#on the existential-horny line:

[marstyler42]

All Hozier songs fit on a triangle graph. One point is "I am so full of existential dread". One point is "I am so horny for you". The last one is "I need to do drugs as soon as possible".

[hoseoksluna]

STORY | knj

pairing: soft dom!namjoon x reader

genre: smut

word count: 7.8k

summary: yours and namjoon’s story is a bit more perverted than traditional.

warnings: serious big dick namjoon, rough touches, hair pulling, use of pet names and titles, dom/sub dynamics, horny namjoon can't help but palm himself:(, desperation, masturbation, spanking, praising, tit slapping, nipple play, teasing, oc and namjoon not being comfortable with certain practices, playful orgasm denial, oral sex (m. and f. receiving), rimming && ass play :3, cum eating yum yum, tit fucking, orgasm countdown fuck

note: smut is so fucking difficult to write but i loved every second of it. i love writing about namjoon, he just makes me feel so safe. this is purely my fantasy with him and i'll probably dream about this for a long, long time. please, take your time reading this as it's pretty long. i hope you enjoy it and that it makes you dream like it made me dream. as always, let me know what you think in the comments, like the post and if you want to—reblog, but i won't pressure you angels <3. love you guys so much, thank you for all the love. kisses!

side note: i miss namjoon and i wish he were here. all i can do is watch his lives and pretend he never left for the military.

Namjoon makes himself comfortable on the wooden chair before you.

The scene is set. Like a mermaid bathing in the sun, you rest your elbows on the cold rim of the ivory bathtub. Small surges of violet-tinted water, perfumed with your scent, blanket your body in a thin layer of glittery sheen. They kiss the tiger stripes along the curve of your bottom as it rolls over, passing by the dip in the small of your waist, breathing in your patchouli fragrance in greeting. The bath bomb, cornered by your knees, sizzles and spins, the width of the tub allowing your form to float like a little fish in the open sea as copiously as you please.

A gift from your loving boyfriend. Both the clawfoot, and the bath bomb.

The scene expands. Your Eric slouches in his seat, balancing his greatest and most stellar possession on top of his lap with one hand while he runs the other through his silver mane. He fits perfectly in the picturesqueness of the background. Soft orange and chocolate tiles zig zag behind his back, transposing him momentarily into a sunlit illustration, where he rests in the shade of a palm tree on a faraway beach. Reads the book to pass the time as he waits for you to emerge from the waters. Sets it down on his lap as soon as his gaze catches yours. Periwinkle clams for a bra, panties thin and translucent from the oncoming waves, you rest your front on the sand. He smiles down at you and you know for a fact you won’t be able to get on your feet. Might have to learn how to walk, too.

You keep this picture in your heart. Mentally, you rip out the page. Fold it and tuck it somewhere within you to keep it safe.

Legs outstretched by the sides of the tub, clad in slacks in the muted color of a persimmon, it’s almost as though you’re propped on his lap. Sporting a simple white button-down, sleeves rolled, you’re close enough to touch the material if you so much as wished so. From his angle, Namjoon sees nothing but the roundness of your eyes through the brownish rims of his glasses, hair unkempt in their dampness as the short paper thin layers frame your flushed face in such a celestial way. If he were to lean over, it’d be a different kind of book.

The one in the clasp of his hand isn’t a tale as old as time.

It’s one of your favorites. An existential story that ridicules the traditional. A transfusion of liveness to a certain forgotten room of your heart. The unlit one while the others brim with sunlight, with the golden sepia projection of the contents of the fairytales you love so much made into stop motion. A coloring book of some sort, hues fitting into the lines by your helping hand—the attention of your eyes. 

Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka. The book that sweeps away all those cobwebs in that chamber. Makes it less lonely.

It’s all you had talked about on your dates when you and Namjoon first started dating, having been reading it at the time. You had confided in him that the writer was the only person who understood you without ever learning your name, without familiarizing himself with the subtleties of your calamitous life.

No one has ever shared something so vulnerable with him, especially not on the first date. Not that he’d gone on many, but the few that fell into his grasp were hell to get through. Insufferable, to say the least. Absolutely superficial.

He went home in the rain thinking of you. Not for boyish reasons. But for reasons of literary character, of melancholy nature that squeezed his long-unexpressed heart in perpetuating intervals too consistent for his liking. Filled it with a nectar bubbling with a newly blooming love for books, with a sudden longing to be found within the words. His body decided for him that it was yours. Yours to teach again how to read between the lines.

The scene breaks out of the margins on the page.

“Is the water warm enough?”

The idea constructed by his own geniality, it’s by his will that you’re basking in your bare femininity before his eyes. Idleness lingered in the living room between the pair of you, the flimsy curtain by your balcony lifting and falling in a little dance as the cold air perfused the place with the drowsiness of winter. Pulling his eyes away from the TV to sink a soft kiss into your hair, Namjoon muttered into your ear: “How about I draw you a bath and read to you for a little bit?”

You said nothing. The click of your phone turning off and your hasty movements to untangle yourself from the warmth of his limbs answered him for you. Leaving your clothes as a trail for him to follow, you gave him a glimpse of your ass, arched and pointed in the draft before you ran away. Before he scolded you with his index finger like a father, raising to his feet to close the balcony door.

In two seconds he joined you in the bathroom. Leaned against the doorframe as you circled a pink roll-on lip oil you’ve been obsessed with lately around the perimeters of your lips. The one that makes them look bigger, juicier. That makes them more fun to kiss and toy with. The one that leaves his length sticky once playtime is over. You seem to cast aside little trinkets of yourself for him to collect everywhere you go.

Tits pushed towards each other while you slightly bent over the vanity sink, tapping the excess into the fullness of your mouth, Namjoon palmed himself. The tiredness from work earlier weakened his self-control to the point of unrestrained indulgence. And the plumpness of your ass just encouraged it.

You fluffed your hair and Namjoon ran the bath. Disappeared into the kitchen for a moment to retrieve the purple bath bomb from the plastic bag on the counter, one that he got from the convenience store for you. Dragon fruit and hibiscus. Thought of the twinkle that would sparkle beneath your lashes upon seeing it. Wasn’t disappointed when you exceeded his expectations.

Having seen it in the mirror, almost microscopic and round in his big palm, you turned on your heel and burst into giddiness as he took off the plastic packaging with his teeth. You pouted in gratefulness when he showed it to you. 

“You planned this, didn’t you?”

You hugged him, locking your hands behind the nape of his neck. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t, and he told you so. A bit hoarsely, though.

Namjoon struggled not to moan. Groaned a little when he felt the curvature of your belly against his hardness and the pointed nubs of your tits beneath his pecs. Managed to conceal it, thankfully, by clearing his throat and by allowing an authentic grin to bloom on his dimpled face at your joy. Thanked the heavens for all the bath bombs in the world.

He placed it in your much smaller palm for you to plop it into the increasing water. Watched your eyes widen at the gilded glitter spreading around. Spurred you to get in. Held your hand as you lifted one limb, then the other. Knelt by you as you engulfed yourself in the violet tinge, your hair swirling around you, silky and ethereal, coming to a stop at the top of your head to fix a splendid crown for such a princess like yourself.

Namjoon turned off the tap while you rested your back against the curved wall of the tub. You swooshed your hands around, gathering the glitter into the fine lines of your palms. Looked up at him in elation, the twinkle doing its thing in the glossiness of your eyes, and smiled. Namjoon smiled back at you. His hand reached out to your chest in a fervent need to touch you. The glitter adorned your chest with its perfect speckles and they resurfaced when you arched your back in response. Clung to his palm in the middle of your tits, held on tighter as he took a detour to your chin by brushing across your sensitive nipple to hear your little mewls because if he made a sound, then you must, too. Because if he was horny, he must get you on the same page as well. Fairness is very important to Namjoon.

He squeezed your breast hard. Pinched your nipple between his thumb and the knuckle of his index finger in broken intervals, similar to little dashed lines of Morse code. You imagined he was telling you something through that secret language as you closed your eyes during an intense wave of pleasure coursing down your body, and perhaps he truly did because he pulled your legs apart harshly when you pressed them together. Punished you by lightly slapping your tit—the same one he abused with those firm touches—the force splashing you in the face with violet pearls. All as if you disobeyed the command he transmitted wordlessly.

The command possibly being: Only I will give you the release you need when I decide it’s time.

You bit your bottom lip to suppress the neediness erupting in you. Namjoon wrapped his hand around your throat and you dragged his rolled sleeve further up his arm, so it wouldn’t have gotten soaked in the water. He smeared your lip oil just because he wanted—just because he could, scattering the rosy tint around your mouth messily. He took advantage of the aftermath of his punishment and collected those tender beads, now translucent upon your carmine skin. Not with the thumb as you expected him to, but using the pillows of his lips, he kissed the round bulb on your cheek. It melted on the puffy surface when he withdrew. He looked you in the eye for a mere beat of time before he lowered to your other cheek to collect another trinket. None of the corners of your mouth were overlooked, not even the button of your nose. He peppered those kisses to erase the harshness of his selfishness, supporting your lifted chin with his long thumb beneath it, still sticky from the consistency of the lip oil, apologizing, smoothing down his sternness until you giggled.

Once he cleaned you, Namjoon returned the digit to your smudged mouth, delicious in his sight due to the essence of sloppiness that gets his length even harder in his pants. He presses the pad against it, already craving your tongue. You kissed it, a thank you for his softness, before you granted him the access. Tongue toying with the tip, you said hello in the mother language of the love stored in your bodies for each other. Wrapped both of your hands around his wrist. Didn’t break eye contact. Smiled, teeth showing happily, when he bit his lip, but soon got distracted by a small movement on his groin area out of your view.

You peeled your back off of the tub to curiously take a peek, but Namjoon pushed you back to your place. All while his thumb remained sucked by your mouth. You frowned at him, dismayed by his recurring roughness that you weren’t used to.

Namjoon tapped your cheek twice with his fingers to let you know it was enough and rose to his feet.

“Joon, what’s going on? Why are you so rough with me?” you asked, voice tender, the question shooting arrows into the wideness of his back.

Stopping in the doorway, he hung his head, fingers coming to intertwine with the short hair above his neck. “I’m sorry, baby. Let me get the book.”

A moment later, he returned with the stellar possession in one hand and a wooden chair in the other. He slumped against it, fingers finding the first chapter unwittingly.

You swam forward as if to the shore, propping your elbows on the rim to be closer to him.

“Is the water warm enough?”

