feeling so pleasant.

Steve’s eyes darted around the room, trying to convince himself that maybe Eddie was just in the bathroom. That he hadn’t just left after getting what he wanted.

But the sheets beside him were cold, and Eddie’s clothes weren’t strewn over the floor anymore.

A pit began growing in Steve’s stomach. Everything that Steve had feared before last night came rushing, churning, back. He felt stricken, Eddie’s absence like a siren of warning.

He’d shown Eddie where he kept all of his letters. They had even gone over them the night before. There should have been at least a few strewn about. Except there wasn’t. Them and the box weren’t where he’d left them the previous night.

Eddie had taken his incriminating letters. Eddie had Ieft. Eddie had…

A sharp pain lanced through Steve as he sat up fully, and he couldn’t tell if it was physical or just his heart rending in two for the second time in less than eight month’s time.

Christ.

He really did fall fast and hard, didn’t he?

He only had himself to blame, really. He really did just bring this upon himself. He could have just accepted he was crushing on Eddie without writing him that first note, without opening his heart to the possibility (no, the guarantee of pain), without letting himself hope.

He was Steve Harrington. Billy might have taken the title of keg king, might have taken Tommy and others, but Steve was still considered desirable. He still had girls trying to fill the gap that Nancy left behind, still fluttered their eyelashes, still wanted to be on his arm at prom.

He was still It at school. Still popular, still rich, still a jock. Still privileged. He was still everything that Eddie had ever spoken out against. Everything Eddie always condemned. Everything Eddie hated.

The cold sheets, the empty room, the complete and utter lack of everything Eddie reassured him about were simply too obvious to ignore. Eddie was gone.

Steve knew he should be feeling dread. Eddie took all evidence of his own reciprocity, took away the thing that could condemn him as well. Maybe that had been his goal all along. And fucking over Steve—literally and figuratively—had just been an added bonus.

Eddie could tell everyone. Could reveal Steve as being a queer, could have him run out of town, if not worse. Or maybe he’d just tell his friends so they could have a laugh about how easily Former King Steve had spread his legs for another guy. For a freak at that. For the Freak.

Maybe he’d just blackmail him.

There were so many possibilities that could occur after last night. Yet, all Steve could feel was that same feeling he’d had standing in Tina’s bathroom and realizing that he would never be good enough. He would never be what others wanted him to be.

Never be anything more than what he was.

Steve collapsed back against the bed, wincing some in the privacy of his own room at another sharp spike of physical discomfort.

Honestly, it could have been worse, though. Eddie obviously hadn’t been lying when he’d said he’d never been with another dude before, and Steve had never had a chick be adventurous enough with him, so they kind of had to fumble into figuring things out. Even still, Eddie had been careful and slow. He could have rushed things, could have ignored Steve’s needs, but he didn’t.

Steve wondered if his notes were going to be plastered across the school on Monday. Just in time for graduation. Wondered if it would make Eddie feel better about not graduating this year either.

He couldn’t even fault Eddie, not really. Maybe if he had stood up to Tommy and Carol earlier, if he hadn’t been so complacent in life until he met Nancy and felt something other than the unending boredom he’d been plagued with all his life. Maybe if he had proven how much he had changed in something other than flimsy pieces of paper.

Flinging his arm over his eyes with a heavy sigh, Steve was just in the process of pushing every hurt feeling down, of knowing he had to come up with some sort of excuse for his exposed letters that didn’t put a target on Eddie’s back, when he heard a quiet thumping and rattling of chains.

“…fucking wallet, man,” Eddie was whispering to himself as he pushed the door open, obviously trying to be quiet and not wake up Steve. “So fucking stupid, how are you supposed to sneak out but leave your walle—you’re awake.”

Steve, who had removed the arm over his eyes to prop himself up on his elbows at Eddie’s entrance, could only watch as the older boy had dropped to his knees to try to find, presumably, his wallet. Eddie’s muttering, which had been quiet at first, rose to normal speaking volume in his surprise at meeting Steve’s eyes.

Eddie looked…embarrassed, a slight grimace spreading across his lips as he stood up, wallet successfully retrieved from beneath the bed where it must have been tossed after Eddie’s search for a rubber.

“You’re not supposed to be awake yet,” Eddie complained, a small, uncomfortable whine to his words.

Right.

The dude couldn’t very well sneak out if Steve was watching.

He tried to keep his face from crumpling, tried to keep the hurt off of his expression and out of his tone, and he was thankful that he wasn’t much of a crier. Because he rather felt like bursting into tears at the moment, if he was being quite honest with himself, his heart feeling like it was being ripped into two.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, tearing his eyes away from Eddie before he could see the other boy’s reaction. “I’ll just…we can pretend I’m still sleeping.” He offered a shaky smile before dropping back to the bed, rolling to his side and wrapping an arm under his pillow in a facsimile of sleep. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the retreating of footsteps.

Instead, after several moments of silence, they moved closer.

Instead, he felt the weight of a body sitting on the mattress at his hip, felt a warm hand settle almost tentatively on his lower back.

“Yeah? Gonna keep pretending to be my Sleeping Beauty, Harrington?” Eddie’s voice teased, and it should have been mocking, should have held all the animosity Eddie had to feel towards Steve but…it wasn’t. It didn’t. Instead, it was almost gentle, playful, maybe even…affectionate?

Despite himself, Steve frowned slightly and peeked his eyes open to look at Eddie, who instead of a sneer, had a smile on his lips. He barely had time to comprehend that when Eddie was leaning in and pressing those smiling lips lightly to his cheek in a brief kiss.

“Guess I just gotta keep kissing you until you wake up,” Eddie murmured, smile still in his voice, as he kissed Steve again, this time on his jaw. A finger hooked under Steve’s chin to tilt his head, allowing him to press the next kiss to his lips.

A shudder rippled through Steve at that moment, a small gasp leaving him, which the metalhead took advantage of. His tongue slipped inside Steve’s mouth, causing a soft moan to leave Steve as Eddie leaned in closer, kissing him deeper as Steve instinctively rolled onto his back, the taste of spearmint still coating Eddie’s tongue—

“Did you use my toothpaste?” Steve gasped for air, pushing Eddie away with both hands on his chest at the sudden realization. As well as the fact that his mouth had to taste sour with sleep in comparison.

Eddie pulled back with a slightly bashful look. “Well, and your toothbrush too.”

“Oh, gross, man! Haven’t you heard of germs?”

“Considering last night I had my tongue in your a—”

Steve hurriedly cut the metalhead off by placing both hands over his mouth, a pink tinge coating his cheeks at where Eddie was going with that. Eddie’s eyes just crinkled over Steve’s hands as he looked down at him, his smile evident against Steve’s palms. Only reluctantly did Steve let Eddie pull his hands away by the wrists, his own sliding over Steve’s until their fingers were tangled together.

“I’ll buy you a new one, princess, don’t worry.”

The words should have been mean. Should have been mocking. But “princess” had been what Eddie had called him in the letters when he still thought he was a girl. Had been what he’d called Steve last night so affectionately as he’d slid inside with whispers of reassurance.

Steve’s eyes burned. He swallowed, full of nervousness and confusion, of mitigated hurt, as he stared up at Eddie’s open expression. His fingers tightened on Eddie’s without thought. He didn’t want to say the words, but they were clogging his throat and he felt like he’d choke on them if he didn’t get them out.

“I thought you left,” he whispered, even as he cringed slightly at the flicker of emotion he couldn’t catch fast enough on Eddie’s face. Eddie’s earlier words burned in his chest. “You were trying to sneak out.”

Understanding bloomed on Eddie’s face, his muscles tensing for a moment, causing a spike of unease to puncture Steve’s chest. Because this? They’d talked about this. About how Nancy had left him after their first time, how he’d woken to a cold bed, how she’d begun pulling away from him after and how she never truly loved him.

Sure, she had a reason to pull away, and a part of him still thinks a part of her still blames him for Barb, but it wasn’t like he could tell Eddie any of that. It didn’t change the fact that Nancy had been pulling away from him and towards Jonathan since the start, however. Didn’t change the fact that Steve felt just the tiniest bit used in the way he’s always been used.

Was he just being used by Eddie too?

“Shit,” Eddie muttered under his breath to himself, which didn’t make Steve feel any better. Was he upset he’d gotten caught? Should Steve beg for him not to expose him through his letters? Should Steve just accept the inevitable like he always did?

Eddie released one of Steve’s hands to reach out and brush Steve’s hair off his forehead. A gentle smile settled on his features, even if he did look mildly embarrassed. “Yeah, you weren’t supposed to hear that, sweetness,” he murmured, his fingers still carding through Steve’s hair keeping the younger boy from spiraling too greatly at those words. “It was supposed to be a surprise. I wanted to be back before you woke up.”

Steve’s brows puckered slightly in confusion, though he smoothed them again when Eddie’s fingers lightly stroked over the ridges. “Be back?” he questioned, barely able to get the words out.

Still looking somewhat embarrassed, Eddie gave a small shrug with a crooked grin. “I was gonna go get you some breakfast,” he admitted. “I’m a terrible cook, so I was gonna buy something and bring it back to you for breakfast in bed.”

Breakfast in bed? For him?

Steve’s eyes widened slightly, staring up at Eddie as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, hearing, feeling. Eddie was staring at him so sweetly, his touch so gentle, like Steve was something precious to be cherished. Like he meant everything he wrote in those letters, everything he said last night. Everything he promised.

There were so many things he wanted to say in response to all that. He felt like he was a rollercoaster, every other word sending him into what felt like a free fall, praying that the harness that was Eddie Munson would keep him safe.

He’d woken up so sure of things, but just that brief moment of fingertips touching cool sheets had reawakened all the fears and insecurities he’d felt since Tina’s bathroom. No, since before that. Since waking up that first morning without Nancy, the first girl he ever had real feelings for and realizing that he was once more just a means to an end.

Steve pulled his other hand free from Eddie’s hold so that he could push himself up into a seated position, withholding a wince from the pain in his nether region now that he had an audience as he did so, wanting to be on a little more even footing. He stared at Eddie, looking for any sort of deceit, but the other boy just stared at him with mild worry, his dark eyes darting over Steve’s form.

Which reminded Steve that he was very much in the nude still.

Flushing slightly, though normally uncaring about nudity thanks to years in sports and locker rooms, Steve gathered the top sheet more firmly over his lap. Judging by Eddie’s slight smirk at the action, his reaction had to have been noticeable, causing Steve to scowl at Eddie. The older boy just grinned unrepentant.

“You look good first thing in the morning, princess. Can’t wait to see it more often,” Eddie purred in that voice he used last night as he thoroughly took Steve apart in the best way possible, even with all their fumbling as they tried to figure out how things worked with two dicks involved instead of what they were both more familiar with.

Steve, understandably, flushed more deeply.

“Yeah, Munson?” he murmured, trying not to let the flutter of hope cut up his insides even as a small smile peeked out on his lips. “You planning on seeing it again then?”

Eddie leaned forward, ducking his head slightly to look up at Steve through his bangs. “I’d see it every morning if I could, pretty boy.” A flicker of emotion, a guarded expression there and gone again, like maybe Steve wasn’t the only one unsure in this moment. “If you let me.”

If you let me.

Steve pushed his own insecurities down to really look at Eddie this morning. His eyes trailed over his pale skin, reddened at his neck in an unmistakable display of passion last night, the taste of Eddie’s skin still like a phantom on his tongue…

Eddie’s eyes were flickering back and forth between his, the corner of his bottom lip was drawn in between his teeth, and his fingers were flickering restlessly around the rings he had taken off last night before pressing those bare fingers into Steve. Eddie was sitting, tense on the edge of the bed, all while trying to play at being aloof.

Eddie was nervous too.

If you let me.

Eddie was nervous too.

Warmth bloomed in Steve’s chest because Eddie was plagued with insecurity, just like him. Eddie, who must fear that now that Steve has sated his curiosity, wouldn’t be interested in him anymore. Eddie who had never been with a boy before last night either. Eddie who had bared his everything to the person in the letters only for it to be none other than Steve Harrington.

Eddie who was so much more than Steve could have ever dared to hope for.

“Well,” Steve said on a breath. “That depends.”

“On what?” Eddie asked, one hand raising to nervously tug at his own hair.

“On if you’re okay with breakfast being a little late today.”

Eddie’s frown of confusion was quickly replaced by a laugh of joy as Steve reached out and pulled him closer, swallowing the laughter with his own smile as they reassured each other that this had never been a one-off thing, had never been a temporary joining out of curiosity or deceit.

Eddie’s clothes were slowly shed with reverence, and though Steve’s body was not yet ready to reciprocate all that Eddie had given him last night, Steve still showed Eddie all the love he had for him, basking in its return and the knowledge that, at least between them, it never had to be a secret again.

