#props to you for handling that - and like everything else - really well

[rafayelxsylusho]

imagine xav x mc x caleb throuple sex …. them being jealous and frustrated when two guys tried to hit on their girl at the beach and they fuck it all out on her

I just noticed I didn't have Xavier in the "At the same damn time" fics 😯.

I hope you like it ☺️

The update for The land of no return series is next.

⭐Melting point🍎

Tw: smut

You flash the guys in front of you your most charming smile, laughing at their jokes as you subtly angle your body to keep Xavier and Caleb in your peripheral vision. Their stares don't go unnoticed, and you can practically feel the jealousy radiating off them from across the beach. But you act oblivious, continuing your flirtatious banter with the two men, enjoying the little thrill of making Xavier and Caleb a bit jealous.

After a few more minutes of friendly conversation, you excuse yourself and start walking towards Xavier and Caleb. As you approach, their expressions morph from jealousy to possessive.

Stopping in front of them, you tilt your head coyly, batting your lashes. "What are you two scowling about?" you ask innocently, acting as if you have no idea about the effect you just had on them. "Is everything okay?"

You can sense the tension crackling between the three of you. But you simply look at them waiting on their reaction to your little game. Little do they know, you live for moments like these, the thrill of pushing their buttons and the retaliation that's sure to follow.

You grab your tropical cocktail from Xavier's hand, the ice cubes clinking against the glass as you bring it to your lips. The sweet, fruity taste of pineapple and rum dances on your tongue as you take a long, slow sip.

With no answer from them you walk back to your beach chair, as soon as you are setting your glass down on the small side table you hear Xavier ask  "Did you have fun?"

Turning your body, you lie on your stomach deliberately arching your back to expose the skimpy backside of your bikini bottoms. The fabric stretches over the curve of your ass, the edges of your cheeks peeking out teasingly. You can feel the warm sun caressing your exposed skin, but it's nothing compared to the intensity of Xavier's gaze as he stares at your tempting display.

"Nope," you reply, voice dripping with false innocence. The single word hangs heavy in the air between you, a provocation and a challenge all in one.

"How about we go back to the hotel so you can wear something else."

You turn your head slowly to face Caleb, your long hair falling over your shoulder as you meet his eyes. A tiny smirk plays at the corners of your mouth as you respond to his suggestion.

"I really like this bikini," You emphasize each word, drawing out the syllables as if savoring the taste of them on your tongue. It's like you are daring him to do something about his obvious disapproval.

Turning back to face forward, you make a show of adjusting your bikini top. You can feel the weight of their stares, the hunger in their eyes as they watch your every move.

Xavier steps closer, invading your personal space as he leans down, his face mere inches from yours. "You and every other guy around here seems to like it too. Maybe a little too much."

Shrugging you let out a soft scoff. "So?" you ask.

You knew all too well about their love hate relationship with your bratty attitude and it only spurred you on.

Rolling on your side, you prop yourself up on one elbow, facing both men directly.

"What's the matter, boys? Can't handle a little friendly chat?" You taunt, lips curling into a teasing grin. Your eyes dance between their tense faces, reveling in the jealous frustration you see there.

Caleb leans down and presses a soft towel into your hands. "Here, wrap this around yourself"

You glance down at the towel, then back up at Caleb "But I don't feel cold," you reply, keeping your tone playful yet stubborn, and make no move to take the towel from him

Xavier sighs loudly, his patience clearly wearing thin. He leans in close again, so close you can feel his breath against your ear. "Either you wrap that towel around your body, or I'll bend you over this chair to spank that attitude out of you and give those guys a bigger show than you already have."

You let out a soft, tinkling laugh. "What makes you think I wouldn't like that? Maybe I want them to watch..."

As the words leave your lips, you suddenly realize that you may have taken things a step too far, pushing them closer to their breaking points.

So you sit up slowly and swing your legs over the side of the chair. Standing up, you fix your bikini bottoms and adjust the straps of your top.

'I think I'm going to enjoy the rest of our time here before we head back to the hotel," you say, grabbing your sunglasses and slipping them on your face.

With a flip of your hair over your shoulder, you turn and start walking towards the water's edge, putting an extra sway in your hips. You know they're watching you, their eyes glued to your every move. The sand is warm beneath your bare feet as you approach the shoreline, the waves lapping gently at the sand.

You glance back at them over your shoulder, eyes hidden behind your sunglasses, a teasing smile on your lips. "Aren't you two coming?"

⭐🍎⭐🍎⭐🍎⭐🍎⭐🍎⭐🍎⭐

"Caleeeeb..."Why are you doing it like that?

You are spread out luxuriously on the hotel bed, your bikini long since discarded and forgotten on the floor. Caleb's hands grip your thighs, holding them apart. His mouth moves over your folds, tongue swirling sooooo slowly on your clit, as if he has all the time in the world. He takes his time, savoring every inch of your skin, tracing the delicate contours of your femininity with a maddeningly slow thoroughness.

The minutes tick by and your frustration grows, back arching off the bed, fingers gripping the sheets beneath you. You can feel the pleasure building, but it's too slow, too teasing, and not nearly enough to satisfy the need within you.

You toss your head back against the pillows, hips squirming beneath him. "Stop making out with my pussy"

Caleb simply chuckles and lifts his head just enough to flash you a grin, then he parts your folds with his fingers and spits directly on your exposed clit. You gasp at the sudden stimulation and his saliva mingles with your arousal. The slick, warm fluid trickles down between your ass cheeks.

Suddenly Xavier whispers against the shell of your ear, the deep timbre of his voice making the hair on the back of your neck stand on end  "What did we say about sassing?"

Caleb's fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thighs, gripping you tighter as he holds you in place.

"You have two options y/n, you can be quiet and take what we give you..."

As Xavier speaks, you feel the flat of his tongue drag slowly over the peak of your nipple, the wet muscle teasing with gentleness. It draws a sharp gasp from your throat

"So soft" he whispers.

"Or?" you breathe out, your voice trembling slightly

"Or... I will find something to shove inside that bratty mouth and take what we want anyway. What will it be?"

You quickly clamp your mouth shut, a soft whimper escaping your lips.

"Good girl," Xavier praises, the words are barely out of his mouth before you feel the sharp sting of his teeth sinking into your nipple.

A gasp catches in your throat, threatening to spill over into a moan, but you bite your lip hard to stifle it.

Caleb seems to be rewarding your obedience choosing that moment to run the tip of his tongue from your entrance to your clit several times. Then he pushes a finger inside your core, curling and stroking a sensitive spot.

You can no longer hold back the needy sounds building in your throat. A moan escapes your lips, the pleasure overwhelming your previous resolve to stay quiet.

"Caleb, please..." you hear yourself beg "More, I need more..." Your hips buck against his hand, trying to take his finger deeper as your walls clench greedily around it.

"She sounds so sweet when she begs, doesn't she Caleb?"

You feel Xavier's fingers tightening around your breast, squeezing your flesh. Your nipples harden further under his touch, aching for more of his dominant caress.

"Do it again," Xavier commands, "Beg for it, and we'll make you feel good." He licks your nipple again and Caleb adds a second finger, pumping them in and out of your pussy with a steady rhythm.

You feel your orgasm building, that coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter in your core. A breathless smile plays on your lips as you realize the power you hold, even as these two men have you pinned and at their mercy, the knowledge that you somehow have them wrapped around your finger only adds to your arousal.

"God, you are such a fucking brat," Xavier growls "All you had to do was behave yourself, and we would have fucked you the way you deserve" 

Caleb adds a third finger, stretching you further, Xavier fingers pinch and roll your other nipple in time with the thrusts of Caleb's hand.

Your hips buck wildly, rolls only making it halfway through completion "I'm gonna... Fuck, Xav..."

Just as you feel the sweet oblivion of your climax approaching, heaven within reach, and your soul poised to soar through those celestial doors...

You open the doors to heaven, but you don't get to walk in.

Because just as the first wave of your orgasm hits both men stop. Cold air hits your pussy as Caleb abruptly removes his mouth and fingers, leaving you empty and desperate.

Xavier grabs your arms, gripping them tightly as he pins them above your head, preventing you from moving, from seeking more of that glorious friction. Your orgasm, once promising to be earth shattering, fizzles out into a mere flicker, leaving you whimpering and squirming.

"Did you really think, after today, that you deserved to cum so fast?" Caleb mocks. "You haven't earned that pleasure, brat."

Tears of frustration prick at the corners of your eyes as you stare up at them, your chest heaving with ragged breaths. Your body is a live wire of sensation, every nerve ending screaming for more, for release, but they've stolen that from you.

"If you wanted to be touched, you just needed to ask," Xavier reminds you. His grip on your arms tightens briefly, a warning and a promise all in one. "We saw how those fuckers were looking at you, like a piece of meat, a prize to be won. But you don't belong to them, do you?"

Caleb leans in and whispers, "No, you belong to us. So next time, remember this is what happens when you don't ask nicely for what you want."

Trembling and sensitive you begin to move your hands to cover your naked body, but before you can Caleb sits up, effortlessly lifting you up placing you on his lap, your legs straddling his thick thighs as he holds you up.

You look up at him, confusion in your eyes as you mumble, "I thought... we were done?"

He shifts his hips slightly, and you feel the hard length of his cock slide through your folds, the head catching on your entrance. "Oh princess," he murmurs "That was just a warning. Now comes the lesson."

He squeezes your waist tightly, his fingers digging into your soft flesh as he starts to push you down on his cock. Your eyes widen and you let out a choked gasp as you feel his girth stretching you open, the thick head pushing past your entrance.

Your head spins and when he starts to sink you lower, you feel something that always makes your mind go completely blank, the cold metal of his piercings.

He starts counting as he pushes you down "One... Two... Three..." You're not sure if he's counting each inch of his large cock as it disappears inside you, or if he's marking the way your pussy swallows up each of his piercings.

Your walls flutter and clench, trying to adjust as Caleb continues. "Five... Six... Seven..."

Then he gives your waist one last firm push, sheathing that final inch of his pierced cock deep inside you. When your ass presses against his thighs and your hips align, he finishes counting "Eight."

His hands grip your hips, holding you in place as he starts to roll his hips slowly, working his cock in slow circles. "This is how it feels to be ours"

You let out a shaky moan when you feel Xavier's hands squeeze your breasts from behind. Driven by instinct and desperation, you find yourself rolling your hips, grinding your ass against the length of his cock .

Xavier's voice is a warning growl in your ear as he feels your teasing movements. "Don't be greedy, bunny, If you keep pressing your ass against my dick like that, I'm going to fuck it."

Caleb, still fucking you so very slowly whispers "Careful what you wish for Pip, Xavier's not as gentle as I am. He might just take what he wants"

But you're too far gone, lost in a haze of sensation and desperation, to heed the warning in their voices. The words spill from your lips before you can stop them, fast and breathless.

"And that would be a problem, why?" you ask, rolling your hips, deliberately grinding your ass against his erection one more time.

"Because, once he starts, he won't stop until he's emptied every last drop of his cum deep inside your ass" he gives a sharp thrust, grinding his pelvis against yours, making you cry out, "and right now, your little cunt is too busy milking my cock to take much more."

"Is that what you want?" Xavier asks, "To be fucked until you can't walk straight?"

Your breathless whisper of affirmation is all it takes to shatter the last of Xavier's restraint. He spits crudely into his palm, coating his fingers with saliva. Before you can process the lewd gesture, he's pressing the slick fingers against your back entrance.

His eyes are dark with lust as he watches Caleb's cock disappear between your wet folds, your walls clinging greedily to every inch of his length. "Tell me, Y/N, do you deserve it?"

You're too desperate with need to lie, so the truth tumbles from your lips in a plea. "I don't," you admit, your voice breaking on a moan as Caleb's buries his cock to the hilt again "But I need you right now, Xav, please!"

Xavier's pupils dilate and without warning, he presses the head of his cock against your back entrance. Your body instinctively clenches, your hole squeezing down on the intrusion.

But jealous Xavier is anything but gentle, so with a single thrust, he buries himself inside your ass, not stopping until his heavy balls press against the underside of your cheeks. The sudden, intense stretch has you crying out, your back arching as your fingers scrabble at Caleb's chest for support. 

"FUCK!" you scream, feeling split open, stuffed so full of hard, pulsing cock that you swear you can feel them in your throat.

Xavier swears under his breath, pressing his forehead against your shoulder "Fuck, Caleb"

"What?"

"I can feel your fucking piercings"

Caleb's hands squeeze your ass and spreads the cheeks apart as he starts to thrust again and says "Your welcome"

Desperation claws at your insides as you clench down on their cocks, feeling every ridge and vein, every piercing and throbbing pulse. You can't form a coherent thought beyond the need for them to move, to claim you, to use you.

"Xav," you whimper, your nails digging into Caleb's skin. "I need you to move, please!" Your hips move between them, seeking more of that intense fullness.

He's testing his control, ensuring he won't embarrass himself by cumming on the spot the second he starts to move. After a few tense heartbeats, he seems satisfied that he can hold back, if only just barely.

"Hold on to Caleb and remember I love you," he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin. "Because in about five seconds, it will feel like I don't."

With that ominous warning, he starts to move, pulling his hips back until just the tip of his cock remains inside. Then, with a hard snap of his hips, he slams back into you, burying his length deep inside your ass.

The sensation of being so impossibly stretched steals your breath away, leaving you gasping and panting. Your mouth falls open, desperate for air as each of their thrusts drives the oxygen from your lungs.

Caleb takes advantage of your open mouth, leaning in to catch your lower lip between his teeth. He tugs on it gently before releasing it and flicking his tongue out to lave over the sensitive skin, soothing the sting of his nip.

"You wanted to be fucked stupid, princess?"

You don't answer, you can't. Not when the two of them are fucking you like that

"We're getting there...she just lost her ability to talk"

Xavier throws his head back, the tendons in his neck stand out, his muscles coiled and flexing as he chases his pleasure, lost in the tight, silken heat of your ass.