You nod, your teeth picking at the excess skin on your lips. Namjoon notices and, as if registering the reason why you put on the lip oil in the first place, he leans towards you and rubs away the smudginess he caused. As if the walk into your dining room sobered him enough from the dark wine of his lust that he now regretted his actions.

“You really scared me when you were rough,” you said calmly, unafraid to uncover your feelings, knowing you’ll be caught now that you’ve jumped head-first into the hungry sea of honesty.

He apologizes again. Repeats it in the aphonic form of a deep chaste kiss.

“Won’t do it again,” he promises. “Unless you ask me to.”

Your lips form a smile, but it quivers into a straight line just as quickly as it appeared. The yet unknown cause behind his untypical behavior troubles you.

“Did something happen today at work?”

Namjoon sighs. “No, I’m just tired.”

“Just tired or tired of your job?” you try, tilting your head to the side, remembering this isn’t the first time quiet broodiness clutched his figure when the clock struck five.

“Both.” He kneads the heel of his palm against his eye. 

Not expecting his honesty, your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. It propels you to investigate further. Gives you the green light. Namjoon usually keeps to himself when it comes to work-related storms, holding respect that reaches the bottom of his heart for those above him and for his peers as well.

“Did someone make you upset?” you ask, paving your way in this inquiry to the realm of understanding so you can help him. At least in a small way.

He drops his hand, gazes up the ceiling to stare at a fixed point. Perhaps he’s looking for words, perhaps he’s avoiding the question altogether. The regret of your prying swallows you. You’re afraid you’ve overstepped a boundary. 

You reach out your arm, wrapping wet fingers around his wrist on his lap. The gesture says, ‘you don’t have to tell me but I’m here,’ and you squeeze the limb to emphasize that. As if he heard you, he looks down at you. His eyes that are usually narrowed into slits now round in tenderness. The swallowing lets go, the lump that threatened to obstruct your throat disappears.

“It’s Friday, Joonie, and you can forget about your job for a little while. It’ll get better,” you say, caressing his soft skin.

To your another surprise, Namjoon nods. Slips his fingers into the hollowness between yours, squeezing back, saying, ‘I hear you.’ Your heart jumps with gladness that you haven’t made a mistake, that instead your reassurement made a difference.

To lighten up the atmosphere, you begin to joke around.

“Should I beat them up?” You raise your brow in mischief, a goofy smile coating your face in lightheartedness.

A grin cracks on his face. “Don’t get your hands dirty for me, baby.”

You scoff, half-seriously and half-unseriously shaking your head at his eagerness to please but never letting himself be pleased. “But I want to. I’ll do it for you.”

Namjoon shakes his head as well. Leans over to you. Cradles your head in his hands and kisses you. Picks the hair plastered on your face and puts it away. You forget all of your jokes for a moment, breathless. Your neediness nudges you in your sensitive parts, reminding you of its lingering presence. 

“Come on, Joonie,” you coo, prolonging the vowels, the best you could come up with considering his allure, “I’ll fight them,” you start to construct your imaginary plan, the dimples adorning his face making it a bit harder for you to get the words out, “then, they’ll be scared of me and they won’t bother you again. Because if they do, I’ll smash their fucking teeth in. And then… then, you’ll get your peace for good. Easy.”

Namjoon listens with his features bathed in enamoredness, seemingly lost in a deep thought. A twinkle, a twin to yours, glistens in his eyes. Dimples out provoking you, he softly smiles at you. Coyly. He’s unaccustomed to being the one fought for. He’s always been the one who fights. The one who settles, resolves, makes things right. He’s never been the person these things are done for by another person. It makes his heart pulsate in a strange new rhythm. 

He stretches out his hands and runs his fingers through your hair. Begins to plait an intricate braid down your back, keeping you caged in the confines of his arms. Safe. Protected. His warrior princess.

“There’s something else you can do for me,” he mumbles, finished with your braid. Now your hair is away from your face, just like he needs it for what he’s about to do.

“Oh?” You raise an eyebrow in question, your smirk growing on the side of your face. “Like what?”

“I’m so hard for you, baby,” he whispers into your ear, shoulders hunched, lips tracing the edge of your earlobe. A secret just between the two of you. “My body’s confused. I need a release.”

Even though you saw it coming, even though you saw it a hundred times before, you can’t help but gasp at his desperation, bare and open before you. It’s a new experience each time. Thrilling and titillating, the vividness and ferocity of his sexuality. It causes a flock of playful butterflies to buzz you with electricity in your tummy and a shiver to run down your spine. You feel your own neediness making itself known again and you squeeze your thighs together. 

This is the Namjoon you know. Strong in his softness. Mellow. Intense. The Namjoon who showed you plain roughness was a stranger to you, one you could take the time to get to know, because now you understand that the incentive to act like he did was his frustration from work. You can’t really blame the natural inclination of his body—his body that is yours to love in all shapes or forms.

You perceive he needs to let out some steam—he said so himself. Proud of him for voicing it out, a decision to be his helper already makes a way to your heart. You no longer feel slivers of consternation slithering in your veins. Knowing the cause, knowing it’s still your Namjoon helps you submit to the call of his needs. If a dab of roughness is what entails the sand-speckled footpath to the seaside of his well-being, you’ll take it. Welcome it, even. Within the realm of your established boundaries, that is. 

“Can I see?”

The book falls to the floor with a thud. Namjoon stands up. 

Ever so eager. Responding to his body language out of pure instinct, you hum and lift yourself to your knees. The outline of his engorged length, tight in his pants, greets you and you will your brain not to tell your fingers to rub your swollen clit. To busy your hands, you grip the rim until white brushes along your knuckles.

Emerging from the water, it left you smothered in a luster of wet silkiness. Namjoon’s eyes rake over your bare femininity. Heavenly, pure, seraphic. Groans a little loud. Doesn’t know whether to touch you first or his painfully hard and heavy member. You move your body to the side wall of the tub and he follows you, hand opting for his girth to relieve himself a little bit. 

You sit prettily on your folded legs and lean over, pulling his wrist away. You plant a dewy kiss to the middle of his clothed length and look up at him, just at the right time to catch him whimpering. Your clit pulses again and you feel like crying, needing release as much as he does. He doesn’t make it easy for you, making sounds like that.

“What does my baby girl need me to do?” you ask, stroking his member while stifling your giggles at the title that fits him so well. 

“Baby girl?” He frowns down at you. 

It’s usually what he calls you, hence why his confusion. And you call him by an entirely different title, too.

A giggle does escape your mouth after all. You squeeze at his tip, drawing those delicious whimpers out of him again.

“Only needy little baby girls make sounds like that. You are needy, aren’t you?” You lick that sensitive part, palming his balls. 

Namjoon whines. 

The shift of dynamics, the change of titles ever so dizzying to the mind. He doesn’t even have the strength to correct you. 

He grips the back of your head and moves you away from his cock. Then the realization he’s being rough again wafts over him and he softens his hold, fallen stray hairs coming to rest at your temples. Namjoon tucks them behind your ear. Taps you on the cheek once.

“Get to sucking off your baby girl,” he rasps. 

You smile. Find it immensely attractive that he’s embracing the pet name while still being dominant. A masculinity in its true form.

“You can be rough with me if you want to,” you say, wanting to make that clear. “I think I can handle it.”

Namjoon traces the shell of your ear with his thumb, pondering.

“Just don’t hit me, okay?” 

He says your name sternly, as if you offended him. “I would never deliberately hurt you. How can you think that?” 

“No, I meant—” You lick your lips. “Don’t slap my boobs or anything. You can spank me, I like that. But don’t be as rough with me as you were. Can we take it slow? Is that okay?”

He stares at you for a moment.  

“Do you trust me?”

You nod, turning your head to press a kiss into his palm. “Yes, I trust you.”

“I’ll teach you, then. We’ll take it slow,” he says, fingers stroking the side of your cheek, where a small amount of fluff creates a path for him to lay down his silent love on. “It was a mistake on my part for not preparing you for it, and for that I’m sorry. But I’ll teach you. Show you how good it is.” He pauses. “Until you beg me for it.”

Your throat dries up. The pulsing in your cunt unbearable. 

“Fuck, Namjoon. Save the talk or I’ll come on the spot.” 

“The talk is important,” he reprimands you. “Whether you come or not without my permission is your problem.” 

“Shit,” you whimper, gripping his hand on your cheek. You tighten your hold as if to brattily change his mind on having this kind of control over your orgasm because you need to come as soon as possible. And not just once. You’re sure your dewiness is leaking into the water. 

“No bad words or I’ll fuck your filthy mouth.” 

You gasp. So unused to this side of him. But it turns you on, now that you feel safe. Turns you unstable.

“Say you’re sorry.”

You’re tumbling out the words before he’s even finished with his sentence. “I’m so sorry.”

He beams at your immediate submission, purring at the quintessence of your compliance. Wants more. “Who are you apologizing to?” 

You pause. His usual title almost slips off of your tongue. But since this is new and you’re both experiencing a new dynamic that causes you to feel so playful, that guides you ever so gently and carefully into the kingdom of subspace, you opt for the pet name that suits him well. “To my baby girl,” you say, laughing softly. “I’m so sorry, baby girl.” 

He laughs as well, the sound a deep rumble in his chest. You’re giddy that you’re allowed to be wild, your inner child healing and quivering within you. You overflow with the desire to kiss him.

“What for?”

He wants you to say the full sentence. You take a deep breath. 

“Baby girl, I’m so sorry for having a filthy mouth and saying bad words.”

“Hm, do you regret it?” 

You almost curse again. “Yes, I do. I’m sorry for being bad.”

“Good. Get to work, then,” he says. “Make that mouth useful.”

Fuck.

“Kiss me first, please. Make it better,” you beg, fluttering your eyelashes at him. 

Namjoon moans and you bite your lip. Bends and sucks it between his, deepening the kiss as he opens your jaw and slips his tongue inside. Massages the muscle against yours. Makes those sounds again. Palms his cock. Withdraws with a pop. 

You mewl in satisfaction. That kiss alone ruined you. 

“Good girls get kisses.” Hand under your chin, he squishes your cheeks. “You’ve been exceptionally good. I’m gonna destroy you.” 

He kisses you again with the same intensity but briefly, inhaling your skin. No tongue this time. 

Cheeks awash with rosiness, you hastily unbuckle his belt. Not to cut time and get to his promise faster—on the contrary, you’re dying to pleasure him. He doesn’t help you like he normally does; he merely watches you as you pull down the cotton material of his slacks along with his boxers down his muscular thighs. Only when you wrap your lips around his cock from the side does he throw his head back. Thrusts his hips. 

He’s rock hard. The weight of him makes you absolutely fucked out.