👑 💌 🎸

Hostage Hotties (open):

@derythcorvinus @katyawriteswhump @scoops-aboy86 @dotdot-weirdlife @everywherenothere

@bumblebeecuttlefishes @hiei-harringtonmunson @estrellami-1 @nebulaoz @renfrisol

@tinyplanet95 @hairspraywhore

[santaasi]

bitter

pairing: rafe cameron x ex!fem!reader

summary: what do you do when the fire you escaped keeps calling you home?

warnings: mdni 18+, toxic dynamics, cursing, emotional manipulation, jealousy, rough sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, marking, light dom/sub elements, no use of y/n, english isn’t my first language

word count: 2.2k

a/n: i’ve never written for rafe before, but I needed a change to get back into writing. so I figured trying something with him would be a good way to switch things up. hope you like it!

ᯓ★ now playing…

fletcher, kito - bitter

YOU SPOT HIM BEFORE HE SEES YOU. Not that you meant to. You didn’t show up tonight hoping to collide with the past — you’re done setting fire to yourself just to feel something. You came because your friends wouldn’t stop texting, because the mirror said you looked too good to waste on silence, because it’s easier to be bitter in a backless dress than broken beneath your bedsheets.

But there he is. Red solo cup in hand, lounging against the balcony railing like he owns the view. Maybe he does. Maybe he bought this place just to prove he could. That lean of his, all effortless arrogance and crooked charm, hits you like déjà vu wrapped in barbed wire. He’s got some girl curled into his side, her smile smug and secretive, like she’s read the last page of a story you barely survived. You know that look. You used to wear it like perfume.

Your drink tastes like diluted regret. The music pulses through the floorboards, but it can’t quite drown the static in your chest — the roar of memory, the sting of what-if. It’s that feeling when the restaurant only has Pepsi and all you wanted was Coke — a small betrayal, but one that ruins the whole meal.

You should leave. You know that. You could walk out right now and call it growth. But you stay. You stay, because bitterness is a kind of armor too.

Instead, you slip down the hallway, find the bathroom with the broken lock you once warned him about, and close the door behind you like a secret. You stare at your reflection in the mirror — not checking your makeup, not adjusting your hair — just looking. As if you could summon the version of yourself that never loved him. The girl from before. The girl he didn’t ruin.

There’s a knock. Then another. Then–

“Didn’t think you were the type to hide.”

His voice. Low and careless, just the way it always is. Like everything is a joke and you’re the punchline.

You take a breath, cold and sharp as glass, then pull the door open without giving yourself time to hesitate.

Rafe looks the same. Infuriatingly gorgeous, like he walked out of a dream that turned into a nightmare. Tousled blond hair, cheekbones sharp enough to cut, and those eyes — all storm and smirk, eyes that always seem two seconds away from destroying you. He’s alone now. No girl draped across his side. But you can still smell her on him — citrus and vanilla, cloying and artificial. It clings to his shirt like a memory he hasn’t bothered to forget.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Cameron,” you mutter, brushing past him.

But of course he follows. Of course he does.

You feel him at your back like a haunting, like unfinished business breathing down your neck. He doesn’t speak, just shadows you through the house like gravity, staying too close as you walk into the kitchen, as you pour yourself another drink you don’t need — something strong and bitter, just like you.

“She’s not you,” he says simply, like that’s supposed to mean something. Like it’s a compliment.

You scoff. “Yeah, I figured. I didn’t puke after sleeping with you.”

His mouth twitches, that infuriating almost-smile. He loves it when you’re mean. Always did. Like he thinks the venom in your voice is just another kind of flirtation.

“I know she thinkin’ that she found herself a winner…” he drawls, like the line’s a lyric and he’s still the main character in a story he doesn’t know how to end.

“What’s her name again?” you ask, tilting your head. “Or do you just call her ‘baby’ so you don’t get confused?”

Without a word, Rafe takes the cup from your hand and sets it behind you on the counter. Then he steps into your space like a memory you can’t scrub out, corners you the way he used to, when he still knew the geography of your body by heart. When his hands knew where to hold and where to hurt.

“You’re mad,” he murmurs.

You laugh, sharp and joyless. “You’re delusional.”

He studies you like he’s trying to memorize you all over again — your mouth, your throat, the way the necklace he gave you still rests against your collarbone like a mark you forgot to remove.

“If you didn’t want me thinking about you,” he says, voice low and threading heat through your spine, “you probably shouldn’t have worn that dress.”

Your throat tightens. It’s not fair — how easily he unravels you. Not after everything. Not after he tossed your stuff onto the porch like garbage, after he ghosted you and said to everyone you were dramatic, after he reduced you to a cautionary tale in someone else’s bed. You were a war, and he walked away like he didn’t even flinch.

“Did you fucked her on the counter,” you say — quietly, bitterly, more to yourself than to him. “Right before you cooked her dinner, too?”

You didn’t mean to say it. But it’s out there now, curling between you like smoke. 

His jaw ticks.

“Jealous?” he asks, too casually, like the answer won’t ruin him.

You don’t answer. You just stare at him — the boy who broke you, the boy you still dream about when the nights get too quiet. The one who made you feel like everything and nothing at the same time. And you hate yourself — god, you hate yourself — for the part of you that still aches to be touched by the same hands that let you go without looking back.

But you don’t have to say a word.

Because your fingers are already fisting the fabric of his shirt, dragging him in like gravity, like surrender. His hands are on your waist, rough and familiar, and then you’re stumbling — breathless, reckless — into some room upstairs, one neither of you bothered to check for witnesses. The door slams behind you. Your mouths crash together like thunder.

It’s not a kiss. It’s a grudge match.

Years of resentment, betrayal, unsaid apologies — all of it burning between your teeth. You hate him. You hate how much you want him. And you want him like a bruise wants pressure.

He throws you onto the bed with a growl in his throat, dragging your dress up in a single, greedy motion. His eyes darken when he sees there’s nothing underneath. His fingers spread your thighs like it’s second nature, like you’re still his to open.

“Fuck,” he breathes, biting his lip, eyes locked between your legs. “You came to this party like this? Hoping I’d see you?”

You glare up at him, breath hitching. “You’re not that special, Rafe.”

He smirks. “Nah, baby. I am.”

And then his mouth is on you before you can throw another insult. Hot. Devouring. Merciless.

He licks into you like punishment, like prayer. Like he’s been waiting for this since the day he let you go and realized too late what he lost. His grip on your hips is bruising, his tongue cruel in its precision — a man who knows exactly where to hurt you and how to make it feel like heaven.

You writhe under him, your hands clutching the sheets, his hair, anything solid enough to tether you while everything inside you unravels. Logic is gone. Self-respect is slipping. All that’s left is the sound of your own shattered moans and the unbearable truth:

He’s so fucking good at being bad. And he knows it.

“God, I missed this pussy,” he groans into you, voice hoarse and muffled, thick with hunger. “Missed the way you taste. No one else even comes close.”

You yank his hair hard, and he groans against your cunt like he loves the sting. Like your hate turns him on. Maybe it does. You arch off the bed, cursing his name, your name, the whole goddamn universe for giving you a heart soft enough to still open for him.

He doesn’t stop. Not until your thighs tremble, until your chest heaves, until you’re gasping his name like it’s the only language you remember. And even then, he doesn’t give you space to recover.

He crawls up your body, slow and smug, kissing you with your own taste still warm on his lips.

And you hate how much you missed that, too. Hate it. Almost as much as you still love him.

“Can she make you feel like this?” you whisper, voice ragged with spite and need.

He shakes his head, slow and certain, eyes locked on yours. “No one can.”

Then he’s inside you again, slow at first — deliberate, almost reverent. Like he’s trying to memorize you all over again. Like he’s pretending this isn’t a mistake.

Your legs wrap tight around his waist. Your nails leave half-moons in his back. His forehead presses to yours, breath shallow, lips parted. The kind of closeness that once meant something. The kind that makes your chest cave in.

It’s too intimate. Too much. Too close to what it used to be.

So he flips you.

Your chest hits the mattress. His hand anchors at the small of your back, and then he takes you hard — rough, possessive, like he’s angry at the way you still fit him so perfectly. Like he’s punishing himself for still wanting you this bad.

“Still so fucking tight,” he growls through gritted teeth. “Like you were made for me.”

You bite your lip until you taste copper, eyes burning, throat tight with shame and want and something deeper, older — the kind of ache you never really got over.

He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanks your head back just enough to make you gasp.

“Say it,” he demands.

You don’t. You won’t. But he knows how to make you bend.

He slaps your ass once — sharp, stinging — and you yelp. Again, and you whimper. Again, and your body betrays you, pushing back against him.

“Say it, angel. Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”

You want to lie. Want to say no one. Want to say you’ve moved on, that you’re stronger now. But he’s splitting you open and fucking the truth out of you, and your voice cracks as you give him what he came for.

“You,” you choke. “Fuck– Rafe, it’s you.”

He groans like he’s the one unraveling, like your surrender undoes something sacred in him. And maybe it does. Maybe you both lose something in the giving.

You fall apart. Together. It’s not tender. It’s not clean. It’s just ruin — beautiful, aching, inevitable ruin.

After, there’s silence.

The kind that feels louder than any fight you ever had.

You lie on your side, sweaty and sore, muscles trembling, his cum drying on your thighs, your heart pounding like a warning bell.

You stare at the wall, hoping it might explain how the hell you got here again — how you always find your way back to him, even when it wrecks you. Especially when it wrecks you.

The bed creaks as he shifts beside you. Somewhere between guilt and satisfaction, he lights a cigarette with the same hands that just touched you like you still belonged to him. He doesn't ask — just offers it with a look.

You take it. Bitter smoke clings to your tongue like the taste of him still thick in your mouth.

“You’re still in my head,” he says eventually, voice low and half-lost in the dark. “But you’re not in my bed now.”

You glance over, mouth dry. “You just fucked me into the mattress.”

He exhales smoke like a laugh, smirks around the filter. “Yeah,” he says. “But you’ll leave.”

You don’t answer. Because he’s right.

You always leave. Or he does. Or one of you breaks something so violently, neither of you knows how to piece it back together.

And still– God, still — you want him to kiss you again.

Instead, he ashes the cigarette into a dented beer can, eyes on the ceiling like he's searching for something to blame.

“She doesn’t taste like you,” he mutters.

You swallow the hurt like poison, slow and burning. Then you rise.

You pull your dress down with shaking hands, gather your heels like fragile regrets, and walk barefoot down the stairs as if your silence might still mean something. Each step feels like penance. Like absolution you’ll never quite earn.

You don’t cry until you’re in the Uber, mascara smudged, his scent still on your skin. You’re not sad. Not really. 

Just bitter.

The kind of bitter that settles in your bones and stays there. The kind that tastes like smoke and sex and the ghost of a boy who never knew how to love you right. 

The kind that feels almost like love — if love had teeth.

thankx for reading <3

I’d appreciate any feedback, whether in the comments or my inbox. :3

                                    – your santi 🪐

masterlist

[lucabyte]

Psst. What's your process for Comics? I would like to Know (Because your ISAT comics make me a little bit feral and I would like to learn)

Okay so the cop out answer is: i basically wing it every time since im very very new to making comics and my method is still evolving. but that's not helpful and i like to yap so ill talk through My Method anyway

So first of all: Ideas.

All my ISAT shit is like. extremely dialogue heavy & mostly focused on the same like. 3 topics and philosophical concepts over and over lbr. So mostly when it comes to drafting that I'll just let my brain bash the dolls together until i notice either 1. a fucking banger line (this usually becomes a punchline i then work backwards from when writing it out) or 2. that i keep coming back to the same like 'scene' in my mind.

(I'd love to know. how to make this work for like. OCs??? But I haven't quite cracked that one yet sorry)

For the former though what usually happens there is I write things out on my phone (this happened with the bonnie-centric ones a lot?) or i'll leave a voice note for myself. Or, if i'm at my computer it goes straight into notepad, which is where everything goes before i draw it.

so these are just like. Disgustingly strewn about on my desktop. But this is how i type up the comic scripts, which I do before i put the dialogue in csp because csp's text tool sucks ass, but you can see how these end up having Some Semblance of the final formatting? Some more than others. But they don't have much consistency in how i'm tagging the dialogue LOL. (bonus: one of these i never ended up making. because i come back to the same wells SO FREQUENTLY that it gets embarrasing to retread sometimes) Then I just... screenshot the notepad file and paste it into a csp window LOL.