You're sandwiched between them, a willing victim to their lust, your body a plaything for them to use for their satisfaction. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixing with your desperate moans and their harsh pants and groans.

Your body is wracked with sensation, every nerve ending screaming with a dizzying mix of pleasure and pain. Tears stream down your face as you cry out, "I can't take it anymore!"

Xavier leans down, his lips brushing your ear "Yes, you can, stubborn thing. Look at how well you're doing right now."

Caleb reaches down, gripping your thighs tightly. With a sharp tug, he pulls your legs further apart, opening you wider to them. The new angle has Xavier's cock driving even deeper into your ass.

The pleasure is so intense that it blurs the line with pain, leaving you dizzy and disoriented. You can't distinguish one from the other anymore, only knowing that you're drowning in them.

 

"It's too good, it's too much... I'm about to...Xav"

"You don't need my permission, bunny. Don't hold back now."

"Caleb..."

Feeling your body shaking between them, he murmurs words of encouragement "Go ahead, Pip. Come for us, I'll be right there with you"

With a swipe of his finger against your swollen clit, Caleb sends you hurtling over the edge. Your scream tears through the room, your body convulsing violently as your orgasm crashes over you. Tears pour down your face, vision going white as pleasure detonates behind your eyes.

Your nails rake down Caleb's chest, leaving red lines in their wake as you ride out the aftershocks of your orgasm. You can feel Xavier's rhythm start to falter, his thrusts growing erratic as he chases his own release.

Caleb's hands grip your hips tightly, holding you in place as he slams up into your spasming cunt, his own orgasm building rapidly. You can feel his cock growing impossibly harder.

"Fuck!" Caleb moans, his eyes squeezing shut as the first hot, thick spurt of his release paints your cervix.

"Shit, I'm close too," Xavier pants harshly "Don't you dare fucking stop, Caleb!"

Xavier's balls draw up tight, his impending release coiling hot and heavy. With a scream of your name that echoes off the bedroom walls, he hilts inside your ass one last time, his cock pulsing as it begins to erupt. 

Completely spent, you collapse against Caleb's body. Limbs trembling and face nuzzled into the crook of his shoulder as you try to catch your breath.

After a long moment, you start to giggle, a breathless, incredulous sound that turns into a full blown laugh. Caleb looks down at you, his eyes crinkling with amusement as he takes in your expression.

Still giggling, you tilt your head to meet his gaze "You two need to get that jealousy under control."

His brows furrow as he cups your chin "We don't want you talking to guys like that anymore," he states firmly, his thumb brushing over your lower lip in a gesture that's almost tender, if not for the underlying demand in his tone.

"You can't just order me..."

"We can and we will, see that's where you are wrong bunny, it's our cum filling you up right now. Not theirs" Xavier hips roll lazily against your ass, stirring his release inside you.

"You are ours."

[doppel-doodles]

That illustration is making me want to slam my head against solid concrete, Art block said no, and I know when to pick my battles so fuck it we ball-

A normal post about Matthew Hallard from Poppy Playtime

I briefly mentioned this in the Jack post, the fact that I didn't think I had anything new or particularly interesting to say on Matthew as I always thought the Fandom had a lot of the bases covered.

But the more I actually thought about him, the more I wanted to talk about one thing in particular:

Let's talk about Doeys tape.

In game we find a vhs tape recorded by Doey, talking about how he almost ditched everyone in favor of running away, ultimately deciding to go back for them instead. It reveals a lot about how he truly feels about the responsibility that has been given to him.

I think it was so important to include this and the reason why is quite simple:

It humanises Matthew for me.

Why I point him out specifically is due to reasons I mentioned in my other analysis, Jack's control is mostly passive, Kevin only really comes to the forefront when he feels like there is a threat to assess or deal with and it has been confirmed that Matthew is the oldest of the children as well as having been a leader of sorts since he was still a human child, so in the tape it's basically him venting.

Which is great as it makes something crystal clear: He is not a perfect saint.

Matthew is a teenager who has been parentified from an incredibly young age, places immense pressure on himself, is suffering from more burnout than a college kid and not to mention the horror that is his current existence and life-

He doesn't WANT this responsibility, he only takes it on because nobody else will or can.

And nobody even thinks to ask him ONCE how HE is doing, no,no it's him who has to do that, he is not allowed to have breaks.

For godness sake he literally tells us in the tape that he is recording it because he feels like he can't talk to anyone about his problems!

The toys- The children having someone like Doey or more accurately Matthew is not a guarantee, it is a privilege but it's a privilege Matthew needs to!

And you rarely ever see kind characters COMPLAIN about having to be kind all the time, truly looking after everyone else drains you, it's exhausting to fulfill the needs of others, more often than not you'll have to put aside your own and when you really pull the shit end of the stick you get more complains then appreciation for your troubles.

It is such a CHORE and I think a character struggling with being so selfless actually can have such a massive impact instead of just being able to handle everything, it's that tiny bit of realism I love.

Despite how exhausted and miserable Matthew was over being stuck in this position in the end he turned back. Because he loves his friends that much, and he should get massive props for that.

And to think he still did so much but didn't think anything he did was good enough is just painful, like no honey you are enough, more than enough-

Also Poppy having once been the leader makes you think that maybe Matthew might have been hurt the most by her disappearing.

Like her leading was the closest thing to a break he ever got- and then she just up and disappears?? And it's all up to him now? Not to mention the concern? The worry??

Boy it speaks volumes that he doesn't seem to display more hostility towards her considering Poppy doesn't even EXPLAIN herself on why she left or why she couldn't come back.

He is even civil in discussing the fact that she demands for them to be okay with being blown up(also correct me if I'm wrong but didn't Poppy also include in her plan that SHE will get to live? If I heard that I would be flabbergasted.) But that's something I should discuss in another post.

For now that is everything I have about my boy, if you want to see what I have to say about other characters here is Kevin annnnnnd Jack, plus some extra stuff on Doey

[b1eedthefreak]

Piercing

Daryl x gn! Reader

Summary: Daryl’s newest wound won’t heal… so reader suggests a certain piercing

Warnings: None :)

Note: BIG THANK YOU TO @storiesofthev01d FOR THIS IDEA :3

⸻

Daryl had only been gone for a couple of days, but the moment he walked through the door, you could tell something was off. He had that usual grumpy look on his face, like he was annoyed about something, but this time, there was something else… a little wince, the slight twitch of his jaw.

You were sitting on the bed, propped up on your elbows as you watched him from across the room. He tugged off his jacket, rolled his shoulders, and let out a heavy breath through his nose. You didn’t miss the way his tongue flicked out, like he was testing something.

“What’s wrong with you?” you asked, tilting your head.

Daryl shot you a look through the mirror as he sat down, unlacing his boots. “Nothin’.”

You narrowed your eyes. He was lying.

“Daryl.”

He exhaled sharply, finally turning to face you. “Bit my damn tongue.”

Your lips twitched. “You what?”

“Bit it. Hard,” he grumbled. “Got jumped by a couple of walkers, damn near fell, and chomped down on it.”

You winced in sympathy. “Let me see.”

He hesitated for a second before opening his mouth, sticking his tongue out just enough for you to see the deep cut running along the side. It was still a little swollen.

“Daryl! That looks bad.” You scooted closer, inspecting it like it was a serious injury. “How long ago did this happen?”

“Couple days.”

Your jaw dropped. “And you didn’t clean it?”

He gave you a look like you were being ridiculous. “I rinsed it with whiskey.”

You groaned, flopping back onto the bed. “You are so lucky you haven’t died from infection yet.”

Daryl just grunted, but you could tell it was still bothering him. He sat in front of the mirror, running his fingers through his hair, flexing his jaw like that would somehow fix it.

You sat up, resting your chin in your hands as you studied him.

“…Well,” you said after a moment, dragging out the word.

Daryl glanced at you through the mirror. “Well what?”

You shrugged. “There’s no saving it now. You should just pierce it.”

He turned around fully, raising a brow. “The hell?”

“I’m just saying,” you teased, kicking your legs back and forth. “The wound won’t close, sooo you might as well turn it into something cool. You’d look good with a tongue piercing.”

Daryl scoffed. “Yeah, okay.”

“I’m serious!” you grinned. “C’mon! I’ll do it for you!”

There was a beat of silence. Then,

“…Alright.”

Your brows shot up. “Wait really?”

Daryl just shrugged like it was no big deal. “Ain’t like it’s gonna make it worse.”

You beamed, hopping off the bed.

Daryl sat on the edge of the bed, his legs spread, while you sat between them. You had everything ready; a needle, some alcohol, and the small silver barbell you’d scrounged up from an old stash of supplies.

His hands rested on his thighs as he watched you work, his eyes flicking between your concentrated expression and your hands. You were careful, precise, your fingers warm against his jaw as you tilted his face up.

“Open,” you murmured.

Daryl obeyed, sticking out his tongue just enough for you to see. You hummed softly, inspecting the placement.

“This might hurt,” you warned.

Daryl just grunted. “Ain’t nothin’ I can’t handle.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled, bracing yourself as you carefully pierced through the swollen part of his tongue. Daryl tensed for half a second but didn’t make a sound. You worked quickly, slipping the barbell into place and screwing the top on tight.

When you pulled back, you admired your handiwork.

“Oh wow..” you murmured. “It actually suits you.”

Daryl licked his lips, his tongue moving experimentally. “Feels weird.”

“You’ll get used to it.” You grinned.

⸻

[ohnoyuno]

Remnants of the night

Pairing: nakamoto yuta x female reader  Genre: slight smut, fluff Warnings: 18+ mdni, mentions of sex, swearing, intoxication Word Count: 1108

Summary: You and Yuta had one wild of a night. The both of you woke up hungover the next morning along with the aftermath of being tangled under the sheets.

You woke up with a throbbing headache and sore legs, your hand instinctively reaching to the side to find the person responsible. Yuta’s soft breathing was the only sound filling the room as you turned, your groggy eyes meeting his relaxed, content expression.

Looking a little more rumpled than usual. His hair was tousled, eyes half-lidded from the remnants of his own hangover, the faint traces of exhaustion still evident in his features. There was a gentle crease in his forehead, likely from the way he’d been sleeping,

“Morning, baby. You alright?” He muttered softly, his voice laced with a hint of concern as he gently caressed your arm. Yuta was still a little sluggish, but the warmth and slight roughness in his voice made it clear he was just as affected by the night as you were.

You groaned, squinting against the morning light that seemed to intensify your headache, still half-dazed. “What do you think, Yuta? Let’s not do this drunk again please I don’t think I can handle it a second time...”  

Yuta chuckled, his voice still husky from sleep. He turned onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow as he looked at you with his signature smirk.  

“You had zero complaints last night though.” he teased, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.  

You groaned, burying your face into the pillow. “Yeah well last night me was clearly not thinking about today me.” 

“Sure you weren’t. But I gotta say, you were really irresistible. Clearly doing it on purpose, huh? Showing up in that tight dress then getting me intoxicated.” Yuta laughed, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your back.

You peeked at him from the pillow, narrowing your eyes. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”  

“Can you blame me?” He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. “How about I make it up to you with breakfast? Let me go wash up real quick.” Yuta murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek before getting up and stretching. 

You couldn’t take your eyes off him as he made his way toward the bathroom, wearing nothing but a boxer. The soft light from the morning hit his body just right, and for a moment, you forgot about everything else. But just as he reached the door—

“WHAT THE FUCK? NAKAMOTO YUTA!” you shrieked in horror.  

Yuta whipped around, glancing over his shoulder with a confused look. “What? What’s wrong now?”  

You pointed at his back, mouth agape. “Your back… it’s completely scratched up! Why didn’t you stop me?!“

Realising what you meant, Yuta let out a low chuckle. “How could I? My princess was having the time of her life.”  

You groaned, running a hand through your hair. “Gosh, Yuta, didn’t you say you have a photoshoot this afternoon that requires you to be topless?”

Leaning against the bathroom door frame, he shot you a smug grin. “And that’s how I’ll let everyone know I fucked my lady real good.”  

Your jaw dropped at how crude he sounded. “Yuta. What are you going to do? You can’t go to the shoot looking like that.”

“Just leaving it as it is, I guess...” Yuta shrugged, completely unbothered. 

“YUTA NAKAMOTO!” you practically screeched, staring at him in disbelief.  

He smirked, arms crossing over his chest “Babe, chill. I don’t like how you’re screaming my name like that. It sounded much better last night. I want to hear that again.”

You grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at him, groaning. “Seriously, you are the death of me.”  

Yuta dodged effortlessly, laughing. “And yet, you keep coming back for more. You love it don’t you!”

“How about round two later? You know… to even out the scratches,” Yuta said, turning his back to the vanity mirror and inspecting the marks with a smirk.  

“Quit playing, Yuta, I’m serious… How are you going for the shoot later?” you huffed, arms crossed.  

Yuta met your eyes through the mirror, completely unfazed. “Y/N, I’m also serious about round two later.”  

You rolled your eyes. “Yuta…”  

He chuckled, walking over to you and tilting your chin up with a finger. “Relax. My manager left a message—shoot’s canceled.”  

Your mouth fell open. “And you’re only telling me this now?!”  

Yuta grinned. “Figured I’d let you stress a little first. You look so fuckable when you’re flustered like that.”

You smacked his arm, making him laugh. “Yuta, I swear—”  

“You were so worked up about it, it was kinda cute.” He leaned down, brushing his lips over yours teasingly. “But since I have the whole day free now… what do you say?”  

���Say to what?” You narrowed your eyes. 

His hands found your waist, pulling you close. “Round two, obviously.”  

Gently shoving his face, you groaned. “You’re unbelievable.”  

Yuta only grinned, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Yet you love me anyway.”  