Namjoon likes you there so he keeps you still—there in the middle of his girth. You moan, producing as much saliva as you can to gratify him while he uses your mouth, alternating between keeping those pillows firm and soft. When he gets you to his tip, he expects you to swallow him, but you merely move your head from side to side rapidly, flicking your tongue. Namjoon groans lowly, a string of curse words spilling from his throat. His precum drops onto your chin and you suck in a breath, horny beyond your mind.

You swipe your index finger to collect it. Check if he’s watching before you plunge the digit into your mouth. Roll your eyes back as the tanginess overwhelms your senses. Namjoon hisses. Grabs your braid as if it were a ponytail. Kisses you, aching to be one with you. You feel the vibrations of his fervid mania in unity with him like this and it echoes down your body once he pulls away. 

“Take it in your mouth.” 

Namjoon holds it at the base for you and you find the long vein that you favor so much. Pepper kisses along the length of it, feeling it throb in tandem with your clit. Straightening your spine, you bite your lip. Give him an utter look of adoration before you swipe your tongue along the slit. Humming in delight, you slip him into your mouth. Your cheeks hollow and you begin to bob your head, fingers following your movement, bumping into his fist. Tears pool in your eyes when you dare to inch closer to his hand and even though you gag, you try your hardest to keep him nice and tucked in your warm throat. You sputter and cough, swallowing around him, because you deem he deserves it, knowing how much he loves it when your flesh contracts around him like that, and Namjoon groans deeply. It fills you with a dose of satisfaction almost akin to an orgasm, the lack of oxygen in your brain heightening the experience so much that your head spins. 

“Such a good girl,” he whispers. “Breathe, baby.”

He slips out of your mouth. Pats you on your head before he sinks his fingers into your hair, gripping at the roots. Ascertains you pay attention to him. 

“Don’t do that again,” he says, softly. “You need to breathe. Take a deep breath with me.”

You’re still on your knees and he’s merely looking down at you. You fold your hands on your lap. Your mind is so empty that you’re not sure how you feel right now, having been entirely focused on his pleasure. 

Namjoon inhales deeply with his nose and you do the same.

Inhale, exhale. 

Fondly, he caresses you on your cheek.

“I just wanted to make you feel good,” you explain yourself, thinking that you should.

“I know, baby, and you did. It’s okay, I’m not mad at you.” He smiles at you. “You hear me? I’m not mad at you.”

You nod your head yes. Pout. 

“You feeling okay? Take a deep breath for me again.” 

You do as he says, your senses returning to you like a warm spring wind. 

“Better now?”

You nod again.

“Words.”

You wet your lips with your tongue. “Yes, I feel better now.”

“Good. Do you still wanna continue?”

“Yes, Namjoon. I wanna make you come.” 

Almost like you flipped a switch, his eyes darken. 

“Hands behind your back,” he rasps. 

You oblige, crisscrossing your wrists below the dimples on your lower back.

“‘Atta girl. Back to work, come on.” 

It’s much harder to do so without your hands, especially in the position you’re in. You hesitate.

“I don’t know if I can,” you admit. 

He tuts in pity. “Should I use you then?”

You roll your eyes back, the idea intoxicating your body. You feel woozy. 

“Yes, please.” 

“Focus on your breathing, okay?” 

“Yes, Namjoon.”

Humming, Namjoon grabs your hair gently and sinks your mouth down on his cock, moves you up and down slowly. You focus on not just sucking in your cheeks but also on breathing through your nose like he told you, although you can’t help but moan around him. It turns you on how he manhandles you to his liking so delicately. You swirl your tongue around his tip once he wants you there and you let out a series of whines and whimpers. He keeps you there for a little longer, moaning after you, the sounds creating a paradisiacal symphony. You twist your head in half circles as you continue sucking him, slobbering all over him, using your tongue to flick beneath the mushroom. 

“So good, baby. Yes, fuck.” Namjoon squeezes his eyes shut. “You’re gonna make me come.” 

You pull away, but a string of saliva still connects you to him. 

He blinks at you. “You want a spanking?” 

You run the tip of your tongue along the top of your lip, giving him the eyes. Cock your eyebrow at him. Namjoon draws a sharp breath in. 

He leans over. One hand tugs at your braid firmly to arch your back over the edge of the tub. The other smacks you sharply on your ass cheek, smoothing over the sting. You moan, nipples rubbing over the cold surface, curse words dying on your tongue. Namjoon grips the flesh, spanks you again. Skims his fingers over your exposed heat. Repeats it on the other cheek, twice in a row. You wiggle your hips, needing to feel more, needing him to touch you right there between your legs. You cry out into his ear.

Letting go of your braid, Namjoon kisses you beneath your jaw. Slides his tongue along the sensitive spot, sucking it between his lips. A secret message that he hears you, that he’ll fuck your needy cunt soon.

“Think you’ll be a good girl for now?” 

Furrowing your eyebrows, you nod a few times. Not a single rational thought passes through your brain. 

Namjoon straightens. Pulls down his foreskin for you. “Spit on it.” 

You watch as your liquid love trickles down and lands on his tip. He hums and surprises you by wrapping your hands around his girth, spreading down the lubrication with you. You feel the ridges and the thick vein in a new, vehement way and even though you’re not the one pleasured, you moan. The simple up and down movement grows in rapidness that your body follows, emulating the effort, making it seem like you’re bouncing on a dick. Your ass splashes the water around, creating tender waves full of love, inherited from your still leaking dewiness. 

His hands are so warm enclasped around yours, pressed tight. Not once unclenching.

You start blabbering. 

“You’re so big. I can’t even wrap my hand around you.” You make sure to look him in the eyes as you say it. “So big in my mouth, too. Could barely fit you.” 

Your words set those twilit embers in his eyes on fire. His breathing quickens. He’s close again and you’re stunned, once more, by the vividness of his sexuality. Your hands go limp in his grasp.

“Nuh-uh, keep up the pace,” he husks. “Thought I was your little baby girl?” 

You shake your head, willing your hands to gain strength again, but it has no source to draw from. “Not anymore.”

Namjoon chuckles, darkly. Notices your movements fluctuating, arms shaking. “Tired?”

You nod and he unclasps his hands. You twist your wrists in circles to alleviate them from a cramp. 

Then, you get an idea.

Sitting back on your heels, you arch your back. Tip your chin down and spit on your chest, the essence flowing down the pathway between your breasts. You do it again, though this time you spread it on your skin. 

“Fuck, baby,” Namjoon mumbles. Unbuttons his shirt. You squeeze your nipples with both hands as your eyes flick to his, then down to his exposed chest. “How are you gonna address me, huh? What’s my name?”

He forcefully tugs the fabric off of his arms, tossing it on the floor. His body—with its vulgar beauty, broadness and definition—takes your breath away. You don’t let it show, or perhaps you pretend that you don’t because you allow your hand to travel down your stomach. Namjoon imitates you, running his fingers down the chiseled muscles that make you drool. He stops at the hair adorning his pelvis. You don’t.

You rub circles on your clit instead.

“Daddy,” you cry out in pleasure, announcing his title—his rightful, most fitting title. Face contorting at the brisk, blooming flashes of sensuality rising up your form.

His body tenses. It’s like he’s stopping himself from reaching for you, pulling you out of the bathtub and spanking you until your bottom resembles the water. Or tugging at his length until he paints you white with his cum. 

You make it easy for him. 

Lifting your body, you step over the edge of the bathtub. Kneel at his feet on the fluffy black mat. Far enough for him to see purple liquid pearls make their way down to your cunt. Far enough for him to see how you resume those circles on your bundle of nerves, fingers reaching to your hole for lubrication. You roll your hips into your hand, arm propped behind you.

“What’s this show?” Namjoon rasps, his cock twitching. “I don’t remember giving you permission to touch yourself. You wanna end up with zero orgasms?”

You pause. 

“That’s what I thought,” he says. “I believe you have unfinished work to do.” 

You smile mischievously. “You want it bad, don’t you?” 

Namjoon nods. Holds out his hand. “Come to Daddy.”

Exuberantly, you leap into his arms. Namjoon throws you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing and walks into your shared bedroom. Sets you down on your bed, spreading your legs, and he crouches between them, reaching into his bedside table for the tool that he wants. 

The aroma of strawberries lovingly boops you on the nose. Namjoon squirts a good amount of lubrication on your chest, paying special attention to the pathway in the middle of your breasts. He massages it in, incorporates your sensitive nipples in the preparation, coaxing whimper after whimper out of you by squeezing them and rolling them between his long fingers.

“I’m gonna make a mess,” you say, grinding your hips against nothing.

Namjoon clicks his tongue. “Already?” 

Your dewiness oozes out of you onto the bedding. To prove your point, you lean back on your elbows and lift your knees, revealing your dripping hole and the shine of your soaked folds. Namjoon stares at your cunt but doesn’t touch, doesn’t blink. He bites his lip. Flicks his eyes to yours. 

He kisses the middle of your tummy. Moves over to your heat. Licks a tiny stripe on your clit.

You cry out.

“Namjoon!”

Hands on either side of your waist, crawling up to you, he growls. “Good girls are patient, aren’t they?” 

He doesn’t wait for your response. 

“They take what is given to them and they finish what they started,” he continues. “Don’t they?”

You nod.

“And you are a good girl, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m a good girl.” 

“Then thank your Daddy for what he gave you.” 

Your walls squeeze around nothing when you hear him utter his title. It refreshes your body with energy. 

“Thank you, Daddy.” You smile. 

Namjoon kisses you, rewarding you.

“Sit up.”

Changing the layout, it’s Namjoon who reclines halfway on the bed while you sit perched on your knees between his legs, cock in your face. He spurts the lube on his length and jerks himself off, his skin shining in the abrupt spillage of burnt-orange sunlight from the window. Watches your eyes round in astonishment similarly to the way they did earlier when you had gazed upon the glitter swarming around you. 

He nods at you, giving you the green light, and you sheathe his girth into the tightness of your squished tits. You may start a face pace from the get go, fucking him into oblivion, but all Namjoon sees is the whites of your eyes, the glimmer, the pure enjoyment of what you’re doing while the rest of you is immersed in subdued late afternoon shadows. Sweat glistens on the planes of his face, dribbling down to the strained column of his neck.

It’s intense. So intense that he can’t vocally react. 

Precum appears once more on his mushroom, displaying his arousal, and you slurp it up, the braid coming undone—your hair falling around you like a curtain. 

It’s brutal. It’s wet. 