So I've pulled up three comics just because theyre like, recent ones? (Links to all 3 -> x, x, x) And oh yeah immediately they're rather inconsistent. But this is the level of detail i do in my thumbnails. (Hello Golf Ball Loop) MOST of my long ass comics look like the first one though, and all of them follow the same thought process.

I will take the dialogue, and then just draw a panel that i think works with it. Then move onto the next line, and the next. Basically thinking mostly in speech bubble placement rather than anything? But I'll just keep... going downwards until it is done. You can see the speech bubbles tend to include either nothing or the vaguest indicator of what's inside them.

(The third one here is an outlier because iirc I actually had this very visual idea while drawing something else and went to go quickly draw it out so the text actually went right into CSP bc there was so little of it. But it was still panelled really sequentially for what action I know I wanted in each panel.)

Overall this is probably because of my habits from learning animation? I thumbnail as if im storyboarding, if that makes any sense. Or is any different to how people usually do it, anyway.

My friends who actually read comic books have told me off already for my vile leaning-tower-of-pisa bullshit formatting. I understand their criticisms because genuinely what the fuck am I doing half of the time? I like it though lol. It's a reflection of how stream-of-conciousness my workflow tends to be, but fuck if it means the aspect ratios aren't the wooooorst LOLL

Then i resize the thumbnails to be roughly 1920px wide, aspect ratio be damned. And at this point I usually also have to draw a big grid so that i can align the comic and make it not on a weird tilt. The most thought that goes in here is that I try to avoid making panels too samey in layout from line to line, and try to keep vaguely to making panels the same-ish height but a width of the page either in halves or thirds. Making it so they aren't completely inconsistent sizes does a lot for making things not look too sloppy.

My first sketch over the thumbnail usually is neat enough to be The Final Lines because I'm impatient. EXCEPT when i realise its going to get Fucking Complicated at which point i pull out the CSP models and my beloved cubes. Then i take a billion years to pose a consistent scene (and often realise where I need to cheat angles. Like for loop reaching down to sif's face. That doesn't make sense in 3d space so I had to cheat). This is basically par for the course whenever I want to do a scene where there's Any consistency in character positioning and they aren't just Talking Heads.

THEN. After the sketch (which was done with speech bubble placements in mind back at the thumbnail stage) I will finally put in the speech bubbles. This usually means re-sketching them, then putting the text down and doing all the typesetting (VCR mono looks very ugly in CSP a lot of the time so I fuck with the spacing of individual letters a lot) and THEN redrawing the speech bubbles around them properly.

Sometimes I'll fuck myself over here and have to move stuff but ideally, if I weren't working like some kind of fucking barbarian, I'd do the speech bubbles before finalising the lineart. But I don't on account of going straight from thumbnail to final lines. You'd do this during the sketch stage if you were normal.

then it's finally panel border time. And then when I get to this stage I just make like. another few new layers above everything but the text where i just clean up. Everything that I had neglected while drawing. So any extra white lines or places where i just think things look bad and i want to redraw them entirely. I will also sometimes literally make a flattened copy of an entire panel to just move it around slightly. It's a deeply evil part of the workflow and i apologise for it. But also it's the major benefit to drawing in straight black-and-white with no tones. It means i can just overdraw anything that is unclear in the end.

(and reposting again Links to all 3 -> x, x, x for easy comparison if u want it)

ANYWAY for further reading. I know I've already stated these before somewhere on my blog but for ease of access... The major inspirations for how my comics Look are as follows:

1. tumblr user Floralmarsupial's homestuck comics found [HERE]. She did a LOT of straight up black and white comics that are ingrained deep in my brain at this point. These are always in the back of my head.

2. Leo Fox [LINK] regularly gets really strange and esoteric with overlapping panels and unorthodox layout. I stared at these a lot when i was starting to make the first couple ISAT comics even if i'm not going nearly as abstract as him

3. tumblr user the-hydroxian-artblog's comic Hangin' Out [LINK] has GORGEOUS typesetting and their art in general uses a lot of speech bubbles that convey some really funny shit by just resizing the text in funny ways. Gold standard for emotive typesetting and also their lin weight and b/w illustrations are gorgeous.

4. sonic the hedgehog idw keeps me humble and reminds me to make the speech bubbles fucking SMALLER. if im left to my own devices i make speech bubbles and fonts WAY too big so reading a cleanly formatted professional comic book for children reminds me what i should be aiming for in legibility.

anyway hope this helps? the answer really is "fuck it we ball" tho

[corviiids]

THANKS @kimdokjafan you are so kind and generous. ok im cashing in the first of three blank checks to talk about faith trust and pixie dust (most recent chatfic) because the last two directors commentaries were too serious so let's do a silly one.

some p5r spoilers, and this is mostly about sumire, and it's long again. do i need to keep disclaiming that these are long? you should know me by now.

i had this written for a while before i started formatting it because i wasn't really sure if i should post it? i feel like silly chatfic is something people go to for predominantly lighthearted nonsense so i was like, maybe there's too much plot and dramatic misunderstanding and i should just keep this one for myself. but then i was like well nothing matters and maybe someone will have fun with it. it's kind of terrible how much fully or mostly completed fic there is my docs that just doesn't see the light of day lol. write for yourself etc but i like sharing! too bad it comes with the mortifying ordeal etc. anyway that was a tangent

potato counter is a neopets game. there's no deep lore i just like neopets. i guess in this universe ryuji doesn't play neopets? or maybe he's just never played potato counter specifically. i also have a different fic where ryuji DOES play neopets. it's about neopets and ryuji and goro talking on neopets.

i think this might literally be the first time ive written sumi in a fic because i haven't actually written that much fic for royal, like, now that im looking, literally almost none? and none that had a group dynamic. so it was kind of fun to find her voice for the first time in a silly groupchat like this. i was worried people would find her exclamation marks annoying but i personally thought it was endearing so i added it in there.

every time i do a gag where a character corrects their own typo i have to code more stupid little bubbles to make it happen but i think it's worth it. all the effort that goes into making tgis look as much like a real chat as possible

this obviously doesnt take place in the canon p5/r universe, but im imagining sort of a postcanon sumi personality where she's more comfortable being herself and isn't borrowing kasumi's brand of confidence, but she's visibly a really anxious person without that kasumi veneer. i also think in this universe sumire is a fairly recent addition to the friend group, and while everyone likes her a lot and she really likes them, i kind of wanted to emphasise that feeling of being in a friend group where everyone's established and you're sort of a plus-one? you don't really fit yet. part of that is her being new, part of it is her anxiety, part of it is just the kind of person sumi is where she's so polite and self-conscious she ends up taking herself out of things with her own good intentions. stuff like her interrupting the flow of an existing conversation by greeting everyone instead of jumping straight in because she doesn't feel comfortable inserting herself, which means everyone else stops to greet her even though that doesn't normally happen in a friend group, or making a point of thanking everyone for being invited to events while the others take it as a given.

idk i love that she feels a bit out of place with the phantom thieves in p5r. and part of that is a natural consequence of being a new addition in royal who can't be naturally integrated with an existing dynamic but i honestly feel like the writing team realised that and acknowledged it, and really leaned into it, and that made it work incredibly well for me. like, it's part of her character that she's sort of an outsider. it's not like p4g's incredibly clumsy integration of marie and subsequent attempt to shove her down everyone's throat as the canon love interest in p4ga (knife). sumi has that outsider vibe on purpose and it makes me really like her dynamic with the thieves as an individual

goro also feels slightly out of place in these chats, but his conversational style blends more naturally with the other thieves at this point and he even uses their codenames sometimes. i keep saying my chatfic series isn't a real Series because the lore keeps changing, but if we accept that they're all kind of following a General Continuity, assume this takes place some time after the last fic in which ren added goro to the groupchat and they made an effort to integrate him into their friend group. he's kind of there now and has settled into being the weird boyfriend. that's his role.

every time goro says something like "ren and i" assume it's the text equivalent of him talking to the group with his arm around ren's waist.

ok i got really fond of this silly running joke where sumi brings up the weather when she's feeling uncomfortable. she's so polite. i like this thread because setting it up meant i got to tie it off like this:

this just made me happy lol i liked writing this. i tried to use it to demonstrate that despite goro's abrasiveness he obviously knows sumire pretty well, he's attuned to her quirks and knows how to tell when she's having a bad time with her anxiety, so he uses her little weather habit to ground her.

i honestly dont think goro and sumire could be considered close in p5r and as much as i like the "royal trio" in canon they're not really... like... friends? with each other? they're both attached to ren, so it' more a V shape than anything else. but that said, i really LIKE goro and sumi's canon dynamic. he takes a really grouchy but politely attentive supervisory role to her during their few forays into the palace as a trio where he doesn't really know her well but clearly identifies her as a harmless little tryhard who needs some guidance and steps into that role grudgingly, and she immediately looks up to him despite being very wrong footed by his ruthlessness, which i find incredibly charming. i think given time they could be good friends, they just didn't get much chance to know each other very well in canon. so i tried to kinda do that here.

once goro stops being evil and joins the group they all kind of tiredly accept that his role is to occasionally push a cup off a bench while smirking and refuse to clean it up. emotionally, i mean.

wait i need to backtrack chronologically to talk about akeshu.

in this scene they're in the same room lol talking and snickering while typing. im trying to get at that vibe of the annoying couple who is flirting with each other, via you. you know? like ostensibly they're talking to you (sumire) but everything they say to you is part of their stupid game. sumi is incidental to goro and ren teasing each other about flirting with someone else, goro is reporting everything ren says because his boyfriend is so eye-rollingly foolish in a cute way. they're very tickled by how amusing and charming they are. gross. disgusting. sumire im so sorry for putting you through this

anyway here are too many of my favourite jokes from the fic

[coridallasmultipass]

.

[koi0boi]

i got 5 hours of inconsistent sleep mixed with a sicky feeling paired with 2 benadryl i cant read

[ssuperrnnovaa]

— WHEN THEY FALL IN LOVE..

or, when there's no turning back for the first years.

a/n: first writing post.. AHH edit 1: i forgot to add things I DIDNT PROOFREAD SORRY

when ace trappola falls in love..

he's still the same guy. but almost sweet, almost kind.

but he's a master of his secrets. parts his mouth just to spew another joke about your appearance or how you did on that potionology test the other day - that same glint of hesitation in his eyes, that unsure croak of his voice just before he delivers another nasty quip about your face. like a punchline stuck in his throat - too funny to laugh at, too funny to acknowledge.

funny how he'd said he'd "rather hang out with his friends than find love", and here he is; laying in his bed. at 3 am. head filled with nothing but thoughts of you.

he'll let it simmer. wait for you to realize - wait for you to notice him, not just the facade he puts up. not the prankster he is in class, or the troublemaker you have to put up with.

wait for you to love him back.

when deuce spade falls in love..

he's trying his very best.

deuce was never much of a charmer - the guy's been a delinquent for most of his life; feared, not loved. he only sees (romantic) love in the movies - terrible rom-coms, poignant love stories.. you name it. deuce has no idea about love.

(his lack of knowledge gets worse with you.)

deuce tries - keyword, tries to keep his composure in front of you. he fails, miserably. his face? turning red. words? none. palms? sweating. and pride? absolutely crushed.

he apologizes to you later, blames it on the heat or how he forgot about another ridiculous rule. calls up his mom and his mouth is a dam - like he suddenly gained the ability to talk 10 minutes later. tells her all about you, as if she doesn't know your entire genetic code just from hearing him talk.

maybe one day.

when jack howl falls in love..

it's unyielding - unyielding, but quiet.

jack doesn't date for fun; never has, never will. he doesn't chase anyone.

wolves mate for life - you know it when jack immediately shuts down the idea of even having a crush or having an ex, saying that he's "focused on self-betterment" or "waiting for the right person". you're convinced that not even cupid could get him to fall in love.

but for you? that discipline shatters.

it happens during a study session in ramshackle when you're idly playing with his ears - making fun of that stone-cold persona when in reality he's melting under your touch. he catches himself after five minutes of bliss, thoughts of the future flooding his brain; "what if i won't be a good partner to them? what if i let them down?'

to jack, love isn't a game; love's not the way he feels embarrassingly giddy after you squeeze his hand or poke his bicep. love's permanent. forever. and it terrifies him.

when epel felmier falls in love..

it's fierce.

epel's not soft - in fact, he's everything but. he'd do anything to be seen as strong by you; even if it meant burying his own feelings.

epel was never much of a dreamer - let alone a lovey-dovey kind of guy. he despises those mushy romance stories, calling them "dumb as a box of rocks", grimacing when he watches the leads kiss.

yet.. he can't help but be entranced. by you.

he scoffs a little too loudly for vil's comfort, but in his head, he's repeating the same mantra over and over again in his head - "i'm not some silly little girl moonin' over someone. i've got better things to do with my time. besides, love is for babies."

yet, his defenses crumble when you ever do so much as breathe in his direction, and suddenly, he's back to square one.

when sebek zigvolt falls in love..

it's fervent.

sebek is passionate about a lot of things - his duty as a retainer, malleus, academics, and you.

you, a mere human that could quiet him down with just a finger to your lip. you, a mere human who keeps him awake at night and restless, overthinking. yearning.

it's foolish, he tells himself. tells himself it's just a small crush as if it's not all-consuming, as if he's not avoiding you all together just so he could have peace of mind.

is it the right thing to do? no. will it keep him unbothered? absolutely not. and will he come to terms with his feelings?... unlikely.