You huffed, pretending to think. “Hmm, debatable.”  

Yuta gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “Wow. Wounding my pride first thing in the morning?”  

“You’ll survive.” you teased, turning toward the bathroom to escape.  

But before you could take a step, Yuta scooped you up effortlessly, throwing you over his shoulder. “Oh, you’re not running away that easily, princess.”  

“Put me down!” You struggled in his embrace, smacking his back.

He only laughed, carrying you back to the bed. “Not a chance.”

In the spur of the moment, you swiftly slipped your hands into his boxers, thinking his limbs would go soft, allowing you to escape from his grip.

Instead, his grip on your hips tightened, his forehead pressing against yours as he groaned. Yuta’s breath hitched as your fingers wrapped around him, stroking him teasingly slow.

“Fuck, Y/N…” he exhaled, his voice thick with desire. “You really don’t want to tease me like that.”

You smirked, tilting your head slightly. “And if I do?”  

His eyes darkened, a dangerous glint flickering through them. “Then I’ll just have to remind you who’s in control.”  

Before you could respond, he pushed you back down onto the bed, pinning your wrists above your head. His lips ghosted over your skin, trailing kisses down your jawline, then to your neck, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, princess.” he murmured against your skin, his teeth grazing your pulse point.  

Your breath hitched, anticipation curling in your stomach. “Maybe I like the risk.”  

Yuta chuckled lowly, his grip tightening slightly. “Then let’s see how much more you can handle.”

“Wait, what about breakfast?” You tried to divert his attention, though you knew it probably wouldn’t work at this point.

“Princess, appetizers always come first.”

masterlist

[katanablue]

Me: yeah I just started this blog yesterday so maybe I’ll put some of my writing out in the future

Also me:

Just a lil something to get the ball rolling 🫡

I used a spinner wheel for turtle+prompt+variation

Intimacy prompts!

07 Turtles + Diff Types of Intimacy:

. . . . . ╰──╮꒰💙꒱ ╭──╯ . . . . .

Leo + 31. holding someone by the waist

“Now make sure you grip it tight by the base, unless you want it to go flying out your hands.” He smirks, crossing his arms over his chest as he watches you adjust the position of your hands.

“How’s this?” You ask after shifting your fingers a bit. Leo nods approvingly, letting his eyes roam over the rest of your form, his eyes squinting the slightest bit when he notices the width between your feet.

“Better. Let’s fix your stance though.” He comes closer, gently nudging your feet apart while his hands hover on either side of your waist. He steps back with a tilt of his head and a raised eye ridge before lightly tutting and coming to stand behind you.

“Okay so straighten up more— yeah like that. Now,” He puts a warm palm on your lower back while his other rests on your hip, once again placing his foot next to yours to shuffle it into the proper position. At first you don’t register just how close he is, truly focused on trying to get into the right stance to hold his katana.

You had asked him to teach you how to wield them and he obliged but not after giving you a whole speech on how “katanas are not a toy, but an extension of a ninja.” And then he started off by teaching you how to hold one before even dreaming about you handling two.

“Okay now bend your arms just a little…” There’s a strong, intimidating presence about him but after knowing him for so long you know that there’s nothing to be afraid of, that he would do anything and everything to make you feel safe and comfortable. You can feel his plastron just barely brush against the back of your T-shirt, his presence like a flame that’s slowly enveloping you.

“Twist your hips now,” He slides his hold to your waist, his grip gentle but firm enough to maneuver you the right away. You can feel the edges of your lips starting to curl into a smile once you feel the warmth of his skin seep through your clothes and onto you. You look back at him over your left, pleasantly surprised to find him closer than you anticipated.

He’s concentrating on your body but once he feels your tender stare at him, his deep brown eyes settle to look right into yours. There’s a half second pause between you two, a flex of his fingers against your waist while his mouth creeps up into a faint smile as well.

“Good?” He speaks softly, the subtle movement of his fingers rubbing up and down not going unnoticed by you.

“Good.”

You don’t miss the quick fleeting look to your lips before he returns it back to your hips.

. . . . . ╰──╮꒰❤️꒱ ╭──╯ . . . . .

Raph + 8. interrupting with a kiss

“And then! They really had the audacity to—“

Raph huffs a laugh as he listens to you talk about yet another disastrous day at your job. He tosses a ball into the air while he sits on your bed, propped against your headboard while you pace back and forth in the center of your room. Every now and then you look over to him to catch his reaction, pleased when he makes a face of agreement or says a few words of input. It prompts you to keep going, thinking you’re almost done until you remember something else your least favorite coworker did.

“Did I tell you what they did last week?” You ask with an exasperated scoff.

“Yeah, babe.”

“And what they did later on the same week?”

He snorts, catching the ball in his hand before looking over at you and throwing it. You catch it with ease, tossing it between your hands while you wait for his answer.

“Yeah,” He tries not to laugh at the slightly defeated look on your face. He sits up even more and beckons you to come closer with a simple expression. With a heavy sigh you oblige, crawling on your knees before plopping right in between his legs.

“They’re just so annoying!” You exclaim, giving him the ball back while you adjust your position to sit more comfortably. He puts it down by his side and places his hands on your thighs, rubbing up and down in a soothing touch and trying to edge you away from the conversation you’ve been having (with mainly yourself) for the past 20 minutes.

“So why don’t you stop talking about ‘em?” He suggests, the faintest hint of sarcasm laced because he just knows how difficult it is for you to actually do so.

You open your mouth to protest, ready to claim yet another thing your lame coworker did that you just remembered.

“But Raph—!”

You’re silenced when you suddenly feel his mouth on yours, his three fingered hand taking a hold of your chin to keep you in place.

“No more talkin’. Got it?” He murmurs against your lips, giving you another peck. You lock gazes with him, those honey gold eyes piercing right into yours. You sigh through your nose, nudging it against his snout delicately.

“You could’ve just told me to shut up.”

His laugh is deep, rich and warm against your mouth, coursing through your chest when he pulls you closer to sit on his lap completely.

“I like this method better.”

. . . . . ╰──╮꒰💜꒱ ╭──╯ . . . . .

Donnie + 38. delightful smiles

“Isn’t this just the coolest thing ever?”

Donnie had managed to find a broken down photo booth at the junkyard on their last scavenging hunt, convincing Leo to let him take it back so he can fix it up.

What he left out was that he wanted to fix it for you.

“You really think you can get this thing to work?” You ask him, seeing his shell peak out just barely from the back of the machine. You place your hand on it, inspecting the once vibrant colors of orange, purple and green now a dull shade. You pull back the purple curtain to glance inside, scrunching up your nose when clouds of dust fly up and hit you right in the face. You wave it away, going to sit on the small bench inside and look at your reflection on the screen.

“Uh, have you met me? Been working on this thing for at least a week now.” You hear his voice a bit muffled from the other side of the booth, scoffing a laugh while he continues to tinker away at machine.

“Oh, my apologies ‘oh smart one’.” You remark, sitting back against the wall and closing your eyes while you listen to him fiddle with something metal. It stops a few seconds later and soon you hear Donnie pulling back the curtain to look at you with a teasing unamused expression.

“Hey, this smart one is fixing this booth up for you.”

His statement makes you smile, making you open your eyes to glance at him. You see him sporting a grin as well, warmth flooding his heart when he sees the way you look at him.

“Better have that same delightful smile when this baby is up and running.” He jokes, stepping back to let the curtain fall and go back to his work. You sit there beaming, cheeks starting to hurt from how hard you were straight cheesing.

It’s nearly an hour later when you hear his triumphant “aha, yes!” followed by the click of him closing the panel back onto the machine. Donnie goes to plug it in and the lights above you flicker for a few moments before staying on, the display screen in front of you whirring to life with some kind of electronic song blasting through the speakers.

“No way you actually did it!” You laugh and turn your head towards the curtain when he pulls it aside and sits down next to you. He rubs his hands together and leans forward to begin selecting a frame for you two.

“You doubted me?” He asks smugly, giving you a playful side eye while he scrolls through the selections. You watch him with a content smile, scooting closer to rest your arm against his.

“Never.” You reply softly, leaning forward to stop him from moving the screen to select a frame that’s purple with hearts all over. He looks down at you fondly, throwing an arm around your shoulders to hug you into his side.

“There’s that delightful smile.”

. . . . . ╰──╮꒰🧡꒱ ╭──╯ . . . . .

Mikey + 10. going on a date

“Dude, you are going to love what I have planned for us!” Mikey happily tugs you across the rooftop, your giggling like music in his ears as he brings you closer and closer to the date spot he set up. He had been planning this for at least 2 weeks, scrambling between his brothers, Splinter and April on what to do for the perfect first date.

Ultimately at the end he figured out he should only rely on April’s advice, given that she’s the only one in an actual relationship.

“You’ve been buzzing nonstop, Mikey! What, did you finally get your hands on the ‘Shell Invaders’ remake?” You ask, putting a bit more pep in your step to walk alongside him rather than behind. He laughs and briefly looks at you before returning his attention back to the front.

“Nah, but now I know what to do for our next date.”

That makes your stomach flip, grinning ear to ear and giving a squeeze to his hand.

“Next date?” You tease in a sing song voice, enjoying the way you can practically see his blush cross his cheeks. He lightly shakes your enclasped hands and looks over at you.

“Next date.” He states confidently, showcasing a big toothy grin when you’re the one who ends up flustered. You walk for another minute or so before he stops abruptly.

“Okay, close your eyes.” He lets go of your hand, bouncing on the balls of his feet while he waits for you to do so. When you do he goes to stand behind you and gently nudge you forward and turn left until the tips of your shoes just barely brush against the edge of a picnic blanket.

You can feel the warmth radiating off of him, even when he lets go of your shoulders and instead reaches down to grab your hand once again.

“Okay… open.”

You can hear how nervous he is, the hope that what he did is enough for you.

And it is.

You gasp quietly when you take in the scene of various foods and drinks scattered across the orange and white checkered blanket, perfectly placed at the end of the building. You lean forward to look over, a small laugh passing your lips when you catch a group of people beginning to set up on stage for some sort of performance. You look back to see Mikey practically vibrating in his spot, anxiously waiting for your words or approval at his date.

“Well…?” He asks with a shy smile. You walk closer and place a small kiss on his cheek, interlacing your fingers as best as possible with his three fingers.

“It’s perfect! This is… outstanding for a first date.” You whisper softly. Mikey can’t help but pull you into a hug, squeezing you tight for a moment before letting you go and gesturing for you to sit.

“Awesome, I knew April wouldn’t let me down!”

You enjoy the food and each others company for the remainder of the night, watching the small band perform their set list down below.

Yeah, this is a perfect first date.

[ozzgin]

Yandere! CoD Headcanons: König x Reader x Ghost (II)

“Sharing is caring” is likely familiar to most, though the nuances of it may sometimes differ beyond the classic expectations. You’re trapped between two jealous, possessive and feverishly infatuated men with no escape in your sight. That implies, of course, you’ve been looking for a way out of this bizarre partnership. Have you? Be honest…

TW: NSFW, obsessive behavior, size kink, violence

Tags: @223princess

[Part I]

Yet another classic rule that comes with your job is to always be ready to deal with the unexpected. Plan as well as you may, the battleground is not as generous as to stick to your schedule. Yet the same principle applies out of combat, too. It’s just…you had’t really imagined such an outcome to be possible. Your extensive training covered most scenarios, from raids, to ambushes, natural disasters, everything except, well, this. You wonder if the code of conduct might include a paragraph about work romance, specifically your teammates taking turns to fuck you shamelessly at any hour of the day.

You gaze at your reflection in the slightly fogged mirror and quickly look away, embarrassed. You can’t bear to see the markings that are peppered all over your body, betraying the depraved activities you’ve indulged in for the past weeks. How did it even come to this? You sit on the edge of the bed, drying your hair, and hesitantly replay the event in your head. Your helpless form crouched on the storage floor, looking up at the two large men gripping at each other’s throats. Behind their masks you could sense their ferocious intent to kill. How would you explain it to your superiors? You gathered up your remaining confidence and barked at them to stop at once. They were indeed taken aback by your sudden yell that could’ve put any drill sergeant to shame. You wanted to get to the bottom of the conflict and put all this bullshit behind as soon as possible. Until they offered you the honest cause of their hostile rivalry. You could only stare in disbelief.

Your first instinct was to wonder if this was some sort of elaborate prank. What the hell, were they a bunch of high schoolers learning to handle their first crush or fucking grown adults in the middle of a military operation? You were never oblivious to it: mixed gender missions always came with a lot of casual hookups to blow off steam. Not your thing, but there’s plenty of other people down to it. Your suggestion was met with angry, vehement refusal. Both Ghost and König were outraged at the insinuation they’d put their dicks in some rando, as if that’s all there was to it. As if anyone else would do. Ironically this is where they found their common ground. König had lifted you nonchalantly by the collar of your uniform and asked you if you’re playing dumb. You could only shrug, even more confused. Ghost joined him and explained, casually and matter-of-fact, that you can call it a hookup as long as you remember it’s a lifelong arrangement. You were to walk out that door with the knowledge you belong to them and they would take any necessary steps to ensure your compliance. The hunting knife that was meant to plunge into his rival was now propped under your chin, dangerously close to your throbbing artery.