Namjoon gathers your hair to the side in a makeshift ponytail and leans over to be closer to you. Needs you like this. Feels his relief catching up to him the more effort you put in, the more you stick out your tongue to flick at that sensitive part of him whenever you can. 

“Want your come. So bad. Want it all over me,” you whisper, and that’s it for him. 

“Say please,” he murmurs, and it’s barely a sound, but you hear him. 

“Please, Daddy, come for me.” 

Pulling your hands away, Namjoon takes charge. Fucks your tits in frenzy, your hair, now half dry, tickling your skin. With his thumbs, he stimulates your nipples to coax those little sounds of yours and—

“Play with your pussy,” he commands. “But don’t come. Tease yourself like you teased Daddy.”

The relief on your face inches him closer to his. He hears the wetness as you dip a finger in, your walls sucking it in. He hears your breath get stuck in your throat. The slow crescendo of your moans. Suddenly, he hears himself too. 

Whiny, desperate, so unlike himself.

It’s a fortress of safety, his forehead on top of yours. His nose bumping against yours. Open mouth ghosting over the sounds of your well-deserved pleasure. It’s a safe place for him to come in.  

And he does. 

Ropes upon ropes of come color you ivory white, color you clean. The reversal of a coloring book—changing the lines, changing the scheme, changing your life. 

You milk him dry, your pussy long forgotten. Milk him until he pushes you away, chest heaving, unable to catch his breath. You just watch him, his seed hot on your chest. Glittery. And not just there. On your neck, on your chin, in the wavy strands of your hair. 

You’re in awe of him. You can see the pressure leaving him like a ghost slinking out of the window. 

Namjoon takes off his glasses. With two fingers, he collects as much of his essence as he can and plunges them into your mouth. The other hand rests on the crook of your neck, thumb protectively over your throat. “Swallow.”

Not for long. Namjoon throws you on the bed. Doesn’t waste time.

He laps up your pussy, clit to hole, sucking your labia into his mouth. He does it again, but this time he travels a bit further. Clit, hole, ass. Tongue flat. Your screams are muffled by the rumpled bedsheet you grip.

Going back to your leaking hole, he circles the flesh before he dips the tongue in. Wraps his arms around your ass to control your squirming, feeling the dip of your spine as the sunlight kisses it. Dust particles spiral in the air—Namjoon sees it. The dark grey curtain keeping half of the world shrouded in dimness while the other illuminated, a picture cut in a heart shape due to the deliciousness of your ass. 

Fuck, Namjoon longs to play with it again. 

He spits on it, rubbing the saliva around it before he slides his tongue back into your wet hole. Says hello to it—long time no see—teases it, before he dips his thumb in. You arch your back even more, welcoming the intrusion, and Namjoon kisses your pussy lips as a thank you. He quivers with the craving to fuck you right there in your ass, but knows better than to do it. You’re not ready for it. 

Spreading you more open, while keeping his thumb there in that sweet place, he begins to focus on your poor little clit. Swirls his tongue around it firmly, sucking it until your back trembles—goes up and down like a seesaw. The kisses he leaves there are obscene, loud, full of thankfulness that he gets to play with you. Full of love for you that he burns bright with—that propels him to flick his tongue harder. And full of joy that his stress is gone. Joy that you’ve been the helper unscrewing the steel body of heaviness off of his because, as of now, his bones feel lighter.

“You’re so good for me.” He smacks his lips against your cunt. “Fucking Daddy like that when he needed you.” 

Vigorously, he rubs his face against you, shaking his head from side to side. You stretch your fingers behind you and helplessly grip the back of your thighs. Namjoon catches one of your hands, holds it with his free four fingers, sucking your clit. 

“Thank you, baby,” he whispers, withdrawing to pay attention to your other hole, missing it. Abuses it once he spits on it, eating it, dipping his tongue in with ease since he stretched you. Fucks you there in the only way he can. 

“Wanna come?” he asks and as he waits for your answer, he goes lower to drink your freshness, not letting a drop go to waste. 

You’ve lost your voice screaming. “Yes, Daddy, please. I can’t hold it in anymore. Please, let me come,” you croak. 

Namjoon makes a sound of appreciation, proud of you for holding out for so long without saying anything.

“I think you can,” he says. Stuffs a finger into your dripping hole and lets you adjust for a moment. Adds another. “I think you can hold it while I count to ten.” 

His digits pump into you slowly. Kneeling by your side, he turns your head so you can see him, twisting your body into the position he wants. The curve of your back is so beautiful in his sight that he can’t help but run his free hand over the route that your spine has become. The route he wants to plant kisses on like flowers of various colors, adding to the coloring book, erasing the old. 

And he does. Begins at the nape of your neck. Picks up the speed.

“One.” 

You cry out. First before your tears rush out, pooling in your waterline. You clench your whole body in naive hope it would stall the orgasm, but it quickens it, squeezing his fingers in, so you relax your muscles. 

“Two.” 

A kiss to the first round protrusion of your spine. Shifting your weight to your shoulder, you take his cock into your hand. 

“Three.”

The middle of your shoulder blades. You hear your wetness oozing out of you, the relief prowling closer. You whine and Namjoon understands.

“Hold it or I’ll stop,” he whispers. “I can feel your pussy squeezing around my fingers. Relax.” 

You match your pace with his. Namjoon begins to pant. You feel his hot, heavy breath beneath your shoulder blades. 

“Six.” 

Ass shaking from the force, he jackhammers into you. Pulls out for a moment to spank you, a merciful gesture, before he’s back in. Leaves a wet fingerprint on your skin.

“Eight.”

The last protrusion of your spine. You silence your moans by pressing your hand against your mouth because they bring you closer to your orgasm, however Namjoon yanks your arm away. 

“Make those pretty sounds for me, come on,” he huffs, kissing both of those dimples on your back. “Ten. Come. Come for Daddy. Come all over his hand.”

And you do.

It’s a paradise, the heat closing in on you. The loss of hearing, the muted ringing, resembling the flap of a bird’s wing. The loss of surroundings as you’re momentarily transported somewhere entirely else. A gilded illustration, perhaps a lively projection. Something, somewhere, where all is good. The orgasm rips through you and the repetitive echo of his name leaving your mouth is what brings you back. Away from the storybook into a brand new coloring book.

Namjoon strokes your hair. 

He holds you in his arms, but something sticks you uncomfortably together. You peel yourself off of him and cringe. Strings upon strings of his come, gleaming with speckles of glitter, do not want you to leave. You sit on his thighs, resting your palms on his chest. 

He kisses you. “Are you okay?”

You nod with droopy eyelids. 

He carries you into the shower and makes a way for all colors of the rainbow to perfuse your body. To create a new storyline for the day, for the week, for the month. Reds and pinks show their faces first in the steam, and even though Namjoon is glad to see them, he looks forward to meeting the rest. To learning their objectives so he can fulfill them. 

Grabbing the yellow book on the way back to the bedroom, Namjoon makes himself comfortable beside you. Is careful not to touch your face out of habit because you have a face mask on; careful not to bump into you either because you have a plate of mozzarella and sliced tomatoes on your lap. He kisses your hair, though. Doesn’t have the strength to fight internally—grabs your jawline and ever so slowly and heedfully, he kisses you, fingers finding the first chapter unwittingly. 

“When Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from troubled dreams, he found himself changed into a monstrous cockroach in his bed.” 

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

BACK to masterlist

[just-french-me-up]

If you'd still like Dreamling kiss prompts, how about 7 or 17?

@martybaker asked : Hello, your fics are so lovely! May I humbly request ‘A kiss to shut them up’ if you’re still taking prompts? 👉👈 @anonymous asked : Thoughts on dreamling 7 or 17 (to shut them up or to distract - maybe even both at once?) for the kiss prompts?

We're shutting him up, yall! This is a Retired!Dream one, in which Dream struggles with the human body and human condition, and can't see how he can measure up to his old self in Hob's eyes. Angsty you say? Deceivingly horny I raise you! I kept this sorta M rated but... hey if there's more to come *winkwink* who knows?

The human body was a curious thing. It required constant attention, fluids, fuel, maintenance, care. And yet it was so... limiting. Morpheus could still remember how it felt, to think of a place and feel the ground shift under his feet without ever having to move. There had been no hunger then. No thirst. No itching, for his skin had never had the notion that it could be too dry.

If he had ever felt those things, it had been because he had chosen to.

Now the world imposed itself to him, there wasn't much of a choice.

Urges baffled him the most. The dryness coating his mouth on a particularly hot day, his mind conjuring up images of cold, condensation-weeping bottles. The drowsiness taking hold of him after dinner, weighing on his eyelids. The burning, devouring heat flaring in his abdomen as Hob would step out of the shower, a towel lazily tied around his hips, the line of hair trailing down his navel guiding Morpheus' gaze downwards.

It was a strange thing, to be overcome by such sensations. An infuriating thing, really. He ought to be able to resist them. He had been able to resist them, once, to ignore them, dismiss them into nothing if he so chose. How vexing it was, to be a creature of wants and needs, when your existence had been nothing but careful control.

He would not tell Hob, but he could not help but feel... lesser. How clever could his mind be, now that he only had access to his own? How good could his hands be, he who had been able to breathe life into dream clay, fashion lands and castles with a single thought? How pleasing could his touch be, now that he was barred from his lover's unconscious? How could he compare to who and what he had been, once?

They had not made love ever since his encounter with the Kindly Ones. Hob had never pushed, reading Morpheus far better than Morpheus ever could, now. There had been times, here and there, when Morpheus had thought they would, with lingering kisses growing deeper, embraces in bed tighter, but something had held him back. Some bitter gnawing feeling at the pit of his stomach. Yet another thing he could not seem to control.

Yet he wanted. Desperately, frustratingly so. The most mundane things would strike him as the most erotic sights he could fathom. Hob drinking his coffee in the morning, his Adam's apple bobbing as he'd swallow. Hob reading the day's papers, his gaze intent, focused. Hob reaching up to grab this or that from a cupboard, his shirt riding up and showing his navel, while his tired pajama bottoms hung from his hips, revealing the slight dips there, a hint of hair...

Morpheus' body would betray him often, subjecting him to fantasies and erections that, much like the rest, he held little control over. Unlike food, lust was a hunger he never seemed to satisfy. It only grew.

If Hob had ever caught him staring, he never said anything. Instead, he was highly skilled at noticing when Morpheus' mind would start spinning on itself, feeding the loop of existential dread looming over him. He had taken to giving Morpheus tasks, then, something to focus on. Although it would not quite clear the storm, it muffled it somewhat.

Perhaps he'd sensed another one of Morpheus' spirals that night, when his voice rose from the bedroom.