[luna-azzurra]

10 Secrets Your Character Is Desperately Hiding (and Probably Will Until They Die or Get Drunk Enough to Confess)

╰ They moonlight as an absolutely awful stand-up comedian.

They don’t just tell bad jokes, they commit to them. We’re talking full costume, dollar-store wigs, a fake name like “Chuckles McSuffer,” and punchlines that make people groan so hard their souls briefly exit their bodies. And....they love it. The stage is the only place they feel weirdly free… which is why no one in their real life can ever know. Ever.

╰ They can dance like their life depends on it, but they never do it in public.

We’re talking footwork that would make a music video jealous. Rhythm in their bones. But they’ve decided the world isn’t ready. Or maybe they’re not. So they only dance alone in the kitchen at 2 a.m. Or in the middle of a supermarket aisle when they think no one’s looking. And when they do get caught? “Nope. That wasn’t me. That was… a spasm. Mind your business.”

╰ They’re secretly freakishly good at imitating animals.

Birds. Dogs. Goats. Snakes. They’ve got the sounds, the gestures, the whole weird little zoo living inside them. It’s the kind of skill you don’t admit to having because it’s impossible to explain how it started or why you’re so good at it. They only let it out when alone… or, let’s be real, when they’re trying to impress someone and immediately regret it.

╰ They are the office prankster. And no one suspects a thing.

Every missing stapler, glitter bomb, whoopee cushion, and mysteriously replaced family photo? That’s them. The mild-mannered barista/accountant/space pilot you’d never suspect. They’ve got an entire prank calendar hidden in their sock drawer and a spreadsheet of targets and outcomes. But they also have boundaries. No emotional damage. Just chaos.

╰ They have a full-on karaoke alter ego.

Different name. Different voice. Whole new personality. They sneak off to karaoke bars in the next town over wearing sunglasses indoors and croon power ballads like their soul is trapped in a 2005 romcom montage. Their go-to number is “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” Their real friends have no idea. And if they ever found out? This character would simply evaporate.

╰ They collect the weirdest sh*t you’ve ever seen.

Not stamps. Not coins. Try: novelty rubber ducks. Ugly fridge magnets. Cursed porcelain dolls. Empty chip bags from every country they’ve visited. Their closet is one shelf away from being a museum of “What Even Is This.” No one knows. No one must know. It brings them joy. It’s their version of peace. And yeah, it’s a little creepy. But it’s theirs.

╰ They cannot cook to save their life. Like, not even toast.

They once set a salad on fire. The microwave fears them. Every “simple recipe” turns into a crime scene. But instead of admitting it, they just… lie. Constantly. “Oh yeah, I made that!” (They did not. Their neighbor did. And their neighbor swore never to speak of it again.) They’ve mastered the art of deflection, distraction, and showing up with “store-bought but plated nicely.”

╰ They live their life by a bunch of completely nonsensical superstitions.

Never wear green on Wednesdays. If a pigeon looks at you sideways, cancel your plans. Salt must be thrown over the right shoulder or the demons will know. They’ve got a ritual for everything, from writing emails to picking socks. But no one knows they believe this stuff, because they make it look casual. Strategic coincidence. That’s the game.

╰ They throw underground dance parties in their basement. Alone. In costume.

Disco ball? Check. Fog machine? Obviously. Elaborate themed playlists? You bet. Their Tuesday nights are sacred: just them, their playlist called “Sad but Funky,” and a new costume every week. No one suspects. Not the roommates. Not the neighbors. If anyone ever found out, they’d lie and say it was for a friend’s child’s birthday. Every week. Sure.

╰ Their hobbies are… specific. And objectively hilarious.

Like, not “I read books and do yoga” hobbies. More like: competitive pillow fighting. Binge-watching bug documentaries and taking notes. Collecting socks with political slogans. Writing erotica starring finger puppets (don’t ask). They act normal, mostly. But their browser history is a carnival. And their heart? Pure chaos.

[doc-anders]

Yay!!!!! I just saw your latest post – does this mean you’re back on here again?🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🙌🏾🙌🏾🙌🏾

Alright let’s do this, I haven’t slept in a while and I just got back from work.

1. Where the f*ck you been?

I don’t exaggerate when I say every day for the past few years has been hospital, exercise, study, sleep, eat, repeat. I did everything Michelle Obama said to do.

It’s been wild, I went from drawing butt cracks to having patients and students of my own.

2. Are you back?

I wanna be, but I’m kinda at a loss how to be creative again. It’s so hard to switch from giving lectures and doing rounds to writing punchlines. I’m trying to relax a bit. I haven’t been silly in a long time.

3. Now what?

I need updates, I don’t have social media. Send me headcanons, prompts, whatever DC is doing now, new blogs, fanfics you like, what you got goin’ on…

[kxsagi]

May I request first time w bllk boys of your choice, but instead of it being steamy, it ends up being comic relief because for some reason the men can't put it in so the night just went on with gf!reader laughing her ass off and bf!bllk men having existential crisis😼 ignore this if you're uncomfortable! I love your works btw!:3 have a great day/night!

“𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐠𝐨 𝐢𝐧: 𝐚 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝𝐲”

a/n: this was definitely the most suggestive thing i've written so far but it was too funny to not write LMAO

thank you so much and have a great day/night as well!

suggestive and mature content below! all aged-up characters! (MDNI, by choosing to interact, it is your choice despite the warning)

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, kaiser michael, shidou ryusei, karasu tabito, itoshi sae

isagi yoichi

bro was so determined to win at losing his virginity. he was mentally prepping like it was a soccer match. 

“okay. breathe. visualize. go slow.” 

but the moment he tries to slide it in, he misses. three times. 

you’re trying not to laugh but he looks like a confused puppy with a furrowed brow and everything. 

“wait, i swear i aimed right.” 

“baby you’re not shooting a goal, this is not penalty kicks.” 

he spirals. his entire ego deflates. his internal monologue is screaming: how did i miss the goal this bad, am i even the main character anymore??? 

you’re just curled up in bed laughing while he sits at the edge with a blanket over his lap, muttering, “i need to train more…” 

itoshi rin

he was so serious about it. didn’t speak more than five words the whole time. 

but then. the moment of truth. and it just… 

boink (LMAO). he misaligned. 

“rin, that’s my thigh.” 

“shut up. i know.” 

tries again. ends up poking your belly button. 

“are you aiming by echolocation?” 

cue you dissolving into laughter while rin’s soul leaves his body. 

he gets all broody and dramatic like, “this is why i hate people. and romance. and life.” 

you pat his hair and go, “better luck next time, sniper.” 

nagi seishiro

he was so chill about it at first. like, “yeah. sex. sounds tiring, but okay.” 

except it turns out getting it in requires more effort than he thought. 

he’s just kind of poking around lazily like he’s half-asleep. 

“is this… the right angle?” 

“sei. that’s my hipbone.” 

he lays down in defeat like he just died in a video game. “ugh. i give up. let’s just cuddle.” 

and you’re crying laughing while he burritos himself in the blanket and says, “this is why i stick to games.” 

mikage reo

oh he thought he had it in the bag. mr. smooth rich boy. 

candles lit. music playing. rose petals on the bed. 

then cue 5 straight minutes of struggling. 

you: “babe, you okay?” 

reo: sweating bullets, whispering “i can’t find the entrance.” 

you: “it’s not a bank vault, reo.” 

poor boy looks so offended. “i’ve studied diagrams! i watched tutorials!” 

you’re cackling while he’s looking at the wall like it betrayed him. 

“this is not how it was supposed to go… my legacy…”

kaiser michael

listen. this man walked in like he was god’s gift to earth. said some cheesy german line like “tonight, i make you scream.” 

0 for 1 on that promise. 

because for the life of him, he can’t get the angle right. 

tries. fails. tries again. misses again. 

“i swear this never happens.” 

“you sound like a sitcom punchline.” 

and then you wheeze-laugh so hard you fall off the bed. 

kaiser just lies there dramatically like an oil painting, one arm draped over his forehead. “i’ve been humbled.” 

will not stop bringing it up later. “remember that time my genius was too much for your mortal body to handle?” 

you: “you poked my knee.” 

him: “semantics.” 

shidou ryusei

bro walked in already unhinged. 

smirking like a menace. said “i’m gonna blow your back out” with way too much confidence. 

cut to five minutes later: he’s on his knees, staring at your thighs like they’re a puzzle. 

“where the hell is it? is this a trap?” 

“shidou. shidou. that’s my armpit.” 

“oh. well you were twisted weird!” 

you’re crying from laughing. this man was so loud and proud only to fumble like a rookie. 

suddenly goes quiet. shidou. quiet. 

stares at the wall like he saw god. 

“maybe this is the universe humbling me…” 

you: “finally.” 

him: “shut the hell up, you’re laughing like a hyena. i’m in mourning.” 

karasu tabito

okay so karasu definitely talked a big game beforehand. 

super smug like “you won’t be able to walk after this.” 

tried to take the lead. acted confident. 

then proceeded to line himself up completely wrong. 

you’re like, “tabi. that’s not it.” 

he freezes. “you sure? feels right.” 

“no. no it doesn’t.” 

looks down. stares in betrayal. “oh… oh.” 

you start laughing and cannot stop. 

he lays on his back dramatically like he just got shot. 

“i used to have pride. i used to have a future.” 

you’re snorting, tears in your eyes while he covers himself with a pillow and mutters “don’t talk to me. i’m in my flop era.” 

itoshi sae

sae genuinely thought he was above this. like… this was supposed to be effortless. 

gave you a look like “i got this.” 

spoiler: he did not. 

tries to guide himself in and hits… air. 

tries again. pokes the mattress. 

you: “… are you okay?” 

him: “this is… frustrating.” 

you start giggling. he’s deadpan. 

“don’t laugh.” 

you: “but you’re so SERIOUS. it’s like watching someone try to parallel park and give up.” 

he sighs, rolls off you, and just stares at the ceiling like it offended him. 

“sex is stupid. i’m going to sleep.” 

you’re still laughing while he tucks himself in like a burrito, mumbling “this is why i focus on football.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[gyuuberryy]

trapped

READ THE FULL FIC HERE

pairing: hotel owner!heeseung x reader

genre: reincarnation au, supernatural themes, horror

synopsis: a road trip with your parents gone wrong lands you at a mysterious mansion in the middle of nowhere. after it turns out to be a hotel, your parents decide to stop over. everything about this place screams deja vu to you which is strange because you've never even heard about it. the hotel was not the only weird thing though, its handsome yet mysterious owner who looked like he stepped out of the 1920s is way too enthusiastic about your stay. every encounter with him leaves you feeling weirded out yet enamoured. but he is not who you think he seems to be. he will be the one to decide the duration of your stay here and it looks like it will not be ending anytime soon.

warnings: horror themes, suggestive content, slight yandere themes, manipulation, possessive!hee, more to be added!

note: let's ignore the fact that i have so many reports and essays to write for school rn !!!! because i HAD to release smth for halloween. this should be out by next weekkk

word count: 24.2k

comment or send an ask to be added to the taglist

ᨓ READ THE TEASER BELOW

heeseung’s words seemed to echo in the cavernous dining hall, each syllable hanging in the air like a weight pressing down on your chest.

you shifted in your seat, suddenly aware of how isolated you were from everyone else. your parents were somewhere outside, wandering the sprawling gardens with sunoo, oblivious to the tension brewing in this room. and you were here—alone with heeseung, who was studying you like you were the most fascinating thing in the world.

he leaned back in his chair, a slow, deliberate movement, his eyes never leaving yours. “this mansion has a long history,” he began, his voice low and smooth, like velvet. “it’s been standing for centuries, long before this area became what it is now.”

you swallowed, trying to keep your unease from showing. “centuries? that’s… impressive.”

heeseung nodded, his fingers tracing the edge of his plate in a casual, almost absent-minded way. “impressive, yes. but also… haunted by its past.” his eyes gleamed with something you couldn’t quite place. “you see, many who come here find themselves drawn in by the allure of the unknown. they come seeking something different, something unique. and often, they find more than they bargained for.”

you felt a chill run down your spine. the way he spoke—so calm, so composed—made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. it was as if he was telling you a story he had told many times before, one with a punchline you wouldn’t like.