Now this should’ve been your sign to nod obediently, pack your suitcase at the earliest convenience and get the hell out. And that was your honest intent, initially. You could almost visualize the documents granting your absence from duty. Then you felt your buttons pop from their seams, forcefully ripped apart by König’s large hand. It occurred to you that you were propped against the wall by two men twice your size. You could hear their now labored breaths, muffled by their masks. The Austrian man roughly readjusted your posture, having you rest against his hips and throwing your legs around his waist. You gasped quietly once you sensed a bulge pressing into you. He fumbled with his zipper, but Ghost interrupted him with an irritated scolding. “You can’t just ram it in, you fucking dumbass.” You didn’t take long to understand the meaning and shivered at the thought. Without a warning, Ghost slid his hand into your now unbuckled pants. Two fingers begun pressing circles over your underwear and an unconscious whine escaped your lips. Satisfied by your reaction, he brought himself closer and increased the pace until he felt the moisture pooling in the fabric, which was enough encouragement to gently slip his way inside of you. In an attempt to help, König lowered his head over your breasts, fondling your now sensitive nipples with his tongue. His mask draped over your skin, adding a mild tickle to the overwhelming buildup. You suddenly remembered the storage no longer had a door after König kicked it out of its hinges, so you tried to push the muscular man away. “W-what if someone comes in?” Against your will and to your surprise, the question rolled out like a prolonged moan and you blushed awkwardly. “They won’t, if you shut up.” Ghost responded curtly. He considered it for a moment, and added smugly: “Don’t worry, that pretty mouth of yours will be real busy soon.” You closed your eyes tightly and prayed you wouldn’t be caught.

And you weren’t. You got away with it. That time, and the other time, and all the other times. At this point you question whether your other teammates truly haven’t noticed or have since learned to look away. Another possibility is that the psychotic duo has threatened the others into silence. Given their cocky attitude whenever you protest about the openness or risky timing, it wouldn’t surprise you at all. Even worse, their libido seems to be increasing exponentially as a consequence to their incessant competition of owning you. They seem to be plagued by a delirious need to have you at all times, and you’re rather afraid to admit that your desire to flee is slowly being replaced by a similar addiction. Rabid dogs in heat. That’s the only analogy that comes to mind.

Last time you didn’t even get the chance to return to the base. The soldiers had exited the truck, cheering their success and marching towards the gate. König had been quiet the entire ride, not even bothering to hide his ardent stare, his eyes hooded with lust. You were about to hop off yourself when you felt his burning grip on your wrist, pulling you back in and onto his lap. Oh, how he loves fucking you like this. His toned legs are sprawled out dominantly and his calloused hands guide you over his erection. No matter how many times you do it, the start is always painful. He’s just that big. But that’s his favorite part. Seeing you wince and tear up, holding your stomach as if shielding it from the foreign object assaulting the walls of your frail body. Then the thrusts become smoother and your movements break into an erratic pleading for more. He wants to witness it all. God, you turn him into a wild animal. His fingers dig into your skin and towards the end you’re a whimpering mess, shamelessly drooling over his uniform in a daze. As you coat him with your slick cum, he grunts and barely manages to speak. “Fuck, I’m gonna lose my mind for good one of these days.” His voice is deep and reverberates against your heaving chest.

Scratch that. Last time you didn’t even make it to the truck. You were laying behind a boulder, wiping the sweat and dirt off your face. You’d just finished taking out your targets and announced your return in the headset. Ghost approaches you with a hidden smirk and squats before you, extending a hand towards you. “Need help?” You nod with gratitude and take off your helmet. You reach for his hand, hoping he’d pull you up, but instead his fingers claw around your throat and push you against the ground. “Good, I have the perfect thing for a little slut like you.” He climbs over you without letting go of your neck and undoes your jacket with ease. Hell, he’s been doing it so often he could manage even blindfolded. With the free hand he shoves one of your legs away to make space. Truth be told, he’s very much biased towards this particular arrangement. He can already feel the unbearable pressure of his member waiting to be freed. He adores being able to take all of you in. Your expression, your small body trapped under his massive frame. He can fuck you as he pleases, until you turn into a rag doll, and there’s no way out. You grit your teeth in anticipation and hold onto his arm that’s choking you once he goes in. You must’ve been molded just for him. There’s no other explanation for his feral clinginess, scratching and biting and pulling in desperate, agonizing pleasure. After the deed has been done he can admire his masterful work, gazing lovingly at your flustered, disheveled form, gasping for air and dripping with his seed.

Your shake your head and try to chase away these perverted memories. You’re still damp from the shower and continue massaging your scalp with the towel, when you hear a knock on your door. Oh, no. No. “Busy!” is all you manage to shout. The door opens nonetheless and Ghost and König waltz in, entirely indifferent to your refusal. “Can’t I have one moment to myself?” You groan, frustrated. König leans against the wall and Ghost kneels in front of you. There’s a hint of cheekiness in his voice. “Sure. Tell us to go away and we will.” You blink and ponder his words. Remembering all the past encounters has gotten you a little bit eager, that’s true, but… “Say it.” He repeats himself. You squirm and look away, a deep red spreading across your face. Your lips are pursed. König lets out a soft laugh and closes the door, then faces you. “Since you wanted to be a brat, you have to beg for it now.”

What have you gotten yourself into?

[wayneskluv]

it’s possible she wants you back ¡! ❞ | n. romanoff

summary: your super cool assassin gf broke up with you but she wants you back sooo win win ig | pt 2 with fluff/smut?

word count: 711

pairing: natasha romanoff x gn!reader

warning: mentions of alc/nat being drunk, use of petnames “love” & “baby”

authors note: i would let her do anything to me but i'd also give her a hug and tell her everything's gonna be okay & the use of y/n, i had to for it to make sense, please forgive me 🙏

NATASHA thought breaking up with you would be for your own good, she didn’t deserve you. She was always late for date night due to her duties as an avenger, she had consistent nightmares that kept you awake and she was jealous of anyone who, well, looked at you—she couldn’t really blame them though.

“Baby..” Her whines echoed from behind your front door, from where a slightly intoxicated drunk as fuck Natasha was located. She was too drunk to be able to knock on the door, but you knew she was there, you knew her voice.

You take a deep breath, before you place a trembling hand on your door handle and gently pushing down as if it would break if you looked at it. "Jesus, Nat." A small sigh escapes you as you register her pathetic state, your hand instinctively reaching out to prop her upright. You haven't seen her this drunk in years, and she, most certainly, was not a lightweight.

"C'mon." You gently guide her into your living room, being as delicate as humanly possible. You sit her down on your couch, though as soon as you let go, she sprawls out lazily. "Gotta sit up, Nat. Don't wanna be sick.” You sound like a disappointed parent berating your child, because as much as you were mad at your ex, you loved her with your entire heart, and you still cared about her immensely.

You begin to rise to your feet, to go grab her a glass of water, before a pitiful hand drapes across your arm. "Please, Don't hiccup leave me." If it was anyone else, you'd have pushed them off immediately but you couldn't ignore her pleading eyes. "Yeah, 's okay. I'll stay. 'm not going anywhere."

As you speaks, the thick stench of liquor floods your senses and you feel ever-so-slightly ill. "Nat, love, what happened?" The breakup was fresh, the pet-name was a slip of the tongue, but you couldn't go back now—it’s not like she'd remember in the morning.

"Miss you. So, so, so much." The words roll off her tongue in a drunken slur, and you wouldn't have heard them if you weren't paying careful attention to her. You felt sorry for her, in all honesty-sure, she'd broken up with you without telling you why, and sure, she'd been acting distant, but she seemed genuinely upset.

"You still haven't told me why you broke up with me." You let out a dry chuckle, your shoulders untensing subtly as you notice her slowly regain colour to her face. “Okay, I'll tell you, but you can't tell y/n." The drunken hush she tries to add to her elevated tone is adorable and you have to stifle a grin as you nod, mock seriously. "| promise."

Once she gets your confirmation, she pauses for a few seconds as her head throbs harder, but then it slows and her eyes meet yours. "I was worried I wasn't good enough." Oh. That's not what you were expecting. You were expecting her to say it was something you did, like put an empty peanut butter jar back in the cupboard or anything, really, she has a bit of a temper.

"Really? So it's nothing I did?" Your voice goes up three octaves as you glance down at her, nervously biting down on your bottom lip. "What? 'Course not." It's clear the alcohol is taking a toll on her, and she looks as if she's going to vomit all over you.

You let out a slightly overdramatic sigh, “You take the bed, l'll the couch.” Your arm loops down around her waist, carefully pulling her up off the couch—if you weren't holding her so tightly, she'd had fallen head first into the ground.

The sound of hiccups echo your apartment as you both walk into your bedroom, something she was rather familiar with. You took no caution in letting her drop onto your bed, though you made sure she was in a proper sleeping position to avoid choking on her own vomit.

She falls asleep almost immediately and it's the first time since you've broken up you've seen her look so peaceful. You stand in the door for a few more moments before reluctantly dragging yourself toward the couch.

[shineesbackbitches]

Mea Culpa

౨ৎ summary: “Are you drinking brownie batter?” The scrunch of Namjoon’s nose indicated his judgment. His eyes flickered from your face to the batter-filled champagne glass nestled between your fingers and back to your face.

“Care for a glass?” You offered airily. You had to be drunk or at least tipsy.

Aghast, Namjoon remained rooted to his spot just past the threshold.

“The oven breaks, and you decide to drink the batter?”

౨ৎ pairing: Namjoon x Reader

౨ৎ genre: romance, contract marriage, angst, slowburn, fluff, oneshot series, mea culpa universe, peachesndreams

౨ৎ word count: 12k

౨ৎ warnings: attempted murder, actual murder, organized crime, like, a healthy amount of minor character death (healthy for you, not for them), one minorly graphic depiction of death, Reader has never taken anything seriously a day in her life, Namjoon has always taken everything seriously his entire life, mention of car accident, Namjoon falls so hard it's embarrassing

౨ৎ author note: Congrats to Namjoon for completing his military GE! ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜

“I’m letting you know that I’m billing for this conversation.” Namjoon’s frosted gaze settled on the uninvited guest perched on a previously unoccupied leather chair. The nature of his job already threatened to light the remaining threads of his fuse— constantly being around some of the world’s worst does that to a person.

On a good day, Namjoon detested people waltzing into his personal space— his sanctuary— his office. Growing up in a family as cut-throat as his, there was never a place for him to exist without the persistent prickle at the back of his neck alerting him to someone else’s presence. His office was the only place that was his. So a stranger breezing into his space— no appointment, in the middle of the work day— and planting themselves on his furniture like everything on god’s green earth belonged to them made his blood absolutely simmer.

“Do I look like I’m asking for legal advice?” Your eyes crinkled, the corners of your mouth curving into something that could have been mirthful had it not been for the blood steadily leaking down your cheek.

Namjoon wasn’t fond of messes. He preferred to handle them efficiently or to simply pass them along to whoever was at the top of his shit list, which right now just so happened to be—

“Then I’m afraid you have the wrong Kim spawn.” He flashed a respectful smile, dimples punctuating it with an endearing boyish charm. “Seokjin is—” —A lot of things, really. A bit theatric, conniving, extremely effective yet unorthodox in his methods, fucking crazy sometimes, but so was everyone in this line of business. Namjoon’s sure the two of you would get along like a house on fire.

A tinkling giggle cut him off. Well-manicured fingertips lifted to conceal your lips.

“I’m not looking for Seokjin, darling.” The blood oozed down your cheek, the carnelian liquid level with the tip of your nose.

One of Namjoon’s large hands combed back the strands of dark hair that fell into his eyes, a gesture that might have seemed relaxed were it not for the subtle dip in his brow, betraying his displeasure at his thwarted attempt to exile you from his office. The sleeves of his white button-up were rolled up, exposing his forearms and the sturdiness of his physique— and also the tension winding through the lithe muscle.

“I’m here to make a deal.” The long, thin earrings that dangled from your lobes caught the sunlight seeping in through the large window behind him, inlaid gems sparkling with a clarity that signaled wealth. You were irrefutably gorgeous, Namjoon would admit. But you were the kind of gorgeous that brought trouble.

Even so, he was intrigued. Sue him. Namjoon’s forearms rested against his dark wood desk; he propped up an elbow to cushion his chin with his palm. His steely gaze had intimidated many before you, but you seemed blissfully unaffected by his disquieting aura. Perhaps you were too familiar with that tactic. He quirked his eyebrow up, wordlessly encouraging you to continue.

“Marriage—” You chirped, your lips curled in a million-dollar smile, and your hands meeting in a satisfied clap.

“Declined.” He deadpanned, sensing you were rapidly burning through that aforementioned fuse. Instinctively, he knew you weren’t the type of person accustomed to hearing the word ‘no’. He anticipated the hissy fit you were undoubtedly about to throw in his territory, inspecting your face for the first hint of your mood souring.

It never came.

“Would you like to hear the benefits before you turn down the offer, silly goose?” The amused curve of your lips never faltered. Did you already anticipate his refusal? Or maybe you were more level-headed than he gave you credit for. Either way— wrong Kim spawn.

“I don’t understand why you aren’t pitching this to Seokjin.” His thumb brushed against his plush bottom lip in contemplation. “Why me?” There had to be something you were hiding. Seokjin was the sole legitimate son who would inherit the business, not him. If it was power you were after, then the heir to the throne was your best bet. You weren’t telling him somethi—

“You’re my dream man.” You simpered, your head angling playfully to one side and coaxing the trail of blood to follow. “You have a lovely family, a hunger for money, and zero interest in attaining power in this industry.” You ticked off, punctuating it with a faux bashful flutter of your lashes.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. Ah, so that’s why you had no interest in Seokjin— you’d have to yield your capital to him. You needed an ally, not a merger.

“You want to marry me because of a potential power alliance, I’m greedy, and you would be able to keep your position.” He translated, an utterly unimpressed tilt to his brow.

“And because you’re cute.” You tacked on, deeply entertained by both his irritation and being the root of it.

His mind, constantly in overdrive— has been since he was old enough to understand he had to be useful to survive in his family— froze. You could see the error message flashing through his brain in the way his brows knitted together and his eyes widened just a fraction before narrowing yet again in suspicion.

“Let’s hear these benefits.”

You perked up at that, inching your seat closer to his desk and leaning your elbows on it. Sitting this close, he could faintly smell the expensive perfume you wore, warm and spiced, and the coppery scent of blood.