"Oh, bollocks! Love? Might need a hand here."

As he stepped inside the bedroom, Morpheus found Hob standing by the mirror, struggling with his button-up. He flashed a quick contrite smile at him, emphatically tugging at the fabric.

"Can't manage to button those buggers off," he explained.

"Allow me."

The human condition was one thing, but buttons he could handle. Morpheus' touch was methodical, surgical almost, as he focused on the task at hand, yet three buttons later, he could not help but feel his focus slip. He could feel Hob's warmth under his fingertips. His heartbeat. As he breathed in, Hob's scent filled his lungs, distracting him further. By the time he was done with the shirt, his mind had gone elsewhere.

Hob wore an undershirt, a thin, almost see-through thing. It required barely any effort to see his chest in spite of the fabric. Morpheus' eyes trailed down, heat flushing his cheeks. Mindlessly, his thumb traced the line of hair down Hob's abdomen, his mouth filled with want. He could feel hot breath against his lips. Humans were not meant to withstand such hunger.

They were kissing before Morpheus could articulate another thought, Hob's mouth warm and soft against his, the coarse brush of his stubble adding fuel to the fire overtaking him. No doubt Hob had meant for this to be tender, but Morpheus was famished, taking, and taking, and taking all that was offered until his lungs might explode. He found himself gasping against Hob, nose to nose, forehead to forehead.

"Hey," Hob whispered, gentle to a fault. "It's okay. There's no rush."

Morpheus swallowed hard, feverishly catching his breath. Hob's palm was invitingly cool against his cheek.

"I will keep," he continued. "We don't have to―"

"I want to," Morpheus rasped, weeks of frustration pushing the words out of him. "I want you. I just―"

"Just what?"

The patience in his voice was the lifeline Morpheus held onto as he sighed, embarrassment flooding through him.

"This form, it feels... finite. Flawed. Lacking."

Fallible, he did not say. He watched as Hob's eyes grew round, ridicule joining embarrassment.

"Duck―"

"I am not as I once was," he continued, overcome with the need to justify himself. "I am no longer suited to anticipate your every want. I can not satisfy you to the degree I once could. Everything I have to offer is bound to disappoint in comparison."

Hob's stare felt heavy, too heavy for Morpheus to hold, but as he looked away, Hob took his chin between his fingers, directing his gaze back to him.

"Love, I―. Sex is not about making some kind of... of ranking."

"Your unconscious would rank it, regardless."

"Fuck my unconscious. It's my conscious self who wants you, magic dick or not."

The corners of Hob's mouth twitched at his own joke, but seriousness soon took over.

"I love you," he said, prompting Morpheus to look away again. "I love you. I would love you Endless, I would love you human, I would love you if you were a tentacled monster and hell, you've been that before if you'd recall!"

Morpheus fought back the smile creeping up on his lips.

"I never cared how we'd fuck. Well, I did, but― I did because it was you. I wanted to be with you. I still do."

Hob sighed, and they stood in silence for a moment, looking at each other.

"At least now we know that mind of yours is well and truly yours and not a Dream of the Endless exclusive."

"An unfortunate discovery."

Hob's hand settled on Morpheus' waist, his thumb brushing the fabric of his shirt.

"I do want you," he said. "Whenever you're ready. If ever. But I don't want you holding back because you've convinced yourself I may not enjoy it well enough, according to some cosmic standard you've set for yourself."

Morpheus nodded slowly, his own thumb back to tracing the happy trail on Hob's stomach.

"I have always found you pleasing enough, after all," he dared, shooting a tentative look at Hob. "As human as you are."

Hob made a face, pulling him closer by the waist.

"Your compliments need work, duck. But I do think there's a silver lining to this whole human condition you are overlooking."

"Is that so?"

Hob smirked at him, fully conscious of how devilishly handsome that made him. He had had, after all, centuries to hone those skills. How long would it take him?

"You no longer have access to my unconscious, right?"

"I do not."

"Which means you can no longer anticipate my every want, as you said."

Now that was rubbing salt into the wound.

"Yes," he conceded with a frown.

"Well imagine how arousing it is, my love," Hob said, his eyes darker by the second, "to be able to surprise you."

A warm shiver went down Morpheus' spine, sending his pulse into a frantic race. He swallowed thickly, holding Hob's gaze.

"How arousing?"

"Very. Cock-achingly, one might say."

Morpheus glanced down, finding Hob's trousers tight, his hard cock pressing against the fabric, making his knees weak. The human body truly was weak in the most delicious way.

"I could dare you to surprise me," he teased back, his breathing loud in his ears.

"You could."

Gods, that mouth of his, Morpheus was quite certain he could be undone from that tone alone. But still.

"But should you find me displeasing, you ought to―"

The rest of his words were swallowed into a kiss, unheard and discarded, replaced by tender sighs and wanting hands, and after a while, Morpheus found he'd forgotten what they even were, his mind blissfully blank save for pleasure.

The human body was a curious thing. A highly pleasing thing, at times.

Send me a kissing prompt?

[wxnheart]

On today's episode of "My Simpin' Ass Friend Asks Horny Ass Questions", It's the Barbenheimer for Me What-if? Edition (Part 1): How would the boys take to seeing Barbenheimer?

Cpt. John Price: You would surprise him with tickets to see a movie 'cause the old bastard needed it. Said movie winds up being Barbie. He'd feel like the oldest person in the theater and would try to be as inconspicuous as possible. Would more than likely enjoy the movie, though.

Gaz: Would only go because he lost a bet.

Soap and Ghost: You and Johnny would drag Simon out to see the movie. Simon will stare the ticket agent down because they'll make the perfectly innocent comment about being surprised that Simon would be interested in the movie and tell him to enjoy it. Yeah, enjoy it his ass. You two will put him in the middle and act like kids in a candy store, you're so excited to see it and irritate Ghost. Simon would look so disinterested, meanwhile, he's having an existential crisis because fucking hell, it's so many bright colors, he'd actually remember parts of the movie, and he would enjoy it more than he thought he would. His face will crack when you call Graves a Great Value Ken, though, because fuck him.

Alejandro and Rudy: Alejandro will go to see it with you two because why not? (That and you and Rudy would practically pester him to go). Alejandro will be neutral about it (was he even paying attention?). Somehow Rudy will manage to doze off and deny this later on. You may or may not see Valeria there. If you do, no you didn't.

Horangi: He'll be comfortably watching it... while playing footsies and/or handsies with you to distract you from watching it.

Graves: You two will go and it'll be an uneventful but eventful date night. Will go pretty swell actually, up until you make a comment about him being "like a rugged Ken doll" to which he'll say: "Nothing like 'im, darlin'. I'm much, much better." He'll wink and there goes that sleazy-ass grin again. God, you could hatefuck him to oblivion.

König: Will probably be the most self-conscious person in the theater because he manages to stick out like a sore thumb and Schatz, people are looking at him, can the damn concession line go any faster?! You two will sit in the very back of the theater to assuage his anxiety and it'll give you the perfect opportunity to cuddle and watch the movie together. Pretty perfect movie date, I'd say.

-- part two coming soon.

[sadhours]

Steve with a piss kink, i dont have any specific ideas for request, just that and let you work your magic

this is 100% in fact my kink.

steve harrington x fem!reader

cw: 18+ minors dni, smut, piss kink (obviously)

you’re laying Steve’s bed, the two of you laid out lazily after a particularly hot summer day. he’s been your best friend for so long, days bleed together but you two have started a new routine. with the aide of alcohol, you spill your deepest desires and because what else is there to do when you’re horny, drunk and in bed with your best friend, you act on it. the last confession was your own, last week.

you told Steve you wanted to be treated like an object. your ultimate fantasy was to be completely at someone’s will. a toy to use and abuse for one’s pleasure. he was intrigued and when things happened… steve didn’t disappoint. in fact, it completely turned your mind around. Steve was no longer your airheaded best friend of a decade and then some. now, he was… a fascination, borderline obsession. you couldn’t stop thinking about him in this… dominating way. steve was solely responsible for bringing your fantasy to reality. and you were kind of… in debt to him. you’d do anything he asked.

“uh, pee,” he offers, softly, looking embarrassed as he admits it.

you perk up, sitting upright from the admission as you gaze down at him. tilt your head just slightly as a smile tweaks the corners of your lips. he’s got his hands crossed on his chest, feet kicked out by your thighs. he winces, cheeks flushing as he waits for your response. he expects it to be one of disgust, but with the way he broke you down and then lifted you to existential bliss last week, you’re more than willing. it’s a win win, strokes your own kink while satisfying these hidden desire of Steve’s.

“pee?” you ask, placing a hand on his thigh, a silent promise that you’re not judging him, “like, you want someone to pee on you or you want to pee on someone?”

“both,” he admits, looking sheepish as he averts his eyes towards the ceiling, “It’s all… it’s kind of a lot. I know, it’s gross.”

“no!” you squeeze his thigh, inching closer to him, “tell me more, like… you want what exactly?”

Steve laughs, all insecure as his shoulders elevate and his hands travel to his face, “God…”

“Stevie,” you purr, “Last week, we… I told you I want to be an object for you to use. I mean, this is kinda like, along the lines. I wanna do what you did for me, so tell me…”

he still looks hesitant, face flushed beautifully so you scoot closer to him. place a hand on his hip and lean close to him, biting your lip as you squeeze him.

“you wanna piss on me, baby?”

steve smiles, eyes rolling back before he closes them and lets out a shaky breath, you lean down and push his hair off his forehead, “i want it.”

“yeah?” he asks, breathless as he meets your eyes.

“uh-huh,” you confess, stroking his jaw as your lips hover his, “want you to piss on me so bad. wanna feel it all over my tits and pussy.”

“christ,” he inhales sharply, hand moving to grip your hip and squeeze. “wanna cover you in it.”

“let’s do it,” you mouth against his lips, coil in your stomach tightening at the thought. you climb off the bed, pulling him with you. the two of you trail to his bathroom. Steve’s being rather shy with the fantasy so you take the lead. Stripping from your clothes before you sit on the toilet, looking up at him with big doe eyes. you grab his wrist and pull him between your legs as you lean back slightly.

Steve groans, working quick to unbutton his Levi’s. He unzips and shoves his boxers and jeans down to his thighs. His impressive cock is hard, tip red and angry. He wraps his fist around his base and roughly rubs his tip against your perked nipples. It sends shockwaves down to your clit, cunt growing wetter by the minute. You won’t tear your eyes away from his face, watching the arousal flooding his eyes.