“what do you mean by that?” you asked, your voice quiet but firm. you didn’t want to seem rattled, even though you were starting to feel like the walls were closing in around you.

heeseung’s smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “let’s just say this mansion has a way of revealing things… about the people who stay here. things they may not even realize about themselves.”

your pulse quickened. “that sounds a little ominous.”

heeseung chuckled, the sound soft and unsettling. “it’s not meant to be. it’s just… the nature of this place. it has a way of bringing the truth to the surface. you’ll see, in time.”

you didn’t like the way he said that, as if you were going to be here long enough for the mansion to work its mysterious magic on you. you were only supposed to stay until the car was fixed, and then you and your family would be gone. the thought of staying here any longer than necessary made your stomach churn.

“i don’t think we’ll be here long enough for that,” you said, forcing a small smile.

heeseung’s eyes flashed with something—disappointment? amusement? it was hard to tell. “you never know,” he said quietly, his gaze intense. “sometimes, plans change.”

you glanced away, focusing on your barely touched plate. the food that had once looked so appealing now seemed like a burden, something you had no appetite for. you just wanted this conversation to end, to find your parents and get out of this place as soon as possible.

as if sensing your discomfort, heeseung leaned back again, his demeanor shifting ever so slightly. “i didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he said, though there was a glint in his eyes that told you he knew exactly what he was doing. “it’s just that… guests here tend to stay longer than they anticipate. this place has a way of… captivating people.”

the word captivating sounded too much like trapping for your liking.

before you could respond, the door to the dining hall creaked open, and you breathed a silent sigh of relief as your parents entered, laughing and chatting with sunoo, who was still wearing his unsettlingly bright smile. their carefree demeanor was such a stark contrast to the tension you’d been feeling that it almost made you dizzy.

“sweetie, you should see the gardens!” your mom exclaimed as she approached the table, oblivious to the undercurrent of unease between you and heeseung. “they’re absolutely gorgeous. i’ve never seen anything like it.”

your dad nodded in agreement, beaming. “it’s like something out of a storybook.”

you forced a smile, trying to match their enthusiasm. “that’s great. i’m glad you had fun.”

sunoo’s eyes flicked to heeseung for a brief moment, something unspoken passing between them, and then he turned his bright gaze back to your family. “i’m sure you’ll have plenty of time to explore the rest of the estate before you leave.”

you stiffened at his words, catching the subtle implication. you weren’t leaving any time soon.

heeseung stood then, smoothing down the front of his suit, his gaze lingering on you for just a beat too long before he addressed your parents. “i’ve arranged for the mechanic to give me an update on the car shortly. in the meantime, please, make yourselves comfortable. feel free to explore the mansion further if you’d like.”

your parents seemed delighted by the prospect, but you felt a knot of anxiety tighten in your chest. you couldn’t shake the feeling that this place was trying to keep you here, that every step you took deeper into the mansion only tangled you further in its web.

heeseung’s gaze slid back to you, his smile as charming and unsettling as ever. “i’ll make sure everything is taken care of. don’t worry.”

but worry was all you could feel as your family began to follow sunoo out of the dining hall, leaving you to trail behind, your thoughts spinning. as you exited the room, you couldn’t help but glance back at heeseung, who stood by the door, watching you with that same piercing gaze.

there was something about the way he looked at you—something that made you feel like a fly caught in a spider’s web.

and you weren't sure if you could escape.

𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 ©𝗴𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆𝘆 on Tumblr

˚ · .𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱

[cloudyluun]

Under the Dining Table

Summary: A casual dinner with friends takes an unexpected turn when Harry’s hand finds its way under your dress. What starts as a teasing touch quickly escalates into a dangerous game, his fingers stroking you in slow, torturous movements while you struggle to keep your composure. The thrill of getting caught only fuels the fire between you, and when dinner finally ends, Harry wastes no time dragging you into a private space to finish what he started.

A/N: So, uh… I was supposed to be writing something wholesome, but my brain took a sharp left turn into filthville, and here we are. 🫣 Blame Harry, not me. (Actually, blame me—I had way too much fun writing this.) not proofread so sorry!!

Also, OMG?? I hit 500 followers?!? WHAT?!? Thank you all so much for being here, for reading my unhinged little stories, and for enabling my questionable life choices. As a token of my appreciation, here’s an extra post—filled with chaos, tension, and Harry being an absolute menace. Enjoy, you heathens. 😈🔥

P.S. If you get caught reading this in public, that’s on you. I take no responsibility. 👀

Word Count: 6k

Warnings:

Explicit Smut!

Public teasing (Harry has no shame, and neither do you)

Filthy behavior at the dinner table (do NOT try this at a family gathering)

The risk of getting caught (adds to the thrill, obviously)

Harry being an absolute menace (as usual)

Y/N struggling to keep a straight face (good luck with that)

Zero self-control (from both of you, let’s be honest)

Possible secondhand embarrassment (for the poor, unsuspecting dinner guests)

You will never look at dinner the same way again (hope it was worth it)

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

The dinner starts off casually—wine is poured, conversations flow, and laughter fills the air. The restaurant hums with soft chatter, the low flicker of candlelight reflecting in the deep red of your wine glass. Plates clink, silverware scrapes, and the warm scent of roasted garlic and fresh herbs lingers in the air.

It’s meant to be just another dinner with friends, nothing out of the ordinary. A night to unwind, to catch up after weeks of conflicting schedules. Harry’s bandmates are here—Mitch, Sarah, Ny, Pauli, Adam, and Elin. The whole crew, filling out the long table with easy conversation and shared memories from tour.

And yet… there’s an underlying charge.

It started small, like a current building beneath the surface. Harry had been seated beside you by chance—an open seat, a last-minute rearrangement. But now, everything about his presence feels intentional.

The way he sat just close enough for his knee to brush yours under the table.

The way his fingers toyed absentmindedly with the rim of his glass, his rings catching the low light.

The way his cologne—deep, woodsy, and devastatingly familiar—lingered between you every time he shifted in his seat.

You try to ignore it, try to focus on the conversation. Mitch is recounting a story from tour, something about a hotel mix-up that left him and Harry in the wrong rooms, and Sarah is already laughing before he even gets to the punchline.

You laugh too, swirling your wine in your glass, willing yourself to stay grounded in the moment.

But then, there’s him.

Harry leans back in his chair, one arm slung casually over the backrest, his fingers just barely grazing your exposed shoulder. He’s listening, engaging, but you catch the flicker of his gaze drifting—not to Mitch, not to anyone else at the table.

To you.

You don’t have to look to know he’s taking in every inch of your outfit. The silk of your dress—delicate, effortless. Thin straps, a neckline that just barely toes the line of appropriate, a hem that rides a little higher when you cross your legs.

And then, finally—finally—he speaks.

His lips brush your ear, voice smooth, controlled. Dangerous.

"You knew what you were doing when you put this on, didn’t you?"

It’s not really a question.

Your breath catches—just slightly—but you school your features, keeping them neutral as you bring your glass to your lips. The wine is rich, dry, but it does little to soothe the heat crawling up your spine.

"No idea what you’re talking about," you murmur, voice even.

A low hum rumbles in his throat, amused but unconvinced. His fingers—slow, calculated—skim the edge of your knee beneath the table, barely there.

You know it’s deliberate.

He knows you know.

"Right." He exhales softly, tilting his head, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk. "Just a coincidence, then?"

His fingers brush higher. The tiniest movement. Just enough to make your pulse stutter.

"That this dress is driving me absolutely fucking insane?"

It’s maddening.

The setting, the people, the complete normalcy of the moment contrasted with the way his words slip beneath your skin like a match to gasoline.

The conversation around you continues uninterrupted. Pauli is cracking a joke. Sarah is leaning into Mitch. Ny is scrolling through something on her phone, laughing under her breath.

No one notices the way Harry’s touch lingers.

No one hears the unspoken promise laced in his voice.

But you feel it.

And when his fingers—light as a whisper—drag another inch up your thigh, your breath hitches just enough for him to notice.

The smirk that spreads across his lips is slow, knowing. He doesn’t push further. Doesn’t need to.

You know exactly what kind of night this is going to be.

It starts small—his pinky brushing against yours as he reaches for his drink. A small spark. A warning.

It could have been accidental, a mere slip of movement, but you both know better. The heat from his skin lingers even after the briefest touch, and your stomach clenches as your fingers flex against the stem of your wine glass.

You should pull away. Create distance. But you don’t.

Instead, you let the moment stretch, let it settle between you like the space between lightning and thunder. A crackling anticipation, thick and waiting to strike.

Then, his hand rests on your knee. Innocent at first. A casual gesture.

It would mean nothing if it were anyone else. A natural movement, a simple touch. But it’s Harry. And his hand—warm, heavy, deliberate—burns through the silk of your dress like an unspoken promise.

You keep your focus on the conversation around you. Mitch is talking about the festival lineup for next summer. Pauli and Adam are debating whether they should get another round of drinks. Sarah is laughing at something Elin said.

And Harry?

Harry is pretending he isn’t setting your body on fire under the table.

Then, his fingers slowly drag higher.

It’s subtle, measured, the kind of touch that feels unbearably slow because you’re already hyper-aware of it.

The first few inches are nothing—just the soft press of his fingertips against your bare skin. But then, he parts your legs just slightly. A silent question.

You inhale sharply, barely a sound, but enough for Harry to catch it. His lips twitch, amused.

Your brain is screaming at you to stop this before it goes too far. Before someone notices.

But instead, you let your legs fall further apart.

The moment you do, he exhales a quiet chuckle. Low, smug, so quiet only you can hear it. His fingertips dance along the inside of your thigh, teasing at the hem of your dress.

You can’t focus on anything else.

The conversation at the table continues as if nothing is happening. You nod along, force a small laugh at something Mitch says. But the second his fingers slip just beneath the fabric, pressing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, your grip on your wine glass tightens.

Your pulse is pounding in your ears.

You’re mid-sentence—mid-fucking-sentence—when you feel it. The softest graze of Harry’s fingers under the table.

Your body jolts in response.

It’s casual at first, almost innocent, as if he’s just adjusting his position. But then his fingers start tracing small, lazy circles over your bare skin.

You shoot him a look. A warning. A silent What the fuck do you think you’re doing?

But Harry? Harry doesn’t even glance at you.

His attention is fixed across the table, his expression easy, relaxed, engaged in conversation like he isn’t currently driving you absolutely insane.

The pads of his fingers press into your thigh, massaging slow, deliberate strokes.

You swallow hard, shifting in your seat, trying—failing—to pretend your body isn’t already reacting to his touch.

Then, he squeezes.

Firm. Just enough pressure to send a rush of heat down your spine.

And when his thumb drags up, up, up, pushing the silk of your dress just a little higher—

You realize you are completely and utterly fucked.

His fingers travel higher, skimming where you need him most, but he doesn’t give in. Instead, he taps his fingers—just barely touching over your underwear.

The teasing, the unbearable lightness of his touch, sends a slow, torturous ache through you. You let out the softest exhale, shifting slightly, but it only encourages him.

His breath is warm against your ear as he murmurs, “Keep still, sweetheart.”

Your pulse hammers. He’s playing a dangerous game, and you’re too far gone to stop him.

He keeps his touch featherlight, circling over your already damp panties, and your thighs clench involuntarily. He notices. Of course, he notices. The smug amusement radiates off him, the slight twitch of his lips betraying how much he enjoys this.

Across the table, someone calls your name, and you have to steady yourself before answering. Your voice is barely even, and Harry grins when he feels your body tense at the effort.

His fingers inch higher, slipping beneath the fabric of your dress. The shift is so small, so subtle, yet it sends a shiver down your spine. Your breath catches, but you try to remain still.

He leans in, lips just barely brushing your ear, voice low and teasing. “You’re so quiet. Something wrong, love?”

You glare at him, but it only makes him smirk. His fingers slide higher, the tips of them teasing the very edge of your underwear, and you fight the urge to squirm.

He resumes eating with his free hand, completely unbothered, while his fingers continue their slow exploration.

You try to focus on the conversation, to process whatever meaningless small talk is happening around you, but it’s impossible when he drags his fingertips along the inside of your thigh, getting dangerously close.

The heat between your legs is unbearable. The anticipation is excruciating. And worst of all—he knows it.

Harry’s fingers finally push your underwear aside, fingertips dipping between your folds, just enough to coat them in your arousal. The first contact makes your entire body jolt, and you have to bite down on your lip to keep from making a sound.