“One,” You listed off on a finger, “you get the immense privilege of marrying me.”

Dear God help him.

You continued, unbothered by his lack of acknowledgment of the first benefit. “Two, you get my protection.” Namjoon raised a palm to interject. “I already have protection.”

He clocked an unexpected shift in your eyes at that, something darker than the blithe air you feigned. It wasn’t sinister— it was almost commiserative: empathetic in a way that simmered uncomfortably under his skin.

“And that’s why you hole yourself up in this office.” The words came out slower, less theatrical than the rest of what you said. “You can only live here while under Seokjin’s protection.”

It pissed him off, the way you read him. Namjoon felt it would only be fair to raise an equally uncomfortable truth about you in return. An eye for an eye.

“And what excellent protection you have to offer,” His gaze darted pointedly to the fresh wound on your cheek. By this point, the blood had trickled to the corner of your mouth, now approaching the drop to your jaw. His eyebrows raised in challenge, riding the high of scoring a point against you in what was ostensibly a conversation he had allowed solely out of courtesy in prelude of a perfunctory dismissal, but had steadily turned into an actual negotiation. When had you managed that? “Inside job, huh?”

He was well aware of the absolute cluster fuck that came from multiple kids of varying degrees of legitimacy all vying to inherit the family business. Hell, he had experienced it himself despite having no interest in the position. As far as he was concerned, it had nothing to do with him. At no point had he ever imagined he would be the child to take over— he wasn’t even a legitimate heir. You, on the other hand, were the only known legitimate heir in your family. Clearly, that hadn’t deterred other people from attempting to remove you from the picture.

“My half-brother isn’t very inclined to let me inherit the family business.” You agreed easily, startling Namjoon yet again with your acknowledgment of a weakness. “He’s been sending me surprises non-stop lately. It’s very bratty of him.”

While it was rich hearing you call someone a brat, Namjoon understood what every waking moment felt like for you. Having to assume malicious intent behind everything around you and only having yourself to rely on was no way to live. Namjoon would know. Plus, your brother had to have balls of steel to order a hit in broad daylight— or he just wanted you dead that desperately.

“And the third benefit?” He inquired carefully, and immediately you popped right back into persuasion mode, that same masking grin plastered on your lips.

“As lovely and safe as your office is, you need more space.”

Namjoon wasn’t following what you were insinuating. Were you trying to convince him to give you his hand in marriage by bribing him with a bigger office?

Evidently, You could read his bewilderment because you leaned closer to him— giant desk separating the two of you be damned— and purred, “I can make the whole world yours.” Your eyes twinkled at the declaration and the gravity of your attention pulled Namjoon into your orbit.

So it was the promise of getting to exist outside his boundaries, outside his office. There wasn’t any bad blood between him and his brothers, but Namjoon knew he wasn't as high a priority as Seokjin on the list of protected assets. Combining your families’ resources would benefit both of you: Namjoon would be able to breathe out in the world and you would secure your position, all under the protective shield of the security only available to legitimate heirs. Tying the knot with you would elevate him to a status essentially on par with you and Seokjin at the very top of the pyramid. There would be no other opportunity like this for him.

Namjoon had to give it to you: you did drive a hard bargain. He accepted your offer to your satisfaction.

He braced his palms against his desk, rising out of his cushy leather chair to tower at his full height. You peered up at him, trying to determine his next move (any other day it would have been kicking you the hell out of his office), as he rounded the desk in four long strides and came to a stop in front of you.

Swiftly, he bent over you. The veins in his arm tensed, the lean muscle supporting his weight against the arm of the chair you occupied. His eyes fixated on the lower half of your face, his expression neutral. Your own eyes fluttered down his face, drinking in the cutely rounded tip of his nose, full lips, and tempting peek of his collarbones through the neck of his shirt. Only the sounds of the faint breathing existed between the two of you for a prolonged beat. Namjoon’s free hand lifted and the smooth, silky texture of a handkerchief pressed into your cheek just before the blood dribbling on the edge of your jaw could drip into the expensive fabric of your clothes. You blinked.

Got you.

A self-satisfied smirk to crooked a corner of his mouth up in celebration of his victory. It was short-lived.

Because you were an absolute menace.

Your own hand captured the one cradling your face, trapping it there. Your eyes fluttered closed as you nuzzled into his palm, angling your head so your lips could plant a kiss into it. He could feel the pressure and the warmth of your lips seep through the silk fabric, his pulse hammering rapidly in his wrists. Then, you readjusted to remain nestled in his hand, casting a coy gaze up at him through half-lidded eyes and slightly pouted lips.

“So,” You murmured. “You’re the attentive type?”

Namjoon fled his office in record time, abandoning his handkerchief without a second thought.

Namjoon quickly learned a few things about you in the following weeks. The first: you had a habit of making people's dreams come true.

For example, the wedding planner you hired was the best in her field. She brought visions to life and managed to keep everything within budget— she was nothing short of a miracle worker. She had arrived earlier than the meeting time, more than ready to spend the next eight hours pouring over every detail of the wedding, only to be greeted by Namjoon immersed in his work on his desktop and you fashionably late.

Your absence made the air in his office uncomfortable for both parties awaiting your arrival. Namjoon could feel the rapid click of the woman’s heel vibrating up and down against the wooden floor pulse behind his brow bone. He was sure she wasn’t faring much better with the obnoxious clack of his keyboard filling the silence instead of small talk.

Eventually, you entered his office, gliding just as confidently as you had the first time, to Namjoon’s seated form. You glided to an unexpectedly close halt. He was already less than tickled that you were yet again occupying his office, and now you were crossing another boundary by invading his personal space. You were done up in an expensive cream-colored miniskirt and a soft grey sweater. A large cream coat draped from your shoulders, and pearl accessories dangled from your ears, neck, and wrist. Namjoon noted that you somehow smelled richer today, the warmth of your scent somewhat creamier than he remembered, but the metallic note still lingered. Efficiently, you curled a slender finger under Namjoon’s tie, loosening it with a flick of your wrist, and swiping the stolen item to press to your forehead that Namjoon hadn’t seen was bleeding until now.

Your brother was one persistent son of a bitch.

“You’re here! Fantastic!” As quickly as you’d coasted to him, you sailed away over to the wide-eyed wedding planner, and then— “Do your thing, girl.”— dropped a black card into her hands.

The elation that lit up that woman’s face could never be replicated. She practically skipped out of the office, vowing to plan the most gorgeous wedding to ever exist.

And no one was more enthusiastic about the wedding than his brothers. Namjoon sat through celebratory meals and drinks filled with Seokjin’s squeaky laughter and Taehyung’s well-meaning jokes at his expense.

“I always knew you’d be the first of us to get married, Joon.” Seokjin gasped, wiping the tears from the corners of his eyes. His face was flushed red— whether from joy, laughter, or alcohol, Namjoon couldn’t tell. It could honestly have been all three.

“And she’s a total catch.” Seokjin raised his glass in his direction, a goofy grin plastered on his face. Namjoon figured Seokjin was referring to the massive influx of resources you brought to the table, but then Seokjin rattled on about every time he’d crossed paths with you. Which was a lot.

Namjoon leaned back to give himself room to stare across the table at debatably the most unhinged person he’d ever met; although, he might possibly rank just behind you. His initial assessment was correct. You and Seokjin did, in fact, get along like a house on fire. His older brother sang your praises like you’d hung the stars in the night sky, and countered Namjoon’s indignant huffs with a rapid-fire, long-winded lecture that began with an outburst of “Yah!” and ended with his arm flung out in a frenzy and “She’ll have you wrapped around her finger in a mon— No! Three weeks!”

It was safe to say that Seokjin was elated for you to join the family. Even Taehyung was buzzing from the development, although Namjoon wasn’t sure how the two of you knew each other. All Taehyung would say when questioned was, “You had to be there,” and flash a boxy smile that promised there was a whole hell of a lot more to the story than he would ever divulge. Probably for legal reasons.

Either way, his brothers were over the moon to have you.

Another characteristic he picked up on was your efficiency. Namjoon blinked and you already had the contract drafted, the documentation completed, and the living situation sorted out.

Based on your personality, he had expected your tastes to be more… extravagant. The house itself was modest— quaint, even, in comparison to what he’d envisioned. Your interior decor tastes leaned more toward functional and comfortable than anything else. However, one glance at the appliances and the value of the place skyrocketed. You didn’t skimp on furnishing the place by any stretch of the imagination.

“Your shoes go there. There’s a pair of house slippers in there for you.” You opened the shoe cabinet situated immediately to the side of the entrance hall. It wasn’t an offer. Your own fluffy slippers concealed your feet, accented with gems that were either ironic or authentic. Namjoon wouldn’t put it past you to slap real diamonds on your loungewear.

He was correct not to.

His feet now sandwiched in his own pair of fuzzy house slippers, Namjoon ventured into the house, discovering that you had an affinity for plants, which meant you gravitated toward natural lighting and a lot of it. The entire space resembled a greenhouse with impressive glass windows sprawling in every room. Gorgeous oak floors extended from the entrance to the living room where an oversized round sofa dotted with a dozen pillows and a folded throw blanket sat centered before a floor-to-ceiling arched window. The walls were lined with shelves, crammed with books and plants that reached for whatever they could latch onto. A few hanging plants dangled in the space behind the plush sofa above the potted ones housed on the sill, thriving in the direct line of sunlight deposited into the room. Mounted on the wall was a decently sized TV, but Namjoon couldn’t imagine you using it much.

To the side of the living room was a well-equipped kitchen with quartz countertops and more windows that transitioned into a single-pitch skylight to accommodate the herbs growing along the top shelf. The massive stainless steel French door refrigerator was overkill for two people and looked to match the rest of the appliances. The island functioned as a bar to sit at on one side. Namjoon admittedly perked up at the double sink— fuck kitchens with single sinks. He observed your back as you led him out of the kitchen and deeper into the house to your separate offices. Did you even cook to justify having a kitchen as luxurious as this?

You merely presented the door to your office to him before guiding him to his own. As expected, you’d furnished it according to his tastes, still granting him the option to switch anything out as he pleased.

Backtracking toward the entrance of the house, you started up the stairwell to the right of the front door. He followed behind you until you entered a bedroom and turned to face him with a “ta-da” gesture. The large bed had already been made, a plethora of pillows stacked at the head, and an extra blanket laid across the foot. The lavish comforter appeared to be thick and airy, capable of holding heat but not overbearingly heavy. Beneath the bed was a decently sized fluffy accent rug— the kind that Namjoon knew your feet would sink into. Nightstands and shelving were placed on both sides of the bed, charging cables already set up on what he could immediately determine was his side. Your nightstand and shelves were already occupied by several of your belongings. Namjoon eyed the resin-encased bouquet of vibrant yellow daffodils displayed on your nightstand before scanning the rest of the room.

Unsurprisingly, the main occupants of the room were more plants, most of them situated to line the glass wall letting in more sunlight. Upon closer inspection, Namjoon saw that the wall included two glass French doors that led to a balcony. You were mid-explanation of the walk-in closet when he interrupted.

“There’s no guest bedroom?” He demanded, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his slacks. His gaze darkened considerably as he stared down his nose at you. The suit jacket did little to conceal his broad build, but Namjoon knew that his imposing physique did nothing to intimidate you.

Your eyes darted heavenward before fixing him with an aloof smile that said he was being silly. “I don’t do guests.” He could determine that from the limited seating in the living room; although, he’d give you that the round couch could easily fit four people. “Besides,” You breezed on, completely ignoring his exasperation. “The bathroom is absolutely to die for.”

You turned on your heel, floating into the bathroom that— holy shit— would have inducted you into the HGTV hall of fucking fame. The floor had been swapped out for pristine tile while the counter had been constructed out of the oak wood instead. A large mirror was mounted on the wall, stretching behind two sinks. Separate vanities sat on either side of the sinks. Further into the bathroom, divided by a glass door, was a shower with shelving and a steamer built in. Your fluffy bathrobe was already suspended from one of the hooks, a second robe that appeared to be for lounging around the house perched next to it. The other hooks were left unoccupied. The star of the bathroom was the tub which had to have been custom-made. It was nested into the shower space, with an oak ledge encasing it. It was large, but not so big as to be uncomfortable to recline in or risk completely submerging yourself. More plants dotted the bathroom, all fed by the skylight windows above.

Namjoon didn’t need to look at your face to know that you wore that smug grin that knew you’d bested him.

Fuck you and your impeccable interior design sense.

What Namjoon had anticipated the least (other than just how much of the furniture had been custom-made) was that you didn’t allow anyone inside the house. No one came in to clean or cook or anything— hell, you didn’t even order delivery. As much as you had called him out for his attachment to his office, you had the same fixation with the house. It was your place to exist and the precautions you took to ensure it remained yours were admirable in his eyes.

That you welcomed him to live in your sanctuary tugged uncomfortably at something in his chest.

That still didn’t make it any less excruciating to be around you.

Namjoon arrived home late into the evening, trading his work shoes for the comfier house slippers at the door. It was early into the first week of living together and your work schedules saw you barely interacting, which was fine by Namjoon’s standards. Alas, your timing finally coincided for the both of you to be home and awake simultaneously— the absence of your lavish house slippers from the shoe cabinet being the giveaway.

With a weary sigh, Namjoon shuffled up the stairs and into the bedroom. He slid out of his suit jacket, the absence of its weight an immense relief. Just before he crossed the threshold to the closet, the refreshing breeze let in through the flung-open balcony doors literally gave him his second wind. Namjoon diverted his steps toward the balcony where he could make out your silhouette through the off-white curtains flowing languidly into the room. The fabric lightly whapped him in the face, and he batted it away before leaning his shoulder against the doorframe.

Silently, Namjoon peered at your back. You were folded up on a floor pillow, your lounge robe fluttering dramatically in the breeze, cradling a glass filled with the smallest amount of wine— was there a small amount to begin with or did you already drink a lot?