“Gimme it, baby,” you plead, moving your hands to cup your tits and squeeze them together for him.

He lets out the prettiest moan as his stream starts, hot piss spilling from him and splashing against your tits. It’s… shockingly, surprisingly the hottest thing. Sharing bodily fluids in the most intimate of way. And Steve looks so wrecked from it, mouth hanging open as he pants, soft little moans filling the space. Aims his stream at your nipple and the sensation makes you whine, pussy clenching around nothing. Then he lowers it, coats your folds in his hot urine and you moan out, moving your hand down to spread your lips for him.

thanks to the aide of your fingers, his stream perfectly hits your clit and your head tilts back as your back arches.

“oh, fuck, Stevie!” you cry out just as his left hand moves to grip your throat.

“fuck,” he whines, eyes trained on where his piss his flowing firmly against your cunt, “that’s so fucking hot.”

“feels so good, baby,” you pant out, body on fire and coil in your stomach tightening rapidly, “Fuck.. think I’m gonna cum.”

“oh, Christ,” Steve curses, squeezing your throat gently, “fuck yea, cum for me…”

your left hand moves to your chest, spreading Steve’s piss all over them before you pinch your nipple; writhing on the seat as he effortlessly pulls an orgasm from you.

“god! Stevie! Yes!” You cry out as it hits you, eyes rolling back as your lids flutter shut.

Steve heaves a totally beautiful and wrecked moan, hand letting go of your throat as his stream stops. He whimpers, “Lemme…”

He strokes his cock, quick and tight. Takes only a few moments before he’s spilling cum all over your navel and cunt, eliciting the prettiest moan as he does so.

[judging-will-wood-confessions]

The Song With Five Names genuinely helped me get closer to my Christian faith. it so perfectly shows an existential crisis, not only questioning everything around you, but laughing at yourself for doing so! And even though Will and I came up with entirely different take-aways from that line of thought (him that religion is only used to cope with the void of existence, me that religion is the only constant in a world constantly redefining itself), it is SO comforting to know someone else has thought that same way

[beelmons]

Requests status: open Be mindful that I reserve the right to refuse requests if I'm not comfortable with the topic being written about, I'm pretty open-minded, so if I think something goes over the line I'll just politely decline.

Aaron Hotchner

But who is he to you? (Aaron Hotchner) (Angst)

Golf lessons with dbf!Hotch

Hotch and you fight in front of the team

Hotch getting you off with his knee (NSFW)

Hotch gives your career advice

Hotch's love language + physical touch (reader's love language)

Hotch with an ADHD fem!partner

Not-so-professional

Derek Morgan

Smut prompts #20

Emily Prentiss

Emily's love language + quality time (reader's love language)

Luke Alvez

But who is he to you? (Luke Alvez) (Angst)

Luke Alvez spells his name between your legs (NSFW)

Luke with an ADHD fem!partner

Protective prompts 1 - I've never seen you act like that before

Spencer Reid

A story of ‘maybe’s and 'what if’s (cowboy!Spencer)

But who is he o you? (Spencer Reid) (Angst)

Confident Spencer pinning you down to make you come (NSFW)

Devil's mark (NSFW)

Enemies to lovers with Spencer (Angst)

Experimental pedagogy (NSFW)

Fucking Spencer during an online meeting (NSFW)

In short, I love you (origins)

In short, I love you (the cup)

In short, I love you (valentine's)

Smut prompts #5 - "I can't pull out when you wrap your legs around me like that"

Smut prompts #17 - “Nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to take a second to admire how beautiful you are.”

Smut prompts #30 - "I bet I can make you come without touching you"

Smut prompts #44 & #45

Spencer's love language + quality time (reader's love language)

Spencer's love language + physical touch (reader's love language)

Spencer comes in to work with orange hairs on his beard

Spencer comforts you during an existential crisis

Spencer sees you all dolled-up for the first time

Spencer taking care of you while you're sick

Spencer with an ADHD fem!partner

Spencer with a mexican fem!partner

Trying to subtly tell Spencer you're horny (NSFW)

Misc. (more than 1 character/BAU family)

BAU men love languages (pt. 1)

Luxury poker nights (NSFW)

Spencer and Hotch welcome you back after a trip

The team finds out Hotch, Spencer, and you are in a throuple

[kitschkicks]

The relationship of an iconic duo

I’ve been thinking of long running partnerships in performers, especially comedy, and what makes the dynamic so fascinating to me. 

Let’s focus for now on duos, though this definitely also works in threes and more. As an audience perhaps our attention is grabbed by the pair playing up a relationship dynamic for laughs or audiences, making innuendos or playing characters with an ‘old married couple’ dynamic. 

I imagine when they first start out together there is a predictable nervousness and excitement. Having to get close to someone, discover their quirks, pushing normal boundaries for the sake of the performance perhaps in intimate ways: it’s the stuff fake dating fics are made of. Getting physically closer and perhaps flirtier as characters as you also become closer as friends and performers, able to end each other's sentences and work seamlessly together. The thrill of someone who compliments you artistically. 

Do you try to escape it or lean into it? If you lean into it you run the risk of tying yourself to another person in the public eye, almost typecasting yourself. There is a vulnerability in that but also the exhilaration of seeing how well you work together, how you soar to new heights. 

And then it really gets interesting when a duo work together for so long that it’s routine. For years you work together. You are a duo now, names spoken in the same breath, personal identity almost subsumed by the partnership. The performers existential horror of ceasing to exist as an individual entity. You might as well be a two headed creature, defined by the other. They are your other half. 

And it’s good. It feels natural, comfortable. There’s no nervousness or tension in it any more, no worries of overstepping, you know their boundaries perfectly, or have discovered that between the two of you, they barely exist. Being comfortable with each other in a way that many people have never experienced. All the tension is external now, the reactions of others. Comments that you are sleeping together flow off your back. You’ve heard it so often for so long, it’s almost proof it’s working, that you work as a partnership. Don’t they understand that what you have is deeper than that actually? Somehow more intimate and intertwined than just 2 people who are fucking? 

Especially with comedy. You have the jokes for the audience and your own inside jokes. You are full of glib answers you give at interviews or to comments, blurring the lines between character and performer somewhat. Add to that the strange power dynamics written into what you do. The scripted ones you perform between yourselves. The improv games where you challenge each other to take it further. The way you are both dominant over the audience and participants, but utterly beholden to them too. As you play your public facing roles for so long, does that character start to become more like you? Do you start to become more like your character? You certainly become more like your partner. 

There is a bone deep trust between you, with the act, with your career, your feelings, your body- maybe even your life. 

What do you do with that if it goes on for long enough? Do you actually start a love affair? Get married? No, that’s not what you have, the dynamic is totally different, and yet in a way, anyone marrying you from then on has to accept you have another older deeper partnership. It’s almost a form of polygamy. Certainly polyamory. After all, you love your partner, not the frivolous horny love people joke about but the deep bond of friendship, soulmates really. If they were to die, a piece of you would be lost. The act would be over, not just amended but entirely done. There is no replacement. 

As beautiful and terrifying and inevitable as falling in love.

When was it, the point of no return? Was it when you got your first award together? Your first good review? Perhaps it was after your first run of shows, or the first time you shared an audience. Was it the day you met? Was it that inevitable? 

Or perhaps you’re thinking about it the wrong way? 

Was it the first time someone asked you about the other’s feelings, expecting you to know automatically, and you did, answering without thinking. When you first invited them for a trip or special occasion, them slotting into your private life as naturally as they did your public life? When they had a health scare and as you heard the news for a moment you felt your heart freeze in your chest. You know for a fact, no matter what fans my gossip, that it wasn’t the first time you kissed (stilted and staged and done with ears almost entirely on the audience except for a small part of you wondering about what would be said backstage) but perhaps it was the first time you kissed with no one watching? Just a peck really, just an outburst of affection, not caring what anyone else thought about it at all. It wasn’t romantic or lavasious or exaggerated the way your jokes are, just pure and human, no thought or agenda there at all. 

So yeah… that’s what it is that really gets me about performer partnerships. And this is all in my head, maybe it’s not like that at all, but just trying to think what it could be like sends my thoughts into the clouds for hours. 

[densoro]

so the thing is, cockroach wife syndrome doesn't just affect your waifu. It can get in your head and convince you that you have to be the cockroach wife, yourself

I've been freaking out this year about my smile lines

I was terrified that they made my face look saggy, made my mouth look like a chimpanzee's muzzle, made me look like I'm 50 even though I'm just starting my 30s. I had this whole existential crisis like, 'the internet was right, white people really do age like milk and I've lost my youth and my chance to be beautiful and adored so what's even the point??? llama face, llama face!!'

but then I grabbed baldur's gate 3 for my birthday

and everybody has been so horny for these eligible bachelors with pores and folds and, yes, wrinkles! texture! it's like it snapped me out of somebody else's hentai-addicted stupor. None of this shit makes somebody categorically ugly, no matter how close I lean into the mirror and obsess over every line. These things aren't just 'permissible' here, they're idealized!

I see a weird echo of myself in the misogynist otaku who freak out about this stuff, crying about the sjw plot to overthrow video games by making hot women...look like hot women???

I was just internalizing what they waste their lives externalizing: a disconnect with what the fuck a human being actually looks like. so I figure if I needed a reminder, maybe someone else does, too. You're not ugly, just because your face is less smooth than an anime character's. You're a human being with actual flesh attached

[youngestdaughtersyndrome]

thinking about the stupid boygenius leonard cohen line ..... irritating for so many reasons !!! first of all it feels shitty to me to reduce the work of a jewish man to things written by a horny man having an existential crisis in a monastery when so much of his work was centered around his faith and how that faith influences his interactions and experiences with the world (which does include sex but like come on that does not mean u can dilute decades of work into "horny"). secondly i firmly believe that the trend of making ironic quips about everything is childish and stupid and runs directly parallel to the anti intellectual practice of trying to denounce something to make yourself look smarter when you havent even put thought into what ur denouncing. that line wasnt necessary. thirdly its very ironic because id say all three members of boygenius talk about sex and relationships more than leonard cohen does

[green-cargaytions]

hiiiii if i wanted to get into hozier music. where should i start :3

oscar i’ve been staring at this ask freaking out for like the last twenty minutes (positive) i have no idea where to even begin!!!

ok so it’s helpful to know that every hozier song is like

pick all that apply: horny, feral, deeply tender, deeply sad, existential crisis, remembrance of things past, women pretty, politics, religion, poetry, new and unhinged emotions. i can rec for any and all of these categories

on the whole, hozier does a lot of fingerstyle guitar; he’s influenced most deeply by blues, r&b and other Black music. his music is very emotions so crying. literally he will speak in extended metaphors and literary allusions…ough…

the first album (2014) is eponymous, it’s just called hozier. very acoustic, indie sound, he literally recorded it in his parents’ attic. everyone knows it for Take Me To Church. make sure to listen to the expanded version! big themes of religion.

his second album (2019) is called Wasteland, Baby!, and it is definitely the horniest album of the three- but it has some of the most poetic songs as well! this one sounds really dreamy. the album art is fantastic. underwater photoshoot WHOMST. also definitely don’t forget the E.P for this one, it has two amazing songs that aren’t on the album.

his most recent album (2023) is called Unreal Unearth and it’s based loosely on Dante’s Inferno/ the nine circles of hell. it’s definitely his most produced-sounding album, but imo it stays in line with his unique sound, and his lyric-writing skills have only gotten better. he’s also begun collaborating a lot more with this album! note that Through Me (The Flood) isn’t on the album, just the EP, but so worth listening to.

oh lord, this has gotten long. i’m willing to do a more in-depth breakdown of each album if you want!

for now, i’ll give you some quick faves from each one:

(god i can’t choose rjakgksfksjgjsy)

Hozier (2014): Jackie and Wilson, It Will Come Back, From Eden, and In The Woods Somewhere.