His touch is light, exploratory. He’s taking his time, as if memorizing every slick detail, as if he has all night to play with you like this. A single finger traces over your clit, slow and deliberate, and you swallow hard, your grip tightening around your fork. You focus on the weight of it in your hand, anything to distract yourself from the way he’s barely moving, barely giving you enough, but somehow, it’s already making you dizzy.

Your body responds instinctively, hips tilting toward him, chasing more friction, but he denies you that, keeping his touch featherlight. The smug bastard. His lips part slightly as he watches you struggle, his amusement barely concealed beneath the practiced ease of his expression. He’s reveling in this, in you.

"So wet for me already," he whispers, voice so low only you can hear. His breath ghosts over your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

Your fingers twitch under the table, reaching for his wrist. Your nails dig into his skin, but you don’t push him away. You couldn’t, even if you wanted to. Instead, you squeeze your thighs around his hand, a silent, desperate plea for more. He chuckles, the sound deep and knowing, vibrating straight through you.

His smirk deepens. “Needy little thing.”

Before you can snap back at him—not that you can form words right now anyway—he finally gives you what you want. His finger dips inside, slow and unhurried, sinking into your heat with a teasing curl. The stretch is minimal, barely anything compared to what you need, but it still steals your breath. A small, sharp inhale betrays you, and Harry has to bite back a laugh.

You’re completely at his mercy, caught between maintaining composure and succumbing to the slow, torturous pleasure he’s giving you. He works you slowly, teasingly, his finger slipping in and out with an agonizing lack of urgency. Every now and then, he curls it just right, pressing against a spot that makes your toes curl inside your heels. Your thighs tremble as you struggle to keep yourself still, as if staying quiet and composed will keep you from fully unraveling.

Meanwhile, the conversation around you continues as if nothing is happening. You try to focus, try to pick up on any part of it, but the words slip past you, meaningless and distant. Your plate is in front of you, the food untouched. You attempt to lift your fork, to act normal, but the second he drags his fingertip along that spot again, your grip falters. The fork nearly clatters against your plate, and you stiffen.

Harry chuckles under his breath, entirely too pleased with himself.

You shoot him a glare from the corner of your eye, but it only fuels his amusement. He’s enjoying this, savoring the way you struggle, the way your body reacts despite your best efforts to fight it.

Then—just as you’re about to lose control, just as your body begins to tighten around him, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter—he pulls away.

You nearly whimper at the loss, at the way the heat between your legs turns into a dull, aching throb. Your chest rises and falls, breath unsteady, hands gripping the edge of your dress in frustration. You dare to glance at him, and he’s already looking at you, smug as ever. He lifts his hand, slipping his finger into his mouth, eyes locked on yours as he tastes you.

Then, as if nothing happened at all, he picks up his fork and resumes eating.

Then—just as you’re about to lose control, just as your body begins to tighten around him, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter—he pulls away.

You nearly whimper at the loss, at the way the heat between your legs turns into a dull, aching throb. Your chest rises and falls, breath unsteady, hands gripping the edge of your dress in frustration. You dare to glance at him, and he’s already looking at you, smug as ever. He lifts his hand, slipping his finger into his mouth, eyes locked on yours as he tastes you.

Then, as if nothing happened at all, he picks up his fork and resumes eating.

You shoot him a glare, but he just shrugs, sipping his wine like nothing happened.

"Be good," he mutters, adjusting himself in his seat. "I’ll take care of you properly when we get home."

But two can play that game. You shift in your seat, letting your hand casually drop under the table—right onto his thigh.

His jaw tightens, a quiet warning.

You lean in, lips grazing his ear. "Don’t start something you can’t finish, baby."

His eyes darken instantly.

The night just got a lot more interesting.

Your fingers move with a lazy purpose, tracing circles along the inside of his thigh. You can feel the tension in his muscles, how hard he’s fighting to keep his composure. But you don’t stop. If he wants to play, so will you.

His fingers flex around his fork, knuckles turning white as you inch higher, teasing him the same way he teased you. His chest rises in a slow, measured breath, but you know him too well—he’s struggling.

“Careful,” he warns, voice a quiet growl only meant for you. “You don’t want to test me, sweetheart.”

You smirk, pressing a little firmer, feeling how hard he is beneath the fabric. “Oh, but I do.”

The conversation carries on around you, oblivious to the war happening beneath the table. You keep your touches light, teasing, making sure no one notices. The power shift makes you bold. You lean in, lips brushing against his jaw as you whisper, “You started it.”

His jaw clenches, his entire body thrumming with restraint. He doesn’t respond, just downs the rest of his wine and places the glass back onto the table with slow, deliberate ease.

Eventually, the dinner winds down. Harry is quiet as you exchange goodbyes, polite and composed, but you can see the storm brewing in his eyes. You drag out the farewells just to see how far you can push him.

By the time you slide into the car, the air is thick with tension. The driver pulls away, and you barely have a second to process before Harry’s hand is on your thigh, his grip bruising.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” he mutters, low and dangerous.

You bite your lip, trying to suppress a smile. “A little.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, his fingers digging in just enough to make you shiver. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t need to. The promise in his touch is enough.

The ride is painfully silent. His fingers remain on your thigh, possessive and unmoving, like a silent warning.

As soon as the front door shuts, Harry is on you.

His hands find your waist with ease, firm and possessive, and before you can even think of teasing him further, he spins you around, pressing you against the nearest wall. The air between you is thick with tension, the kind that had been simmering beneath the surface all evening, igniting fully the moment you stepped inside. Your breath hitches, chest rising and falling with anticipation as he cages you in with his body, broad and unyielding.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” His voice is low, rough—nothing like the teasing murmur he used over dinner, when he was playing along with your little game. Now, there’s no mistaking it; he’s done playing.

A smirk tugs at the corner of your lips despite the heat crawling up your neck. You love pushing him just to see how far he’ll go, love the way his patience snaps like a tight string pulled too far. “A little,” you hum, letting your voice drip with defiance.

His jaw clenches, the muscle ticking in irritation—or maybe something darker. His fingers flex at your hips, gripping tighter, holding you still against the wall. He leans in, his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear, warm breath sending a shiver down your spine.

“You have no idea what you’ve just done, sweetheart.”

The words send a thrill straight through you, pooling heat in your stomach. He doesn’t wait for a response. His hands are already moving, one sliding around to the small of your back, the other dipping lower, skimming the hem of your dress. He tugs it up just enough to expose more of your thigh, his fingers teasing the bare skin there, deliberate and slow.

“You think I wouldn’t notice?” he murmurs, his mouth trailing down, barely brushing the sensitive skin beneath your jaw. A shiver racks through you when his teeth catch just slightly, enough to make you gasp. “You in this dress, looking at me like that all night? Saying all those things just to get a rise out of me?”

You swallow hard, trying to steady your breathing, but it’s impossible when he’s this close, when his presence alone makes your knees weak. “And what if I was?” you challenge, your voice barely above a whisper.

A sharp exhale leaves him, and then his hips press against yours, pinning you in place. There’s no mistaking the hard evidence of exactly what you’ve done to him. “Then you’re about to find out exactly what that does to me.”

His hand trails higher, fingertips ghosting over the inside of your thigh, making you arch into his touch instinctively. The anticipation alone is enough to have you breathless, every nerve in your body hyper-aware of his movements, his touch, his voice.

“Tell me, love,” he murmurs, tilting your chin up with his fingers so you have no choice but to meet his gaze. It’s dark, smoldering, filled with something just on the edge of restraint. “Did you wear this just for me?”

Your heart pounds against your ribs as you bite your lip. “Maybe.”

His eyes darken further, and the corner of his mouth lifts in something that isn’t quite a smile. “You like teasing me?” His grip tightens slightly, thumb stroking over your jaw before trailing down the column of your throat, a silent reminder of just how in control he is.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like that, not when he’s so close, his lips hovering just over yours, waiting, daring you to break first.

“Because that little game you played at dinner?” His voice is lower now, thicker, dripping with the kind of promise that makes your stomach flip. “That’s going to cost you.”

And then his lips crash onto yours, all restraint snapping in an instant. His hands are everywhere—gripping, exploring, claiming—while his body presses you deeper against the wall, as if he can’t get close enough. You melt into him, into the heat, into the way his mouth moves against yours, demanding and desperate all at once.

He’s not just kissing you. He’s consuming you.

His hands slide up your thighs, pushing your dress higher, bunching the fabric at your hips. His touch is searing, fingers dragging along your skin with purpose, igniting a fire beneath every inch they explore. The rough pads of his fingers contrast against the softness of your skin, teasing, pressing, exploring. His grip on your ass is firm, squeezing possessively before delivering a sharp slap that makes you gasp, the sting fading into a pulsing warmth that sends a fresh wave of arousal through you.

He chuckles darkly at your reaction, his knee pressing between your legs, forcing them further apart. The pressure is just enough to keep you aching for more, but not enough to satisfy the growing need inside you. "Look at you," he murmurs, his fingers grazing up the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, slow and deliberate. "Still soaked for me. Such a desperate little thing, aren’t you?"

Heat surges through you at his words, your body betraying just how much his teasing affects you. His fingers skim over the damp fabric of your underwear, feeling the evidence of your arousal. He tuts, shaking his head as if disappointed. "I barely touched you at dinner, and you were ready to come undone right there in front of everyone." His voice is thick with amusement, but there’s something darker beneath it—something possessive, something that tells you he’s going to make you pay for every second of your teasing.

You shift against him, trying to grind against his knee, searching for any kind of relief, but his grip tightens instantly. "Uh-uh. You’re not in control, baby. I am."

With a quick, decisive movement, he hooks his fingers into your underwear and rips them down, the fabric sliding down your legs to pool at your ankles. The cool air against your exposed skin makes you shiver, but it’s nothing compared to the way his fingers brush over your folds, spreading your wetness, teasing, never quite giving you what you need. His touch is maddening, featherlight strokes that keep you on edge, keep you trembling with anticipation.

"I should bend you over this table and fuck you right here," he muses, voice dripping with authority, with the promise of something utterly sinful. "But that would be too easy."

Instead, he sinks to his knees before you, his broad hands gripping your thighs, keeping them spread. The sight of him there, between your legs, dark curls falling over his forehead, eyes burning with hunger—it’s almost too much. He looks at you like you’re something to be worshipped, but also something to be broken apart, unraveled slowly, piece by piece.

His lips brush against your inner thigh, his breath warm and teasing. His tongue flicks out, barely grazing your clit, making you jolt, a whimper escaping before you can stop it. But just as quickly as you feel him—he’s gone, pulling back with a smirk. "No, not yet."

A desperate sound catches in your throat as he licks up your arousal but never gives you the pressure you’re desperate for. He drags it out, taking his time, teasing you mercilessly. Every time your hips buck, every time you try to chase his mouth, he pulls away, making you suffer in the best way possible.

"Told you, baby," he murmurs, his voice low and taunting. His lips hover just above where you need him most, his breath sending shivers through your body. "You don’t get to be greedy."

He waits, watching you tremble beneath his touch, watching your chest rise and fall in ragged breaths. He wants you on the edge, wants you desperate, wants you aching for him in a way that borders on unbearable. And he won’t give in—not yet.

Not until you’re completely undone for him.

And then, finally, he gives in.

His lips wrap around your clit, sucking it into his mouth with just the right amount of pressure. At the same time, two of his fingers slide inside you, stretching you open, filling you in a way that has your back arching off the surface behind you. The moan that rips from your throat is wrecked, raw, and needy, the sound of pure surrender.

He groans in response, the vibration sending jolts of pleasure through your body. His free hand grips your hip tightly, holding you in place as your thighs threaten to snap shut around his head. But he doesn’t let you—he keeps you open, keeps you exposed, keeps you right where he wants you.

His fingers move with precision, curling just right, pressing against that perfect spot deep inside you over and over. Every movement, every stroke, every flick of his tongue is deliberate, calculated to drive you closer and closer to the edge.

"Fuck, you’re clenching so tight," he murmurs against you, his breath hot against your slick skin. "You gonna come for me, love?"

You nod frantically, your hands scrambling for something—anything—to hold on to. His hair, the edge of the table, the fabric of his shirt—none of it is enough to ground you as the pleasure builds, higher and higher, coiling tight in your stomach, threatening to snap.

And then—

He pulls away completely.

A choked, frustrated whimper leaves your lips, your body trembling, aching for release. But he only smirks, standing up slowly, towering over you as he watches you struggle to catch your breath.

"Did you think I’d let you come that easy?" he taunts, his voice dripping with amusement, but there’s an unmistakable edge beneath it. His hand grips your jaw, tilting your face up to his. His thumb brushes over your swollen bottom lip. "After the shit you pulled tonight?"