You knew he was there. You hadn’t turned to face him, but like him, you could always detect another presence. Abruptly, you glanced over your shoulder to flash a giddy grin, “Welcome home, Darling.” There was a flushed glow to your cheeks and your hair floated freely. Momentarily, you appeared genuinely lighthearted, like you were winding down at the end of a work day. “How was your day?”

“It was fine.” He murmured. He didn’t know why he continued, maybe to be polite. “Yours?”

A light snort filled the night air. “Brother dearest sent me another gift.” You swirled the remaining wine in your glass, expression blank. “I worked from home. Will be until he stops being a pain in my ass.”

Okay, so perhaps you’d had more to drink than he first thought, going by your atypically crass language. He quirked an eyebrow reflexively. If Namjoon were to specify what it was about you that disturbed him so deeply, it would be your petulant refusal to let your brother take over your family’s business. He was the eldest child, illegitimate or not, but you were too arrogant about your status as the sole legitimate offspring to relinquish the title. Your brother had survived longer and you blatantly disrespected that fact, writing him off. And Namjoon knew that had the roles been reversed— had Seokjin been born illegitimate instead of him— he would have acknowledged Seokjin as the heir. Because that was the right thing to do.

With this thought in mind, he snarked, “You know, instead of going to all this trouble, you could— and I know this is crazy— you know, let him have the fucking position.”

“That’s not crazy at all.” You hummed, your attention directed before you at nothing in particular. And for a split second, Namjoon thought the two of you had finally seen eye to eye. Then, you downed the rest of the contents of your class with a grace that hinted that you’d done it many times before and shot back, “It’s fucking batshit.”

Namjoon’s blood boiled. He’d kept it somewhat controlled from the moment you waltzed into his office, but he found it impossible to fight the escalating simmer that accompanied every interaction with you. This conversation validated everything he thought about you: that you were a conceited, stuck-up brat. His jaw tensed, lips pursing sourly. The fabric of his suit jacket wrinkled as he clenched his fist around it. He stalked forward to glare down at you and fully see your face, but the lack of light shaded most of the details of your expression.

“Why?” Namjoon bit out. “Because he’s illegitimate?” Go ahead, confirm what he already knew.

“No, darling,” You replied in that tone that danced the line between condescending and empathetic, mostly dependent on the interpreter. You lifted your now empty glass, peering through the glossy stain your bottom lip had stamped onto the rim. “Because he’s a shit businessman.”

Namjoon blinked. Once, twice, scanning your body language for any indication that you were bullshitting him. His shoulders released some of their tension, relaxing to a more natural position, and his eyes flicked toward your face, calculating.

“I, however, happen to be a blessing to the industry.”

Namjoon didn’t doubt it based on Seokjin’s never-ending compliments, but he could detect the slightest hint of overcompensation. Perhaps it had been there the entire time, but he hadn’t been interested in seeing you in a very human light.

Self-reflection could be a bit of a bitch and, apparently, so could he. While your situations had been similar, he hadn’t lived your life and you hadn’t lived his. Namjoon had survived thus far by assuming the worst in others and that, given the opportunity, they would betray him without hesitation. Habits were hard to kick; he’d immediately assumed you were no different. But you had gambled for the life you wanted— the one you were entitled to— and you’d given him an opportunity to do the same. Opening your safe space to him took courage, and you’d been more than hospitable. Namjoon would go so far as to say that you were actually considerate during the whole process. He’d agreed to this too. The bitter aftertaste of remorse lingered on his tongue; he needn’t have taken his frustration about the messy politics of inheritance and how they’d snatched away the life he had wanted out on you. It wasn’t just him they’d screwed over.

Namjoon cleared his throat, ducking his head to stare at his cushiony house slippers. You didn’t seem to have a preference for whether he stayed or left you to your own devices, basking in the gentle night air like you didn’t have a company to run, a bounty on your head, or a wedding in less than a month. He decided on the latter, mostly because he needed the time to process. Namjoon retreated into the resort-like bathroom to shower and swallow the fact that while he had learned much about you, he hadn’t actually understood a single part of you.

When he reemerged nearly a half hour later, he was still pleasantly light-headed from the steam, swathed in a worn, loose-fitting sweatshirt and sweatpants. Ruffling his still-damp fringe, Namjoon hesitantly glanced at the balcony, only for the doors to be latched closed and your form absent. A quick scan of the bed confirmed you weren’t in the room either. It was already late, and he’d been planning on heading to bed and sleeping off the uneasy air between the two of you (really, he knew only he felt antsy— he wasn’t sure you felt anything other than neutral about him). One of his hands grazed the back of his neck as he weighed his options.

Namjoon heaved a sigh before padding downstairs in search of you. Were you in your office? You did say you worked from home today, so he doubted you’d be spending any more time there this late. The round couch was unoccupied, so he continued into the kitchen.

There, the rich aroma of chocolate warmed his senses. You’d foregone the bar stools to perch on the counter instead, the excess silk material of your robe rippling down over the edge of the marble, your legs tucked neatly beneath you. The entire scene was overly dramatic for midnight baking if you asked Namjoon.

“What’s the point of installing a $4,000 oven that can’t handle preheating to 350 degrees?” You hummed, licking a glob of brownie batter that dotted the side of your wrist. Your eyes fluttered shut, savoring the sweet mixture. Namjoon averted his eyes, instead focusing on the mostly-full glass mixing bowl abandoned beside you.

“Are you drinking brownie batter?” The scrunch of Namjoon’s nose indicated his judgment. His eyes flickered from your face to the batter-filled champagne glass nestled between your fingers and back to your face.

“Care for a glass?” You offered airily. You had to be drunk or at least tipsy.

Aghast, Namjoon remained rooted to his spot just past the threshold.

“The oven breaks, and you decide to drink the batter?” He revoked every sentiment he’d previously held about trying to understand you. It would never happen. This headassery was proof enough of that. In fact, cancel the whole marriage.

”When in Rome, Darling. When in Rome.” You must have been one of those people who felt sexy when they drank wine; everything you said and did was delivered in a more sultry tone than your usual mischievous flirting. The stem of a second champagne glass pinched between your manicured fingers, you lured him closer with the promise of decadent, drinkable, fudge-y salmonella poisoning.

Reluctantly, he took the bait and shuffled closer. Only the accent lights had been turned on in the room, casting a warm glow. Plucking the glass from you with the intent of joining you on the counter, Namjoon mimicked your I-always-get-what-I-want smile sardonically, but it plummeted off his face as quickly as it appeared. He hadn’t been able to see you in decent lighting up until now, so he’d missed the splattering of scrapes along the left side of your face and hand. They were superficial from what he could tell, but they were also fresh. None of them seemed as deep as the gash you had on your cheek in his office.

“What the hell?” Namjoon’s honeyed complexion was still dewy from the shower and now flushed from uninvited hostility. His brows crinkled under his freshly washed fringe.

You shooed away his concern with a flick of your wrist and explained, “My half-brother totaled my car like a jackass.”

Something bitter stirred in the pit of his stomach at this information.

You, on the other hand, appeared unbothered, huddled in your kitchen late into the night a little buzzed, content with raw brownie batter and a busted oven.

His tongue prodded the inside of his cheek in contemplation. Namjoon figured your life’s motto had to be “c’est le vie” with how quickly you tended to accept major inconveniences.

“Are you passing on dessert?”

He braced a large palm onto the edge of the countertop to slip up beside you. Namjoon left a respectful couple of inches between you, but you could still feel his body heat seep through your thin clothing. “You’re not really getting what you wanted out of this arrangement, huh?” He asked, his head tilted down to inspect the contents of his glass.

You hummed in question, your legs gently swaying back and forth.

“The whole point was to protect you from your brother, yeah?” He clarified.

“Yes,” You agreed, “but this is to be expected.” You finally directed your attention to him, your head angled to the side and resting against the cabinet. The blank and vaguely concerned expression he fixed you with prompted you to continue. “I’m royally fucking him over for good by marrying you.” You had a million-dollar smile; it was youthful and dazzling in a way that demanded attention. Right now, it still had that radiant jubilance, but there was an underlying air of menace that chilled Namjoon’s spine. “Once we’re married, the business will never be his. Even if he gets rid of me, you’ll be my successor.” Your eyes gleamed at him, warm and affectionate, capturing Namjoon with your magnetism yet again.

So that was your plan. Survive the next couple of weeks camping out inside until you had destroyed any chance your brother had at the throne by marrying him. After you, the lineage would transfer over to the Kims. Your brother might succeed in disposing of you and him, but Seokjin? Not a fucking chance. Namjoon understood your strategy, but something still itched at the back of his mind: why not just kill him yourself? Was it too morally reprehensible for you to kill your own brother? Was that a line you refused to cross? This particular piece didn’t fit with the rest of your puzzle, no matter how he tried to turn it over in his mind.

But you had chosen him as a matching piece, and he wouldn’t deny taking pride in being exactly what someone wanted for what might have been the first and only time. You accepted his position, his preferences, and his attitude. Maybe you understood him and that was why you had marched into his office with every intention to finally drag him out, snarky remarks and all.

“You and I,” Namjoon paused, pressing his lips together into a firm line and slightly nodding his head a few times.

Your eyebrows raised expectantly, waiting for him to find the end of his sentence.

“… Are fucking nothing alike,” He finally concluded.

Your delighted giggle ricocheted in his chest. As he took in your scrunched nose and flushed cheeks, Namjoon couldn’t fight the low chuckle rumbling in response.

Delicately, you raised your glass to clink it with his. “Cheers to that, darling.”

It was too late for the two of you to be fooling around in the kitchen by then. The dishes were placed in the sink to soak and Namjoon stood before you, waiting for you to head up to bed with him. You remained firmly planted, relaxed against the cabinet behind you, evidently not inspired to stand any time soon. Namjoon decided to speed up the process.

He stepped closer, tenderly resting his large, warm hands on your knees to part them far enough to wedge himself between them. His hands trailed to hook behind the backs of your legs, leaving a pleasantly fuzzy sensation behind, and gently tugged you forward to close the distance between you. From this close, you could breathe in the fresh scent of his shampoo and something slightly muskier. Namjoon thought the heat in your cheeks glowed the slightest bit more intensely as you slowly leaned closer. You weren’t meeting his eyes, instead fixating on his pretty, pouty lips that parted lightly in anticipation. His heart thudded in his ears and his palms— he wondered if you could feel his blood pulsing under the flesh of his hands as they pressed into your soft skin. You finally reached your destination, melting into his broad chest, your arms fluidly looping at the back of his neck and your chin resting in the crook of his shoulder. Namjoon twitched involuntarily when you absentmindedly combed your fingers through the hair at the back of his neck, your long nails gently scratching with just the right amount of pressure to send a rush of tingles down his spine.

“You drank too much.” He floundered to conceal the fact that you managed to fluster him yet again. Your legs crossed behind his hips and he readjusted his hands to support your ass and back before smoothly lifting you off the counter in one quick motion.

“No, I didn’t,” You refuted, twisting your face to disprove his accusation. The clarity in your eyes was unmistakable and had not at all been present during the earlier conversation. Instead, the mischievous grin he typically associated with you reappeared. “Just wanted you to carry me.”

As always, you were in the business of getting what you wanted and he was about to be a lifelong customer of your bullshit.

Your playful admission hadn’t exasperated him like he had expected though— instead, Namjoon was alarmingly endeared.

“Can’t have that anymore.” He didn’t wait long enough for you to process what was absolutely a threat before his movements became sporadic. Namjoon twisted side to side, leaning precariously on one leg and then bouncing on the other on the journey through the hall leading to the bottom of the stairs.

You coiled around him tighter, squeezing him in case he accidentally dropped you. His more juvenile side was a refreshing change from the high-class lawyer that’d had sucked the life and personality out of him. The exaggerated ‘woah’s he cried out throughout his performance and experiencing the strength of his broad form firsthand further attached you to him in both the literal and metaphorical sense.

But enough was enough. With as much faux petulance you could muster in your current state of disorientation, you licked at a spot below his ear before sucking an open-mouthed kiss into your area of attack.

Namjoon froze immediately following a sharp intake of breath. The lightheadedness he felt in the shower rushed back, sending him to space, and he willed his knees not to buckle lest the both of you topple to the hardwood floor.

Satisfied with your work, your lips drew back from his neck and your eyes fluttered back open. “Behave, darling.”

Namjoon didn’t miss the coyness in your tone.

“I’m still sore from this morning.”

What.

From the car accident. From your brother’s poor attempt at killing you. By paying some asshole to ram into the side of your car. And totaling it like a jackass.

You observed his blank expression in amusement as you watched his brain work in overdrive to fill in the blanks. Namjoon’s recovery time was a lot quicker this time around. It would be a shame for him to grow accustomed to your shenanigans too quickly.

He bounced you slightly into a more comfortable and secure position and shot you a grin that brightened his face with a youthful glow. The dimples that framed it were far more charming than they had any right being in this situation, and he drawled out a half-sarcastic, “Anything for you, Sweets.”

It was at the base of the steps leading up to the bedroom, the heels of your feet digging into the bone right above his ass, the creamy scent of chocolate still wafting from the kitchen, and the tip of your nose lightly pressing into the skin that connected his neck and shoulder where Namjoon supposed that he had known. Namjoon had known from the beginning that he had built his home out of Jenga blocks; only they weren’t uniform and instead had chunks missing and sides that protruded at odd angles that ruined the already precarious structural integrity. He knew that it would collapse at any moment, existing in a state constantly on the brink of destruction, and Namjoon hated messes. But you had decided to hold it up, changing nothing about the foundation or the wonky planks, just allowing it to exist as it was with the slightest bit of support around the perimeter. Namjoon knew that when he existed between the warmth, the safety, and the empathy of your hands, he breathed and he flourished.