Wasteland, Baby! (2019): Shrike, NFWMB, Almost (Sweet Music), As It Was, and Sunlight.

Unreal Unearth (2023): Abstract (Psychopomp), Unknown/Nth, First Time, and Son Of Nyx. Special shout-out to the All Things End music video.

OKAY THIS HAS GOTTEN LONG, SORRY, PLEASE ASK ME IF YOU HAVE MORE QUESTIONS

p.s if there is a hozier, then - the existence of a hoziest is implied ….somewhere out there….

[kinetic-elaboration]

July 9: Murphy/Clarke, Secret

Very early S1 Murphy/Clarke, ~1,000 words, for the prompt "secret" for July Break Bingo @julybreakbingo.

This ficlet was also written in response to a request by Robrae in a comment on AO3 for Clurphy in canonverse.

Written in about 40 minutes.

*

Back in the Skybox, most of the guys put on a front: fearless, arrogant, and rude. This exaggerated bravado was partly to ward off the usual existential dread—the prison atmosphere, the looming threat of death. But also to attract girls.

Skybox courtship followed a certain pattern: first annoyance and rejection, then curiosity, sometimes amusement, then boredom. Eventually even the assholes with their unsubtle pickup lines started to look pretty good. Horniness, and more dread. Pretty soon you're hooking up to feel alive or starting relationship drama to pass the time.

Clarke was in solitary so she doesn't know any of this, and unlike the girls in gen pop, she has neither time nor patience for sly winks and swagger. All the guys showing off their new Earth muscles by chopping wood or curing meat, they're trying to gain points with Bellamy and his crew first and foremost, sometimes, depending on who’s watching trying to flirt. But they're not trying to lure Clarke. They know better.

Murphy knows better too, which is why he's just as shocked as the rest of camp would be, if they only knew, that every other night he and Clarke trade off sneaking into each other's tents. Without discussion, they agreed that their arrangement should remain a secret. Something unspoken perhaps because it's shameful, perhaps because it's too ill-defined and ill-formed. What's he supposed to say anyway? That Clarke's his girlfriend? Not likely. Attaching labels to it, squashing it down into words and sentences, confessions, rumors, announcements or news, all that would tip over the delicate balance they've created. Just like they're baking a soufflé, they have to be quiet. Too much noise would send the whole thing falling down.

Clarke would probably find the soufflé metaphor funny, because, like most people, she doesn't know that the cook books in the Ark library database were his favorites. She'd laugh if he tried to call himself a chef. He's a lackey. A thug. He's in with the in-crowd because Bellamy saw something useful in him, something dead about the eyes that screamed out enforcer—or maybe he just knows from his little brat of a sister that Murphy was a lifer, unaccustomed to normal society, ready to follow strength and show it loyalty.

Most of that is true.

So if Clarke sees those traits in him and no others, he can't blame her, and if he keeps the quiet, soft, vulnerable parts of him hidden, whatever they are, it's for the same reason he put up his tough guy persona every day for four and a half long years up in the box: to ward off the dread, to get the girl.

A part of him says that Clarke wouldn't laugh, that she'd get real quiet and thoughtful and maybe brush his hair out of his eyes. He's been watching her during the day. She bends and softens at vulnerabilities; she knows she'll never get anything out of people who are kicked when they're already down. But then maybe he just likes the fantasy of it: a beautiful woman with power who tells him his dreams aren't dumb, who speaks with authority in the dark and silence just as she does out there in the chaos of daylight in the camp.

How he got such a girl he still doesn't entirely know. He'd cut himself badly working on one of the new structures, the wooden hutch where they hope to cure their meat. She was alone in the corner of the Dropship they've curtained off as Medical, and as she wiped the blood away and he hissed low curses and winced at the pain, she started talking to distract him, and he found out she was calm and clear-headed and brave in a crisis. That she looked beautiful as she pressed antiseptic to his skin, and that she could make him laugh when he didn't think he could. What she saw in him in those moments, he has no idea. That's just another secret, too deeply buried to disturb. But she held his hands a long time, even after he was all bandaged up and ready to go. She was kneeling on the floor in front of him, strands of hair pasted to her forehead with sweat.

He thought she'd probably banish him for kissing her but it seemed a fair risk, for that one reckless moment of time before he leaned in. Instead, she grabbed fistfuls of his hair and bit his lip.

In the perfect silence of the hour before the changing of the guard, that night, she crept across the dirt and deadened, yellow grass and scraped her nails like ghost-sounds down the nylon side of his tent. He let her in.

Maybe he's just around, a body, an opportunity—something she missed in her months of isolation, an outlet to her frustrations and her fatigue and her fears. Except she could have any damn person in camp if she wanted them. Maybe she's with him because she knows he won't brag. Ms. Griffin the Council Member's daughter in his bed.

Sometimes afterward they lie together in the quiet, listening to the wind in the trees, the footsteps of the night watch on patrol. Low, skittering forest sounds that he can't name. Tree leaves swept off their branches and thrown against the tent. Clarke climbs half on top of him and presses her ear to his heart and he gets his fingers all tangled up in her hair. They talk about the Skybox and he tells her about the arrogant and frightened young men. Then other stories. The long years, the distortion of time, the rituals—visiting day, birthdays, holidays—the new people coming in and the old going out. Less often, they talk about the camp and its progress. Sometimes she tells him about her parents and her friends back on the Ark.

She holds back a lot more than he does. He hears the hesitation in her voice, the care she puts into her words.

But it's all right.

He feels her chest rising and falling as she breathes, pressed against his chest. She's warm and heavy on top of him. Some nights it feels like she might stay there forever, like the time before the last gray hour before dawn, when she'll gather up her stuff and sneak away, is really all the time left in the world.

[otakween]

Cyborg 009 BGOOParts Delete (2020) - Volume 5

Finally done with this slog...well at least until it gets translated. I'll probably read this again in English if I ever get the chance because I feel like I missed a lot of what was happening.

Really didn't expect this entire series to just be the Mythos stuff, how lame. Why couldn't they just come up with new material? Oh well...

Ch. 29

Oh boy...more monologuing. It's a monologue off between Hera and Zeus and they just ramble on and on about the creation of the Mythos cyborgs. Zeus says he gave downtrodden, vulnerable people power and Hera's like "no bitch, you just enslaved them!" This whole manga series coulda been an email...

Helena does that weird "gay to be straight" thing at the end. As in, she kisses Francoise so she can kiss Joe indirectly. Okaaay...

Ch. 30

The numbers cyborgs take down the Atlas-type robots Zeus summoned using ~the power of teamwork~

Joe helps Apollon get out of the line of attack and Apollon has one of those "why are you helping me? We're enemies!" Cliche moments. I feel like we've gone through this about a zillion times now.

Ch. 31

I think this artist is horny for Artemis based on the sultry way she's drawn over and over. Also, they may or may not ship Joe x Apollon because there are a lot of tender moments between them. With how pretty they're drawn, it feels like fujoshi bait. (Maybe I'd ship them if they weren't bland, flat characters lol)

Apollon helps Joe take down the Atlas-type robots, Zeus talks about the benefits of robots vs. cyborgs (they don't betray you and aren't emotional) and then Apollon gets obliterated and the Atlas-type robots start attacking each other (because their ability to recognize allies began to malfunction).

Ch. 32

With all other enemies taken out, Zeus turns into his ~final form~ and starts zappin'. Helena gets caught in the crosshairs and the number cyborgs plan their revenge.

I'm kinda confused about Hera's role in all this. She's been judging him this whole time but also not exactly working against him...? I guess she's too weak to do that.

Ch. 33

Okay, so maybe that wasn't his final form lol. More battle nonsense happens and Joe manages to shoot Zeus in the head with his own laser, but then he transforms into Apollon

It really feels like the writer couldn't really think of anything to do with this story, so they just draaaaged out the battle as long as they could. Also, the dialogue continues to be hella repetitive. If I hear Hera/Zeus say "the Mythos cyborgs whose fate is under your control" one more time I'mma snap.

Ch. 34

Zeus monologues some more, transforms into an abomination and then Joe one-shots him with help from Hera's amulet lol. Pretty anti-climactic but I'm glad that's over with.

Prof. Gilmore randomly showed up to be like "I'm worried about Ivan." Thanks for your input, Gilmore.

We get one final Hera monologue and then she puts Prof. Gaia's soul back in his original body so that they can die together I guess.

It's revealed that Prof. Uranus' first name was Tyrone...did they just google "black guy name" for that one? That doesn't seem like a fitting name for his age/time period, but what do I know I guess...

Ch. 35

This chapter was the epilogue and it got all weird and existential. They talked about fighting alternate versions of themselves in other universes and about their minds fusing together to become one being (??). They also referenced an "angel of despair" a few times which reminded me of the angel from 009 Re:Cyborg. This all seemingly came out of nowhere...

Francoise kisses Joe to "pass on Helena's message." She tells everyone to close their eyes, but Ivan tries to sneak a peek. I feel like that was the one cute moment in this entire series lol

For the human characters everything's back to normal and their memories were wiped. The implication is that the numbers cyborgs will keep on keepin' on in the multiverse. Guess this franchise will never die lol.

Obviously, I didn't really enjoy myself reading BGOO Parts, but I'm happy for the real fans out there that they have some new content to chew on. As I said in my previous posts, the art was very nice, but the writing/pacing/story all kinda stunk. Not a lot of interesting character moments either. Onto the next!