You barely have time to process the question before he reaches for his belt, unfastening it with slow, deliberate movements. The sound of the leather sliding through the loops sends a shiver down your spine, your thighs squeezing together instinctively.

"On your knees." His voice is dangerously low, dark and commanding, leaving no room for argument.

You obey instantly, your body reacting on pure instinct. Lust pools in your stomach as you watch him pull his cock free, thick and already leaking at the tip. The sight of him, flushed and hard, makes your mouth water, your tongue darting out to wet your lips as you look up at him with wide, wanting eyes.

He drags the head of his cock over your lips, smearing precum across them, teasing you just as much as he had been before. "Open up, baby," he murmurs, his tone deceptively soft, laced with something darker. "Since you wanna be a tease so bad, let’s see how well you use that mouth."

You part your lips obediently, your tongue flicking out to taste him before you take him in, inch by inch. You hollow your cheeks, sucking him in deeper, your throat stretching to accommodate his size. A low groan rumbles from his chest, his head tilting back slightly as his fingers tangle into your hair.

"Fuck—just like that, sweetheart," he rasps, his hand pressing lightly against the back of your head, guiding your movements. "Such a good little thing for me now, huh?"

He pulls you off with a slick pop, his hand shifting to your chin, tilting your face up so you have no choice but to look at him. His thumb drags across your swollen lips, smearing the mess of saliva and precum. His gaze darkens, heat rolling off of him in waves. "Think you’re ready to take what I owe you?"

Your breath catches, anticipation coiling in your stomach as he helps you up, guiding you onto shaky legs. His grip is firm as he spins you around and bends you over the dining table, pressing your chest to the cool surface. He doesn’t hesitate, one large palm sliding up your back before retreating, only to come down hard against your ass. The sharp crack echoes through the room, a stinging warmth blossoming across your skin.

"That’s for making me hard in public," he growls, kneading the flesh before landing another slap, watching the way your body jolts in response.

Before you can even catch your breath, he lines himself up and thrusts forward, slamming into you in one deep, punishing stroke. The force of it knocks the air from your lungs, a wrecked moan spilling from your lips as he fills you completely, stretching you to the point of delicious discomfort. He doesn’t ease you into it, doesn’t give you time to adjust—not after the way you teased him all night.

His grip is bruising, fingers digging into your hips as he sets a relentless pace, each thrust deep and deliberate, pushing you further into the table with every snap of his hips. He’s merciless, his restraint completely shattered, taking exactly what he’s been aching for.

"You feel that, love?" he rasps, voice thick with lust. "That’s what happens when you tease me all night."

A whimper leaves you, nails scratching against the wooden surface as he presses a hand to your lower stomach. He groans when he feels himself moving inside you, the pressure making your walls flutter around him. "Right here, yeah? You feel me right here?"

You can barely think, let alone respond. Your head falls forward, breath coming in short, desperate pants as pleasure coils tighter and tighter. He’s everywhere—overwhelming, consuming, ruining you in the best possible way.

"You’re gonna come like this," he grits out, his rhythm unrelenting. "Stretched around my cock, taking every inch like a good girl."

His fingers slip between your legs, finding your clit with expert precision, rubbing tight, insistent circles that have you teetering on the edge almost instantly. The combination of it all—his deep, punishing thrusts, the way he’s stretching you, the possessive grip on your body—sends you spiraling.

Your orgasm slams into you, pleasure crashing over you in waves, your walls clenching around him as you fall apart. A strangled moan tears from your throat, your body trembling beneath him.

"That’s it, baby—fuck, that’s my girl," he groans, his thrusts growing erratic, deeper, rougher as he chases his own release. He buries himself to the hilt, his grip tightening as his hips stutter, his cock pulsing inside you as he spills deep, a broken moan escaping his lips.

For a moment, neither of you move, both of you breathless and spent. His hands glide over your back, soothing, grounding, before he leans down, pressing a lingering kiss between your shoulder blades.

"You okay, sweetheart?" he murmurs, his voice softer now, tinged with something warm.

You hum in response, a lazy, satisfied smile tugging at your lips. "More than okay."

He doesn’t pull out right away. Instead, he stays inside you, his body pressed flush against yours, his breaths warm and uneven against your shoulder. His lips, still swollen from earlier kisses, brush over your spine—soft, reverent, like he’s memorizing you with every touch.

"You okay, love?" His voice is lower now, tender in a way that contrasts with the way he had just unraveled you. His hands move over your waist, slow and soothing, fingertips tracing lazy patterns along your skin as if grounding you both in the aftershocks.

You nod, a satisfied hum vibrating in your throat. "Better than okay."

A pleased sound rumbles in his chest before he finally pulls out, a groan slipping from his lips as he watches the way his release spills from you. His fingers brush over your inner thigh, as if resisting the urge to push it back inside. His jaw tightens, his pupils blown wide with something both possessive and enamored.

“Fuck—you look so pretty like this.”

Before you can respond, he scoops you up effortlessly, carrying you to the bed like you weigh nothing. The mattress dips as he lays you down with care, his touch never leaving you. He disappears for only a moment, and when he returns, the cool press of a warm, damp cloth against your skin makes you shiver. He cleans you up gently, his fingers barely grazing over sensitive spots, his touch tender despite the wicked gleam still lingering in his eyes.

Once he’s satisfied, he tosses the cloth aside and pulls you against him, tucking you into his chest. His arms wrap around you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away, one hand splaying over your lower back while the other tangles into your hair. His lips press against your temple, murmuring something too quiet to catch, but the warmth in his voice says enough.

"Next time, you behave at dinner," he mutters, amusement lacing his tone, though there’s an edge of warning beneath it.

A smirk tugs at your lips as you trail a teasing finger over his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your touch. "No promises."

His chuckle is low and dangerous, vibrating against your skin as he tilts your chin up to meet his gaze. His eyes are dark with promise, his fingers tightening ever so slightly against your hip.

"Good," he murmurs, voice husky and laced with anticipation. "I like a challenge."

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️‍🔥

@oscahpastry @mema10 @angelbabyyy99 @iloveharrystyles04 @cinemharry @drwho06 @donutsandpalmtrees @panini @mads3502 @imgonnadreamaboutthewayyoutaaaa @one-sweet-gubler @rizosrizos26 @ciriceimpera @everyscarisahealingplace @hello-heyhi @sexymfharriet @lizsogolden @hannah9921 @chicabonitasblog @huhidontknowstuff @berrywoods1245 @jennovaaa @angeldavis777 @prettygurl-2009 @almostcontentcreator @run-for-the-hills @maudie-duan @dipmeinhoneyh @harrrrystylesslut @georgiarose94 @stylestarkey @watarmelon212 @hopefullimaginer123, @fangirl509east

[yandere-wishes]

OMG THE DAMIAN X CATGIRL ONE WAS SO GOOD I NEED CATWOMAN TO ADOPT A WHOLE LITTER. Soooo imagine AK Jason Todd with a catwoman of his own? Having fun until Jason got stuck and torture at the asylum, only to come back to find that Catwoman have Tim as the new Robin? 🥺.

Because seeing this it just fuels he's hate towards the new Robin for 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙨𝙠𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 HIS catwoman away. Pain to Batman, pain to the new Robin, and now he's bringing it to HER. Hey would she recognize him with the the helmet on? Who knows? 🤷‍♂️

This is an idea I want to write, love u wishes ❤️

NO CAUSE I'VE BEEN SO OBSESSED WITH THIS IDEA!!!!!! It is literally everything!! Poor Jason can't catch a break not only has Batman, his mentor, his father, replaced him! But you! The only girl he's ever loved, someone he's been connected to on such a spiritual level since taking up his mantle. Even you have forgotten him, even you have forsaken him! Oh yeah, definitely pain to reader 😠😠

I want you to be measurable too...

=ᗢ==ᗢ==ᗢ==ᗢ==ᗢ==ᗢ==ᗢ==ᗢ==ᗢ==ᗢ

He'd spent the better days of his boyhood, hanging by the thin metallic thread of a grappling hook. Swinging, feet first from rooftop to rooftop. Muscles taut, body coiled around the rope like a snake around a baobab tree.

He'd read The Little Prince last night, that's how he learned of such marvelous grandiose arbors. Trees that breach the mind, that grow tall enough to shadow Wayne Tower. We wonders if Bruce will take him to Africa one day, he wonders if his mentor will show him the baobab trees. If they'll feel cool and brambly under his palm.

Jason lands on the Museum's roof. Prying through the skylight watching as you kneel by your mentor, your mother. Greedily shoving colorful diamonds into fabric bags. Even in the dark, he's half mesmerized by the fluid motion of your body, the way your muscles flex so smoothly. His breath hitches in his throat too engrossed in the moment.

It's not the baobab trees that Jason thinks of when he sees you.

Instead, it's a rose. Not roses, plural, rose singular. As the rose the little prince had. The thing he cherished more than his own life. The thing he'd die for over and over again.

He hears Bruce land behind him. The moment gone evaporating like morning dew upon red petals. He straightens, ready, he has a job to do, a father to impress.

And maybe that book, that dreadful, wonderful book had been his first taste of bitter love. Through the pages and the words spoken between Prince and Rose, little Jason Todd had savored his first dose of obsession.

You kick him in the shoulder, sending him flying to the skyscraper edge. Jason swings himself up just as you are near to inspect your prey. His knees cage your hips and he uses all his force to push you down.

The stars blink overhead, paparazzi cameras catching a private moment between two masked kids. "Hello, Robin" you purr clawed gloves idly tracing his arm. Jason tries to smile to smirk, to flirt back."H-hello Ki-tty". But the blood rushing to his face has him stunned he can't breathe. Why do you look so pretty like this? Laying on your back staring up at him with big perfect eyes. You tilt your head and meow.

"Hey, that's Miss Kitty to you"...

He likes this new side of you, likes the mace you wield like a whip. It looks like yarn, soft and delicate.

The punchline lands at the same time as the flanged head crashes to his ribs. He thinks they shattered, cartilages cracking, freeing the marrow from within.

So this is what love feels like. Pain that rages from the inside sharp shards piercing soft organ tissue. So painful it tickles and you can feel the blood pooling in your mouth along with all the words you long to say.

No wonder the little prince kept going back to the rose. No wonder he found euphoria in the prick of her thorns.

He struggles to his feet and jumps, as high as he can. His side bruns begging him to stay down. Be he can't, he won't, Bruce wouldn't, and Alfred will find a way to piece him back together. So he takes flight flipping through the air, out of your sight.

For a moment you're stunned lackadaisically twirling your mace like a ballerina's ribbon wand. And even though he's mid attack Jason can't help admiring how ethereal you look, like a lion cub out on her first hunt.

Jason's knees land on your shoulder blades, his weight making you fall on your stomach with a pained scream. Your mace rolls away, thank God, that could have gotten too messy he thinks. Jason tugs hard on your cat ears, pulling back your head and exposing your neck to point a Batarang at your throat. "Here, kitty, kitty" he mocks, playful cadence laced with derision. You hiss out in pain as he brings his head closer. He looks so handsome upside down, like the pretty birds that sing on the balcony.

It's a split second, you raise your head, and the Batarang's wing punctures your collarbone. Your lips push on his, hollow but sweet. You feel his body go ridge his hold on his weapon lost. Still, you persist not breaking your first kiss...

You guess it's his too, you hope it is. Only when you feel his lips push back do you force him off with all your might. Grabbing your mace and jumping to the next rooftop. What is this excitement, so raw, so frantic?

You don't stop running until you make it home.

You don't look back, scared he'll see the bright pink dusting your cheeks.

You open the window and silently slip in.

Only to see Selina waiting in the dark.

Arms crossed and eyebrow raised.

He's baptized by blood and iron.

Broken down bone by bone.

Left to bleed out in the dark on the dirty asylum floor.

Still, he holds your name under his tongue, caged between his teeth.

His little kitten.

Sometimes he pretends you're lying next to him, gazing into his eyes as you too bleed out. Sometimes he laughs at your sarcastic quips at the dreaded clown. No dread is too light a word you'd correct. He finds you more attractive when you spill graphic profanities.

But you're not here, not really. And he can't quite tell if he's happy or not. His hand always reaches out to you. Desperate to feel your warmth, just once more...

And yet he's always met with air.

Always met by the stickiness of his own blood pooling beneath him.

He watches you from afar. Haunting the night, camouflaged amongst the shodws. The still Gotham night feels like a homecoming. A bittersweet reunion with a world that's both abandoned and forgotten him.