But make no mistake, Namjoon would have to be dead nine times over before he would ever admit that you’d had him three days into living together.

Both of you continued with the odd kitchen-sink-cookie-esque relationship that blended friends, fiancés, and questionably flirty roommates. Truly a recipe for disaster, yet you’d somehow nailed the ratio, and the resulting product was delectable.

Some nights were spent sprawled together on the oversized round sofa, pillows strewn about haphazardly, yet you still chose to use Namjoon as a cushion. Either you curled up beside him, resting your head on one of his thick, suspiciously athletic thighs, or you took up residence entirely in his lap, reclining into his sturdy chest (”We’re literally on a couch, Sweets. Why am I being used as furniture?” “You’re the comfiest, darling.”). Namjoon called bullshit on that. You had impeccable taste in furniture, much to his detriment— he gambled falling asleep on the sofa every night. But he didn’t really mind the arrangement and took advantage of the opportunity to twirl the ends of your hair around his fingers into little ringlets and brush his grounding hand against the bare skin of your shoulder.

Existing together like this was comfortable.

Once Namjoon set out to know you rather than know about you, he discovered that he was actually quite fond of you— outlandish diamond-studded house slippers and all. You were dangerously intelligent, a strategist to your core, and way funnier than he had initially been willing to give you credit for— it had been far to risky for his pride.

Eventually, when your eyelids remained shut for longer than fifteen seconds at every blink and the angle of the book resting in your hands tilted severely enough that Namjoon knew you weren’t reading it anymore, he’d take the initiative to transport the both of you to bed. Once you were draped under the comforter and curled up on your side, your cheek pressed into the silk pillowcase, Namjoon slipped into the other side of the bed.

It was an odd, unspoken boundary in your relationship. For all the time spent invading each other’s personal space, flirtatious advances and innuendos and all, neither of you touched the other in bed. Like, at all. Not even an accidental, “Whoops, I rolled over and didn’t realize you were that close!” or an, “Uh oh, I woke up and cuddled you in my sleep without realizing! Haha, my bad!” Namjoon couldn’t tell if you were establishing the boundary for personal reasons or if it was out of respect for him, an unspoken promise that for all you relentlessly teased him, you would never overstep his limits.

The thing was— by this point you had showered together. Well, not together— you were unwinding in the bath when he waltzed in to take a shower and discovered a little late that the steam wasn’t residual from your shower. But you hadn’t reacted other than a soft greeting so Namjoon had carried on. The steam, for the most part, concealed everything, but neither of you seemed to fixate on the other.

And how exactly did one bring this up tactfully? Hey, I know we’re like, fiancés and all for the benefit of our respective businesses in the organized crime industry, but do you want to actually acknowledge each other’s presence in bed? That actually didn’t sound all that bad, but you’d still reply with a coy flutter of your lashes and breathe out a smartass, yet still somehow sultry, insinuation.

To avoid the entire situation, Namjoon would ask you about something else— anything else— before you could drift off for the night. Most nights, you’d mumble an answer he’d have to crane his neck closer to you to comprehend. They weren’t always coherent, and they didn’t always answer his question, but he’d take what he could get, even if it was a predominantly drowsy musing that lacked any relevance whatsoever.

Tonight, he chose to inquire about the flowers that always seemed to glow on your nightstand. Namjoon had known immediately that you were a plant person; your home was a dead giveaway. He appreciated it, finding the various houseplants soothing companions. You took care of them religiously, rotating them so each side received enough sun exposure and checking the dampness of the soil every morning. But these were the only flowers that were eternally preserved in an intricate resin sphere, arranged to form a crescent shape. Were they the first flowers you grew? Maybe they were your favorite? A gift? They had to be significant for you to keep them where you slept every night.

“The what?” Your eyes blinked open, a certain lucidness to them that was uncommon this late into the evening.

“Those flowers,” Namjoon clarified, gesturing to your nightstand. “Were they from someone special?”

You twisted to face the direction he indicated and huffed out a mirthful snicker before relaxing back to your original position. He hadn’t realized in the moment, but he had anticipated your answer with bated breath that ached in his chest.

“My half-brother gifted them to me when I turned eight.” You explained, an oddly reminiscent curve to your lips. “It was his first attempt at killing me.”

Namjoon’s head swam in a pool of unanswered questions. None of what you said made any sense, but you were far too awake for this to be a half-lucid rambling. But should he press the subject further? To anyone else, it would probably be a sensitive topic, but he had to understand why on earth you made the decision to preserve an attempt at murder and go as far as sleep next to it every night.

As usual, you could read his persistently blank expressions and find the request for context written in the darker parts of his eyes. You twisted to fully face him, mumbling out the following statement like you were sharing a deep secret and you trusted that he would conceal it— Namjoon would, he knew. He’d hide your vulnerable sides like they were his own.

“I’m deathly allergic to daffodils.”

Namjoon tried to imagine what you looked like as an eight year old, receiving a gift from your older brother on your birthday. Had your eyes twinkled in joy? Had your smile been exactly like your million-dollar one now, or had there been gaps where your baby teeth had fallen out? Had you thrown your arms around your brother gleefully in appreciation, ignorant to his sinister motives and the grime splotched onto his ugly words as he wished you a happy birthday? Namjoon couldn’t remember exactly how old he had been when he’d figured out trust was always a mistake. Had you already been aware at eight years old? Had that been your moment of discovery?

“Why’d you keep them?” His eyes remained unyielding on your expression, observing any minuscule details that betrayed discomfort about the topic. He couldn’t bear to look at the daffodils looming on your nightstand. He wanted to destroy the display, smash it to pieces on the concrete driveway, crumble the flowers to dust, whatever he had to do to eradicate them from existence, but he had to know why you chose to keep them.

“I’d never received flowers before,” You reasoned with a carefree shrug of your shoulders. “And they’re pretty.”

Namjoon hated your reasoning. He thought they were hideous, tainting the safe space you created and gleaming eerily where you slept. He held more affection for the busted $4,000 oven sitting in the kitchen than that pathetic attempt at an arrangement.

Nevertheless, he nodded in acceptance and decided to give the wedding planner a call in the morning. He’d show you what a gorgeous flower arrangement looked like.

Namjoon so far, as fiancé and friend, had miraculously managed to avoid being on the receiving end of your rather malicious promises (”I don’t make threats, darling, only promises,”). An honest to god accomplishment, considering you’d cohabitated for three weeks with his admittedly smoking fuse and your ‘my way’ personality.

He liked to think that he understood you well by now. At least, well enough to design your wedding bouquet. You hadn’t contacted the wedding planner with any specific requests for the ceremony, so Namjoon figured you wouldn’t be opposed to him getting involved for this.

The planner had melted when he explained his intention, gushing and flushing at such a romantic gesture. With directions to decide what flowers he wanted to include and a basic vision for the placement, they scheduled a meeting closer to the wedding. Namjoon found himself researching flowers and their meanings during his work hours over the next two weeks, deep-diving into professional florists’ websites for hours at a time. He selected a few flowers that conveyed what he wanted you to know, and then spiraled into another research hole about the meaning associated with the colors. That part, while time-consuming, wasn’t difficult. What gave him trouble was the actual arranging of the flowers-stem lengths, positioning, and sizes; the visuals didn’t conceptualize easily for him. As the wedding and the meeting date loomed closer, Namjoon had vetoed all of his own drafts but one.

The wedding planner glanced at the arrangement plan he designed and her mouth clamped closed. She had been all bubbly anticipation for ‘their big day’ and eager to begin operation bouquet seconds prior. The abrupt switch in her mood settled uncomfortably on his shoulders and coiled around his lungs.

Namjoon rubbed at the back of his neck. “No good?”

The woman fixed him with a determined stare, giddiness gone. “The flowers you chose are gorgeous.” She pulled up a fresh document on her tablet and twirled the pencil around her fingers. “I’m just going to make some adjustments to the arrangement.”

A miracle-worker indeed. Within four minutes, she’d situated the white hydrangeas, blushing orchids, lilac snapdragons, and pink roses into a glamorous bouquet. A single lily of the valley sprouted slightly off center, drawing attention but not seeming out of place. Despite the flowers being the same as before, the new design appeared more cohesive, more coherent even. Namjoon hoped that it would convey his message clearly.

“She’s going to adore this, Mr. Kim.” The planner assured him with an encouraging grin.

He really hoped you would. There were two ways Namjoon could see this panning out. Either you would graciously accept the bouquet with a coy twinkle in your eyes and sultry comment about how he was such a “dedicated lover” or you’d smite him with that thoroughly unimpressed expression, brush the flowers off, and draw a thick line between you by giving notice that he’d overstepped.

Namjoon was about to find out.

He was a grown-ass adult and had experienced more stressful situations than this— legitimate life or death ones— but he swore his hands had never produced more sweat than in this moment. Only thick wooden doors painted a bright shade of white separated you. Traditionally, the groom wasn’t supposed to enter the bridal suite, but exactly what about this whole arrangement had been traditional? You wouldn’t care.

So why could he not will his dress shoes to unstick from the marble floor and for his fist to unclench around the lovely, fragrant bouquet? He needed to handle them delicately or he’d crush the stems, so why couldn’t he feel his grip? Namjoon squeezed his eyes shut, heaving in a deep breath until his suit jacket strained from the pressure of his expanded lungs and slowly exhaled. He repeated the process, waiting until his nerves began functioning again in his fingertips.

Namjoon wrapped a hand around the gold door handle, grounding himself in the chill of the metal in his palm. The door wrenched open, sliding out of his grip before he was ready, an attendant slipping out from the other side. She held the door open, flashing him a meaningful grin, and gestured for him to enter with a nod of her head. His movements were jerky, knees locking at all the wrong moments as he passed the threshold. Then, his eyes landed on your form and instantly his lungs were vacant and inoperable.

You turned to face him, white dress swishing with the movement, and Namjoon couldn’t think of any word other than dazzling. Your hair remained as flawless as ever, styled, glossy, and looking as soft as Namjoon knew it to be. The pristine dress had a sweetheart neckline that draped gracefully off your shoulders, leaving a tantalizing strip of skin below your collarbones exposed. He allowed his eyes to trail lower, swallowing thickly at the excess fabric that was swept up to trail at one of your hips, creating a tasteful slit and exposing your leg elongated by a pair of sparkly heels. The simple jewelry dangling from your earlobes and around your neck glinted in the natural light provided by the large windows, accentuating but not upstaging. Nothing glittered more than your eyes as your glossed lips curled into an amused smile at his obviously flustered state.

It was a balance of elegance and drama and divinity— enamoring and you. Just as he had first assessed, you were irrefutably the kind of gorgeous that brought trouble.

“God,” He struggled to breathe out, brows furrowing with the effort. “Sweets.”

Namjoon could easily have been convinced in this moment that you were a goddess walking amongst men for the sheer entertainment of it all; he had never been religious, knew better than to believe in a god fabricated to make people feel better about the harsh realities of the world, manipulate the gullible, and take advantage of the powerless. But you were real, brilliant, merciless, and you didn’t make promises you wouldn’t keep— he could easily be convinced to kneel before you.

And he did.

He approached you in long strides, his dark eyes holding your watchful gaze, because he had been drawn into your orbit just as he had during your first appearance in his office. Once he was close enough to brush his large hand against your dewy skin— though he wouldn’t dare— Namjoon dropped to one knee before you. Your lashes fluttered as you observed him from above, and Namjoon swore your blink restored his ability to breathe again.

His dark hair had been styled to part in a spiral, and he peered up at you through his wispy fringe resting at his eye level. Namjoon always maintained a meticulous appearance, suits pressed to perfection and hair styled up out of his clean-shaven face. Today, he was just as infallible as ever, his intimidating aura toned down ever-so-slightly with the softer styling of his hair. It accentuated the youthful, honeyed glow of his skin and the pronounced apples of his cheeks— they flushed a charming shade of red. His large hands extended out in the space between the two of you, the gorgeous bouquet rustling softly due to the steady vibrations of his hands. Namjoon’s plush lips trembled, parting to shakily exhale and reclaim his scattered nerves. “You promised me the world,” He began, “I’ll show you the most beautiful parts of it.”

He swore.

It couldn’t have been more than two beats of his heart between his vows and the shift in your expression, but Namjoon had been on trial and was waiting for his final verdict during those two beats. When it finally appeared, the gleam of your eyes and the arc of your lips said everything he already knew a couple weeks ago when he carried you up the stairs the night of your kitchen shenanigans— oh, how hard the mighty had fallen.

Slender fingers brushed against his hands, steadying them and applying light pressure to coax him back up to his feet. Your hands cradled his, holding the bouquet as you leaned forward to catch the light fragrance. Namjoon was rewarded with your contented smile— possibly the most genuine smile of yours he had ever seen— and your appraisal, “Well, you’re certainly off to a good start.”

There were absolutely worse places to discover that he felt unbridled, devout affection for you— the venue hours before your wedding was actually pretty optimal the more Namjoon thought about it. He found the strength to release one hand from the bouquet, reaching to brush some loose strands of hair out of your face. His eyes held nothing but reverence, and your gravitational force pulled him in closer until he hovered inches away from your face. Namjoon hadn’t been conscious of his hands as he did, but one carefully cradled the back of your head and the other found its place tenderly resting against your lower back. Was the excessive heat there from him or you? He couldn’t tell. Either way, it didn’t matter. Namjoon’s gaze flickered to your eyes again, searching for any indication that he had read the energy wrong and needed to back off (although he knew you would have made it very clear very quickly if he had).

The acceptance and endearment he found rattled his core in a way he hadn’t expected. It wasn’t a terrible feeling. It was comfortable, warm, and intimate. Anyone else, and it would have had Namjoon retreating out of the bridal suite, out of the venue, out of the arrangement entirely. But Namjoon trusted your affection, and he hadn’t trusted anything in a long time. All that established, Namjoon thought it would only be fitting to finally kiss you during the ceremony to swear his end of the deal in addition to his devotion. With a smile bracketed by charming dimples, he slightly pulled back and muttered, “Not here.”