[rlaehrwk-37]

<CH 554. EP 1. WE ARE BACK IN SUFFERING TOWN BITCHES.>

————————————————————

translation provided by the lovely @lee-hakhyun go follow them or I’ll beat u up <3

————————————————————

[“This is a story of unreadable despair.”]

•

Yea thanks for the heads up. Totally not an ominous beginning to this side story (sequel)! There’s also ch 553 (prologue) but it’s free so anyone can read it for themselves!

• Lee Hakhyun and his neck being grabbed caught uhh

We’ll definitely be seeing more of that heh

So Lee Hakhyun, the writer of orv and his editor, Ji Eunyu are invited to go to a fan event by a reader who goes by the name of “Representative Kim Dokja”. Totally not shady at all…

• Take note of this Chungmuro Theatre. We’ll be seeing more of it shortly.

<Kim Dokja’s Banquet> (more like it’s a fucking trap)

• Ugh I think of this convo more than you can think… LHH… you’re not gonna be left out, you’re also a reader. A reader who loved the characters and wrote a story for them. You wrote out of your love for this story. You’re a “writer” who thinks from the perspective of a reader, and that is why you’re not Han Sooyoung.

>> ‘I also laughed bitterly. “I did.”’

I wonder when he’s gonna feel that extreme existential and identity crisis. Surely it’s not his story, but can that really be said after he spent 3 years of his life writing this story? Is he really not the writer?

• HELPPP HOPE IT DOESNT HAPPEN HERE LMAO I WANNA SEE SOME SCENES—

Is this a sign that if the webtoon stops updating we’re all gonna die?

There’s no way our horny-for-kdj webtoon writer is gonna stop drawing that wais— *gets shot*

• I—

well this is proof that dreams are real right? *insert MoM reference*

you readers better dream your happy ending or I’ll shoot you down

• oop so they saw Cheon Inho in the line of life sized cutouts as well? yep this is definitely not foreshadowing.

• ARRGHWGEGHW I WANNA GO TOO THERES GONNA BE LIKE HUNDREDS OF FANS IM SURE

• “I’m so proud of you, Kim Dokja.”

I,,, I’m so,, soft 🥺🥺🥺 I’m so proud of you too LHH, both you and KDJ came so far…

• STFU STFU “disappeared” WHAT,,??? I read everything so quick the first time that I didn’t catch the little lines. THIS IS WHY LHH THOUGHT ALL HIS READERS MOVED ON FROM THE SERIES? NAH FAM THEY JUST GOT TRANSMIGRATED INTO ORV

There was a mention of a famous writer disappearing in SS’s first novels “How to Become a Star Writer” as well. And it was Lee Hakhyun’s story.

Surely this is not foreshadowing…

• JUDGE HEEWON MY BELOVED,,, ANOTHER BIG STRONG PUPPY MAN,, I LOVE YOUILOVEYOUILOVEYOU

We’re slowly gathering our main trio. Rereading this scene makes me giggle.

• LHH THINKING OF KDJ WHEN HE THINKS OF HOW TO INITIATE CONVO. BROTHER DO YOU THINK A MAN WHO READ A NOVEL FOR 10 YEARS TO AVOID SOCIAL INTERACTION WOULD KNOW WHAT TO SAY TO A STRANGER LMAOOO 😭😭😭 HES SUCH A KDJ KINNIE I LOVE HIM

• THEYRE SO FUCKING PRECIOUS OMG NO I— MY BABIES FUEHUSUEHFHWJJEKEKFJEJWJDJWJJDJW

• AHHHWHDHE JUDGE HEEWON BADMOUTHING CHEON INHO HES GONNA DO THAT LATER IN THE APOCALYPSE TOO WHDHWJDH WHAT A TRUE HEEWON SIMP

>> “Hello I’m Kim Dokja, and I’m the MC.”

REPRESENTATIVE KIM DOKJA EW FUCK OFF NONE OF MY HOMIES LIKE REPRESENTATIVE KIM DOKJA.

>> “It’s Kim Dokja’s birthday.”

>> “It really snowed in Seoul that day, too.”

• no shut up. you don’t understand how important this is. snow,, snow field,, a place for the reader to hide in,, in the margins between the words on the page lay his own personal snow garden. in that white space from where he supervises everyone’s suffering. white blank space. with no words. no rules. he stands alone. FUCKRHHFJFIIWJCJWJ UGH

• “tear spots on white skin” WHO MADE MY QUEEN HAN SOOYOUNG CRY??? WHAT— WHAT POINT IN TIME IS THIS HSY FROM? could she be the hsy after the end of the side story? she saw his story and now writes it for him? but I’d hope that it’s LHH himself who writes this side story ykwim? WHY WAS SHE CRYING?

alas, this is the end of the first chapter. reading this side story always makes me feel like I wanna scratch my skin off. but I’ll do it again.

[firstkanaphans]

hi sarah! okay admittedly this is very random but couldn't resist sharing - as a result of BLP currently occupying all my spare brain space rent free, i'm now in the "every song i listen to reminds me of them" stage of me constantly thinking about akk and aye from your fic 😂 and right before i read your update last weekend, the song 'animal' by neon trees came on my shuffle randomly and although i know that song is technically over a decade old now and i'd heard it a million times before, it took me way off guard and it felt like i was hearing the song for the first time because i realized it reminded me soooo much of akkaye from BLP!

the crazy thing is that the first time i'd listened, i was imagining the song from aye's pov, maybe because his pov was most fresh on my brain at the time? but then i got a chance to read your update from akk's pov and i lost my mind all over again because it's JUST as perfect for akk's pov too?! it totally blew me away because there i was, already thinking about the song in relation to the 2 of them and next i'm reading about akk quite literally talking about having a desire to consume/wild animals/wanting to be eaten himself etc. and i'm like ????!?!

god the song is so perfect for them!! especially some of the lyrics like "I kinda want to be more than friends", or "we play pretend" or "No I won't sleep tonight" (a consistent for the 2 of them this fic 😂), or "say goodbye to my heart tonight" (which aye does every time he can't help but be with akk even though he's pining 🥺) vs. the parallel of the other version of that same line in the song that sounds the same is "take a bite of my heart tonight" (basically akk the entire first half of the last chapter haha) - there's more but i'm refraining because then i'd just end up posting the entire lyrics and my line-by-line "here's how this relates to BLP" detective-string-board-analysis in your poor askbox 😂

anyway, just wanted to share because i hope it gives you BLP akkaye feelings too <3 and it's the perfect song vibe for the fic too, all upbeat and rom-comish - but also horny af hahaha. thank you for writing this fic, i quite literally look forward to sundays every week, and it's always a highlight every week. can't wait for this one!!

Okay, first of all, this ask gave me an existential crisis because you said "Animal" was a decade old and I was like, "surely not, that came out five years ago at the most." And turns out we're both wrong because it came out FOURTEEN YEARS AGO and now I need to have a lie down.

Also, me re-listening to this song and looking up the official lyrics was the first time (in 14 years apparently!) that I realized he's saying "take a bite of my heart tonight" instead of "say goodbye to my heart tonight."

So, anyway, that was a roller coaster.

But yes, this is actually the perfect BLP song. I especially like the line, "You're just a cannibal and I'm afraid I won't get out alive." I tend to use very cannibalistic metaphors to describe sex and passion, which I should maybe talk to a therapist about or something...

Thank you for the ask! I'm so happy you're enjoying the fic 🫶🏻

[the-one-true-nobody]

Lois Lane Interviews the Cat Savior

"Superman, Superman! Why do you keep pretending to save cats?! Surely a godlike figure like you is only concerned with looking angelic in the glare of the sun, feats of impossible heroic strength, and brooding at home while the media to waxes lyrical about your existential significance to the human condition!"

"Uh... excuse me, Ms. Lane...? This is my lunch break, so..."

"You heard me! We live in the 2020s! Post-Donald Trump America! The world after COVID! God is dead and aspirational goodness doesn't exist! Now! Tell me why you pretended to save that little girl's cat! And those other thirteen cats you saved over the last week! P-pretended to save, I mean! You pretended to save them! Totally staged it. Deepfake hoax."

"To tell you that, Ms. Lane, I need to take you on a trip through time. To a time that wasn't the 2020s, when this symbol on my chest stood for something... o-other than 'Superman,' I mean."

"I can show you the wooooooorld... shining, shimmering, spleeeeendid...!"

"...Where did you come from, Jimmy?"

"I was standing right behind you when you were scripting out this interview, dude! Like, right right behind you. Were you really that distracted by—"

"ANYway, to answer your questions, we need to go back to the very beginning... the beginning of time. Before the Snyderverse began... before the Flash royally screwed up and rebooted the universe (again). Look down there, Ms. Lane... what do you see?"

"I see you pretending to save a cat!"

"You see me really saving a cat."

"You can't prove that, Smallville."

"Then lets go even further back!"

"Further back than before the Snyderverse began?!"

"Time is a flat circle, Ms. Lane. You can always go further back. What do you see now?"

"I see you... p-pretending, definitely pretending, deepfake technology... to save a cat... from some real shitheel kid, jeez. You really did that? ...Why?"

"Because someone wrote to me about a case of animal cruelty. They wanted me to help."

"Y-you answer pleas for help that people send you in the mail? "H-he's too pure for this world...!"

"Well, it would probably be via 'Twitter' these days, except..."

"The Elongated Muskrat. Someone should put a stop to that dastardly villain."

"That looks like a job for... Booster Gold. I'm not touching that one."

"Yooooooo, I have a question!"

"What?"

"Have you ever broken a cat by accident, like you break all those door handles and bathroom faucets and stuff?"

"..."

"..."

"...Uh."

"...You haven't have you?"

"N-NO, OF COURSE NOT." *Ahem.*

"Anyway, Ms. Lane, the bottom line is... I'm here to help. I don't care if it's an invincible monster with bones sticking out of its... everywhere, or a construction accident or a car crash... or some little girl's cat that got stuck up a tree. I see someone who needs help, I help. Someone asks for help, I help. That's just who I am. I'm here to help."

"Yeah, but for real. Are you sure it's not some roundabout symbolic way of saying you're an Alpha Male who gets all the—?"

"Ms. Lane, please. What could a man saving cats be 'symbolic' of?"

"Oh no, you won't fool me. No man on Earth is so pure! Go to horny jail. Go directly to horny jail. Do not collect two hundred dollars."

"W-where were you keeping those handcuffs? "This wasn't in the script..."