The arkham night swallows thickly, from behind his digilitized mask he zooms in on two figures in the distance. Swinging on metal threads, bodies coiled like snakes, latching on. One loses muscle one wrong move and they plummet to their death.

But the figures don't seem scared. You don't seem scared as you laugh at the boy wearing his clothes. No not his clothes, he's made sure to burn them all so very long ago. Instead, the boy wears red and black and yellow, he wears his symbol. But the garments are looser, not carved but built, foreign things covering a boy's body. Not armored built from years of endurance.

Still, you don't seem to mind, you scratch at him playfully as if he were a mouse on a string. You hiss and meow as he laughs and spools sanctimonious gibberish that sounds all so very Bat in nature.

Who else have you been sneaking off with? Jason makes a note to keep a better eye on you.

Jason's ironclad fists meet with Bruce's masked face.

Again and Again. He points his gun beneath his old mentor's ribs and shoots. Feel me he scream inside himself. Feel my pain. From the shadows, something pounces. Familiar nails try to dig into his chest, bypass the iron armor, and impale him.

It doesn't take much force to tug her off of him. He smashes her into the cement. Catwoman lets out an all-so-familiar meowl of pain. His boot meets with her flesh, her bones. Grinding them into the pavement, he can't tell why he wants to hurt her. Does he blame her for your disloyalty, does he want to hurt Bruce? The thoughts grow heavy as his ears buzz with rage. When he finally leaves he tosses a glare behind his shoulder watching the bat crawling toward the cat.

"Don't worry about your Kitten, I'll take better care of her than you ever could." His modulated inhuman voice promises...

It's been all so long since he's thought of roses and baobab tress, so long since he's pretended to be a prince returning to his scared beloved rose. Jason- no the Arkham Knight- corners you on a rooftop as you frantically try to reach your mentor. He watches as you twirl your mace, ready to fight. They're so much hatred behind your eyes, do you really not see him?

Your mace's head swings at his ribs, good to see some things never change, he counters the attack seizing the weapon with one hand. You try to pull it back to bring him to you. Instead, Jason pulls back and you're sent hurling into the thick metal of his chest. Your head spins as you glare up at him. His fingers wrap around your neck squeezing.

squeezing

squeezing

He'll find the new bird later. Crush his skull before your eyes. He'll make you suffer for leaving him. For turning your tretory.

At his base, in an interrogation room, the Arkham Knight slowly starts to peel away your sanity. Breaking your bones, your mind, your essence. Morphing you from the helpless little kitty into a bloodthirsty lioness. Whose only purpose is to be at his beck and call. You'll live for him, die for him. His perfect little pet. And once he knows he's broken your mind completely, the only thoughts swimming around that damaged thing are how to please your master. Then he'll unleash you on Gotham, watching as you tear into your mother's throat, ripping her apart with bare teeth and claws. Just like he will do to his father...

Then, and only then. When Gotham is his, he'll pull away the mask and let you see the man beneath the helm. He'll let you see the man who used to be Jason Todd.

Let me know if you guys ever want a fic or HC on what Jason ends up doing to the reader, I'll try to make it as gorey and darkly romantic as I can. Honestly rn my brain is so fired I can't really come up with anything lol. 😅😅

Love you to the moon and back for this ask Anon!! AAAWWWW Arkham Knight Jason is honestly the LOVE OF MY LIFE!!

[milliesaxe]

but fr. despite hb containing consistent references to sex, its never been a sexy show to me. in a way, it's almost sexless in its abundance of sexual humor. sexuality isn't treated as a punchline, but it's almost always a joke (and that's fine; i'm not making a moral judgement or even a taste judgement, but i would be remiss to say it doesn’t remind me of the concept 'everyone is beautiful but no one is horny'--despite being really, really horny).

sure, you have the obvious stuff--raunchy one-liners, dildo walls, etc. but even the stuff that i feel could, theoretically, be sexy, is taken to an extreme that pushes it into something funny first and sensual second (which, hey, is the point, so they're winning). it's in the way the make-outs always have the characters' tongues exposed and twining so heavily, the drawn-out, overly performative moaning. verosika, a succubus, sings a song all about sex, and it is so tongue-in-cheek it curves back around into being chaste.

the balcony scene is an outlier. the focus is on the emotional states of the characters, and there's less room for exaggeration because the scene HAS to nail walking the tightrope of love and despair, wistfulness and affection. so everything gets toned down, and it's very interesting to see hb write characters flirting and showing attraction in a way that feels more grounded. it places less focus on the potential audience reaction and more on the tension threaded between the characters. and i just. think it's neat.

[dizzyditzblitz]

Wedding Day

something indulgent, and because I literally pulled Shadow Milk himself from the Wedding Gacha and it gave me a writing idea sjfjsd

i do not proofread

Shadow Milk x Fem!Reader

Ohh he was so nervous.

His stomach swirled and knotted like the endless steps of The Spire.. he felt losing his head was less painful than these anxiety pangs..

Apparently, Y/N and Shadow Milk had the same idea—to propose. But Shadow Milk's proposal was nothing short of grandeur... yet he stopped himself.

He didn't want to show everyone a proposal that was meant for Y/N and Y/N alone. Shadow Milk wanted to show her off, revel, and show off his beloved.. but he also wanted to keep her to himself completely.

Besides, even despite having the same idea, it seemed Y/N had beaten him from the punchline. She had proposed via a classic, a dinner. And Shadow Milk absolutely sobbed. Makeup smearing everywhere.

He bawled like a baby, tears of joy and mumbles of much needed assurance that Y/N was sure of marrying him. And Y/N did just that; reassuring him that she meant her proposal and truthfully wished to be with Shadow Milk for the rest of their lives.

And when Candy Apple found out she was immediately flared in jealousy, but was caught off guard when Y/N asked her to be her maid of honor. To say Candy Apple was caught off guard would be an understatement, but begrudgingly, she agreed—for Shadow Milk Cookie.

Shadow Milk actually had asked Pure Vanilla to be his best man; whether that was an ego move or not only Shadow Milk knows. Pure Vanilla had to hold back a chuckle and the urge to poke some jokes at Shadow Milk, but he ultimately agreed.

Black Sapphire was trusted with planning, especially the music since Y/N trusted him with such responsibilities. The entire kingdom was invited, Beasts and all.

And today was the day.

Y/N was getting ready with Wedding Cake Cookie, and it was time for the ceremony to begin.

Shadow Milk was in a white wedding suit, but of course, his sleeves were mismatched. His hair was up in a neat ponytail. A bowtie in the way of an eyeball. His tailcoat dragged and curled on the floor, some blue roses sewn on the edges.

Shadow Milk was fidgeting with the hem of his sleeves, staring down in deep thought as he waited for Y/N to arrive.

What if she doesn't show?

What if she bails?

What if she changed her mind?

His mind raced, his eyes slowly widening with each spiral of thought until he heard Black Sapphire begin playing the piano—classic wedding music.

Immediately, Shadow Milk looked up, and the double doors of the aisle opened, and his eyes widened into stars. His heart borderline stopped.

Y/N began to walk down the brilliant blue carpet. All eyes on her. The wedding dress she wore was white and lacey, but then it layered from baby blue to black as the last layer. Her face was covered with a white veil, the flowers in her hand an array of black and white roses.

As Y/N passed each bench, little gasps could be heard and murmurs of approval. Candy Apple had to agree with crossed arms Y/N looked cute.

And Shadow Milk's eyes didn't dare bat away in deep-rooted fear she'll vanish. He held out his hand when Y/N approached, Y/N's hand found his as she stood in front of him.

Shadow Milk's skin prickled with excitement, immediately tuning everything and everyone out except Y/N.

They were finally here. Together. As one.

He blinked, remember to gently lift the veil and reveal Y/N's face and her dolled up makeup. Shadow Milk's hand found Y/N's cheek, cupping it the entire time.

Vows were sworn; promised. Rings were slipped onto each other's fingers. And the ceremony was sealed..

" You may now kiss the bride," the words echoed—rang in Shadow Milk's ears, catching Y/N in a kiss.

Their beings blended.. hearts snug with one another. Becoming one. Their cravings for connection satisfied. The loneliness in their hearts being sedated.

In their own little worlds, the outside world concluded the ceremony with some cheering and clapping..

While some began to make their way to the lunch provided, Shadow Milk and Y/N kept back and pretty huddled up in their own bubbles. Nothing but love radiated from them both, faces inches apart. A little conversation of their own..

[pukefactory]

A lot of people have asked me this and I think it’s about time I write something more detailed. So here’s:

PukeFactory’s Guide On Writing Dream BBQ ENA! (My Way)

1. She is a contradiction. Start there.

Dream BBQ ENA is a creature of duality, but not in the gimmicky way. Her emotions swing like a pendulum carved from glass—delicately unhinged. She will comfort you with a whisper like starlight one moment and then yell at a tree for looking at her weird the next. Her logic is surreal but never nonsensical. It’s sincere in a way that bends gravity. She means it, even when it makes no sense. “I think you’re a treasure map, but I lost the key, and also the concept of directions… but I still wanna follow you.”

2. Her voice is fragmented but honest.

Write ENA’s dialogue with a rhythm that feels like a glitched lullaby or a mixtape made of poems and outbursts. Use capitalizations, glitches, or dream-logic metaphors, but keep them emotionally grounded. “OH—oh no. Oh no I said the wrong thing. AGAIN. Hold on—REWIND, REWIND—Can I have a second take of that hug?”

Her speech patterns jump between:

• Soft and strangely poetic:

“You remind me of the feeling before lightning hits.”

• Loud and unfiltered:

“I ATE A ROCK OUT OF SPITE! I’D DO IT AGAIN IF IT MEANT YOU’D FORGIVE ME!”

3. She doesn’t understand relationships—but she craves connection.

ENA often sabotages closeness by accident. She’ll say something jarring mid-hug, not because she’s cruel, but because she doesn’t understand the rules. Intimacy terrifies her. Not because she doesn’t want it, but because she wants it too much. “Wait—was that love? Oh no. I thought it was just heartburn. Or like… something… BEYOND heartburn. Wait, come back!” She learns through interaction. She reflects. She messes up and tries again anyway. She’s endearing because she’s trying—not because she gets it right.

4. Her emotions are surreal landscapes.

Instead of saying “ENA is sad,” describe it like: “She paced in figure eights, muttering apologies to imaginary dogs and invisible moons. Her smile was brittle. Like candy glass.” Or instead of “she’s angry”: “Her eye twitched like a jammed film reel. She bared her teeth at the air, yelling something about betrayal and unripe peaches.” Dream BBQ ENA doesn’t feel things linearly. Her inner world is a Salvador Dalí painting on fire with longing.

5. Her body is unstable; use that.

Dream BBQ ENA’s body shifts and jerks. Her facial expressions glitch. Use this for emotional emphasis:

• When she’s anxious, maybe her smile freezes too long.

• When she’s excited, her voice pitch spikes into television static.

• When she’s afraid, her colors invert or her mouth refuses to close.

Her body is a mood ring coded by a trickster god. Let that reflect her emotional state in the scene.

6. She uses weird metaphors because reality doesn’t fit.

She compares people to:

• Clouds shaped like broken promises.

• Paintings that make her cry for no reason.

• Broken clocks that still tick in time with her heart.

Let her speak in beautiful nonsense. It’s not “random.” It’s instinctive, raw, and emotionally precise. “You’re like… a sunset that happened inside my lungs. You make it hard to breathe. I like it.”

7. She is not just a joke character.

Even when ENA is funny or awkward or loud, she is never just a punchline. There’s a quiet ache under everything she says. She was made to observe, to wander, to experience without truly belonging. Write her with that bittersweetness in mind. “I think I’m the kind of person who touches joy but drops it before it sticks. Like I’ve got oil on my fingers, or maybe I am the oil.”

8. Let her be messy. Let her be sincere.

She doesn’t always say the right thing. Sometimes she runs away instead of talking. Sometimes she laughs too loud at the wrong time. Sometimes she feels more like a glitch than a girl. But when she says “I love you”? She means it. She really, truly means it—even if it sounds like: “If you exploded right now, I’d collect all your little pieces and make a shrine. Because you matter. Because you always did.”

9. Tone: melancholic absurdity with heart.

Dream BBQ ENA lives in a world that feels like a dream and a fever. Your tone should balance whimsy with gravity, joy with grief, glitchy chaos with honest love. She is a reflection of people who feel too much and understand too little—but never stop trying to connect.

10. In summary…

• Speak in fragments, but write with intent.

• Let her emotions be surreal, shifting, and raw.

• Give her dialogue layers: poetic, jarring, sincere, awkward.

• She doesn’t understand love—but she chases it anyway.

• She’s not a clown. She’s a girl made of glitch and feeling and static and sweetness.