Not for the first time and certainly not the last, you caught Namjoon off guard. “Why not?” You blinked, a challenging glint in your eyes.

Slender, manicured fingers curled into the collar of his suit, and you hauled him back to you with one hand still occupied with the bouquet. He didn’t quite stumble, but your tug managed to draw him closer than before, and his large palm pressed more firmly into your back to maintain his balance.

“It’s just you, me, and the thirty armed guards posted outside, darling.” You whispered, fluttering your lashes with the coy expression that indicated you were teasing, and Namjoon fought the urge to roll his eyes.

His hands trailed to rest on your hips, the pads of his thumbs rubbing soothing circles, and he dropped his forehead to gently press against yours.

“Soon, Sweets.”

“Objections?” The officiator asked, although the stoniness of his eyes demanded that the audience stay silent.

Your brother got straight to the point.

At the first sound of a shot echoing throughout the venue, you leaped right into him, launching your entire bodyweight directly into his ribcage as if you hadn’t already knocked the air out of his lungs today. Namjoon fell back with no resistance, arms caging around you as he twisted his back to somewhat cover you from the spray of glass shards. Your head was cushioned from the tile by his unfortunately— in this situation— solid bicep. An uncomfortable landing for both parties, but far from the worst outcome. Namjoon’s imposing form concealed you from your attacker, his leg practically thrown over yours in his attempt to act as your shield. By the time he blinked the disorientation away to scan your state, you’d already drawn your weapon from— he wasn’t really sure where.

“Excuse me, darling.” You sought to heave him off of you with your knee, but his cooperation ended there. With an arm still securing you to him, Namjoon slid the both of you behind an overturned wooden table decorated with an intricate lace skirt.

You inspected his face, eyes quickly flicking down to his now rumpled suit and back up to the loose strands of hair that escaped its slicked back style. No injuries, you determined. Your eyebrows raised in question, searching his dark eyes and finding an absence of panic and instead unconcealed concern.

A silent conversation passed in the prolonged seconds where you huddled behind the table. This was part of your plan. You were ready to expand your safe space, but you weren’t going to force him to come with you. It was, of course, an option. But it was his choice to make and you’d respect it either way. You expected the same courtesy from him. This was the opportunity for you to honor your end of the deal and give him the world you’d promised to the both of you.

Namjoon needed to let you go.

A large, warm hand tenderly pressed into your cheek— a plea. Your own hand covered his, steadying the tremors and securing its position. Eyes closed, you planted a kiss into the palm of his hand where his blood raced through his veins and pulsed to meet your lips. Then, you nestled the side of your cheek against his hand, and your eyes fluttered open to gaze into his with unchecked confidence— a promise.

And then you were gone, and Namjoon was alone behind the upended table.

Namjoon knew now that at some point, he had left his office. He cracked the door open slightly, grip tight enough on the door handle for it to creak in protest, and he had hesitated, lower body numb and floating separately from him. The other side could very well be his demise. He had spent his life retreating behind anything that could barricade him from whoever was hunting him down, whether it be for personal vendettas or in retaliation against his brothers. But his hideout was too stuffy by now, too cramped, almost shrinking around him by the minute. Namjoon needed to leave his office now.

Cautiously, Namjoon swung the heavy wooden door open. You waited patiently in the hallway, head held high, haughty and dignified in a way that simultaneously entertained and aggravated him. With a flirtatious wink and a million-dollar smile that promised to raise both heaven and hell and everything you damn-well pleased, you turned and glided down the hall.

You left the decision to him.

Namjoon followed you out of his office, past the threshold, through the hallway, and out from behind the table into the front line of the final showdown of a battle that spanned decades. You hadn’t had someone on your side when you were eight and struggling to breathe, the obnoxious yellow daffodils and your brother as witnesses to your near demise. Up until Namjoon moved into your home, you had existed in solitude, and Namjoon wanted to be your companion now.

It wasn’t difficult to find you.

“Quit being such a pest.” You rolled your eyes at your half-brother like he’d pulled some juvenile prank that moderately inconvenienced you rather than attempting to end your life. The two of you opposed each other closer to the back of the venue, the only thing between you a few feet. Your form was impeccable, as expected, but the situation looked entirely wrong— your mild irritation, the wreckage of glass and other decorations scattered about the venue, the shattered pieces of shards collected in your otherwise pristine white gown, and the steel gun clenched in your palm glinting in promise. At a second inspection, Namjoon noted with reluctant amusement that your gun twinkled because it was yet another item you had custom made. Diamonds were delicately inlaid in the metal. Unquestionably real, again, as expected.

At the end of the barrel, your brother glowered at you, a malicious sneer curling his lip. His chest heaved from the severity of his seething and his insistence that you’d ‘ruined everything for him.’ Despite the chaos being of his design, he appeared more scuffed up than you or Namjoon. Several cuts littered his face, knuckles busted and bleeding, a scrap missing from the shoulder of his silk button down. He looked feral while you were the picture of indifference.

But the scene was still wrong.

The combined effort of your forces and Seokjin’s had already subdued the few remaining stragglers aligned with your brother. As the engagement drew closer, most people were literate enough to read the flashing neon sign that to betray you was to betray the Kim family as well. The illiterate had swiftly been taken care of. Your brother’s attack had been sloppy at best and downright suicidal at worst: an absolute dismissal of both Seokjin’s authority and yours. It was no longer an issue between half-siblings. This was more than enough grounds for war.

It wasn’t enough to kill your half-brother— you were going to massacre him.

Namjoon hated messes.

He approached you in long strides, shrugging out of his suit jacket and shaking out any stray pieces of decor along the way. Namjoon’s imposing form loomed next to you, glaring down his nose at your brother with a degree of animosity you hadn’t been exposed to before. Meticulously, he slipped his jacket over the front of your dress, securing the thick fabric over your shoulders. The crisp, clean scent of his cologne settled with the extra layer.

All the while, your brother snarled half-baked insults at you, pathetic and ineffective attempts at grandstanding to undermine your qualifications while you held him at gunpoint. Even more unimpressive were the two firearms discarded near your feet— you’d effortlessly disarmed him in front of an audience at your own wedding. Enough was enough, Namjoon decided. He stalked over to your brother, swiftly lodging his knee into his gut and cutting him off mid-whine.

You were correct in your assessment of Namjoon having suspiciously athletic legs, because your brother crumbled onto all fours like a dead spider. Namjoon wordlessly shifted to the side, as your brother heaved to catch his breath, still gasping out juvenile insults.

“Fucking,” A particularly wet pant. “Bitch-” A choked cough as Namjoon’s jaw clenched in disdain.

Abruptly, he snatched the pest by the hair at the base of his neck like a dog, yanking him up to his knees. Your brother’s eyes screwed closed at the excruciating pressure on his skull, hissing and unable to squirm under Namjoon’s relentless grip as he loomed over him.

“Don’t you think you’re going too easy on him?” Your bottom lip lightly pouted, and the weight in your gaze told Namjoon you were not asking despite your airy tone. Immediately, Namjoon twisted the fist tangled in your brother’s hair as far as possible and then some, his bicep straining against the sleeve of his shirt. Multiple chunks of his scalp gave way at the force. He was reduced to tears, wheezing out sobs as Namjoon flicked his wrist a few times on his way back to your side to discard the loose strands of hair.

“It’s not fair,” He whimpered.

You slightly tilted your head as you sighed in faux sympathy, and Namjoon readjusted his suit jacket over your shoulder.

“Sounds like a skill issue.”

You fired. Your brother collapsed, the angle uncomfortable, still. The venue was silent, guests and guards alike observing the aftermath like a picture. Your wedding dress was unstained, your empire was solidified, and Namjoon still needed to kiss you.

“Fix it.” You demanded with a close-lipped smile, that light, airy tone suggesting a playfulness that wasn’t actually there. Immediately, your guards sprung to fulfill your orders, clearing the debris and floral remnants. From his viewpoint near the banquet table, Seokjin addressed his men with a stare and voice as cold as the Arctic.

“You heard her.” He turned back to the deserts, gingerly plucking up a cupcake.

People bustled around you, righting tables, reassembling centerpieces, and disposing of the uninvited guests.

Namjoon carefully slipped his jacket off of you and draped it across his forearm, undisturbed by the faint speckles of blood fading into the dark material. He had a spare anyway. The wedding planner really had been worth every penny.

You leaned into him, angling your head to meet his eyes and finding them already on you, warm and lighter than you remember. “Brief intermission to touch up and then reconvene?” He suggested, dipping his head closer to you, a teasing smile quirking one corner of his mouth up.

“My thoughts exactly.” Your nose faintly brushed his, and his limbs went fuzzy yet again. He felt the heat of your palm press into his chest and he let his eyes close. Then, you lightly pushed him away, twirling on your heel, and wiggling your fingers over your shoulder as you glided back in the direction of the bridal suite.

“Soon, darling.” You taunted playfully, and Namjoon could only roll his eyes with a huff that even he would admit was mostly theatrics.

Namjoon hadn’t realized until you that vengeance really could be sweet.

When you returned to your place at the altar a half hour later, hair and makeup refreshed, Namjoon was already waiting for you with a new suit jacket and your reassembled bouquet in hand. It hadn’t taken much damage when you’d dropped it to shove Namjoon to the floor. He handed it to you with a slight smile, which you returned with a grin of your own, and you both turned to face forward.

The officiant stood with an exhausted droop of his eyes, though unshaken by the previous event. He cleared his throat and skipped past the objections this time, evidently unwilling to risk another setback to the schedule. “Yeah,” He drawled, eyes flicking to his watch and crossing a foot over the other to lean against the podium. “This is all just a formality, so let’s skip to the ‘I do’s’ and just pronounce the two of you married.”

Absolutely no arguments there. You had essentially already exchanged your vows privately anyway— you when you’d first met in his office, and Namjoon hours before in the bridal suite. The ceremony proceeded efficiently without interruption, both you and Namjoon easily consenting.

“Fantastic.” The officiant straightened up and flipped his script shut. “By the power vested in me by me, I pronounce you married. You may kiss.”

You turned to face each other, your soft gaze fixed Namjoon’s face. He smiled, eyes glimmering. He was different— his air, and even his expression: slight crinkles around his eyes and less teeth than usual. This smile wasn’t sarcastic, cutting, or performative. It was genuine. Namjoon stepped into your orbit once more, hands already reaching to hold you, and you draped your arms around his neck, bouquet still held in one hand. Your free hand held the back of his neck, his skin warming under your touch. His own palms delicately pressed against your back, sturdy and grounding. Namjoon watched, completely taken, as your gaze dropped to his lips before you coyly fluttered your lashes at him one last time before he leaned in and let his eyes fall closed. You met him halfway.

Your lips touched, and Namjoon swore that even with his eyes shut, he could see the world you promised to make his.

౨ৎMasterlist

[andy-15-07]

Hi dearest,

I saw that your requests are open! Could you write a Pedro pascal x reader one shot in which the reader is sick with sth quite bad like pneumonia and taking care of her 🤧 Some good old hurt/comfort ? I m so sick I need this

Take It Easy Tonight

PAIRING:Pedro Pascal x reader

WORD COUNT:1910| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

A/n:I'm sorry I haven't been active in the last week, school kept me busy, now I have more free time and I will respond to all your requests.

You’d been feeling the burn of pneumonia for days—a fever that wouldn’t quit, aches that danced along your skin, and a persistent cough that made every breath feel like a battle. You’d been managing on your own for a while, determined not to burden anyone, but as the symptoms worsened, you finally conceded that maybe you couldn’t fight this alone. That’s when Pedro showed up at your door, concern in his eyes and a warmth in his smile that made you want to believe you could get through anything.

It was a gray, drizzly afternoon when you heard the knock. You lay in bed, shrouded in blankets, the room dimly lit by the weak winter sun. Before you could call out, the door swung open to reveal Pedro—handsomely disheveled, wearing a soft sweater and a look that mixed worry and determination.

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice a warm baritone that seemed to wrap around you like a cozy blanket. “I heard you weren’t feeling well. Mind if I come in?”

You managed a weak smile, “I… I’m really not good company right now, Pedro.”

“Nonsense,” he replied firmly, stepping closer as if to shield you from the chill in the air. “You’re my company. Now, let’s get you comfortable.”

Pedro’s presence filled the small apartment with an unspoken promise of care. He helped you to sit up, propping you against the headboard with gentle hands. “You need to drink something,” he insisted, sliding a glass of water over to you. “And some soup—I made it just the way you like.”

Your heart fluttered at the thought of him cooking for you. “You did all this… for me?”

Pedro’s eyes softened as he brushed a stray hair from your forehead. “Of course. I hate seeing you like this. Besides, who else is going to fuss over you if not me?” His tone was playful yet sincere, and you couldn’t help but let out a small laugh despite the pain.

Over the next few hours, Pedro settled into the role of caregiver. He coaxed you into sipping the warm soup, keeping a close watch on your temperature as you dozed in and out of consciousness. Every so often, he’d lean in, speaking in soft, reassuring tones.

“You’re doing great, love,” he murmured as he adjusted your pillow. “Just rest, and I’ll handle everything.”

The conversation flowed easily between you, his gentle questions about your day and comforting reassurances making the heavy air of illness seem a little lighter. “Remember when we used to race to the bus stop in college?” you asked in a rare moment of clarity, a nostalgic glimmer in your eyes.

Pedro chuckled, his laugh rich and contagious. “How could I forget? You always beat me, even when you were dragging your feet.” His eyes twinkled as he recalled those days, and he squeezed your hand in silent agreement with the memory.

“I miss those carefree days,” you admitted, the admission mingling with a cough that suddenly shook your body.

“Then we’re going to make sure you feel better, so you can get back to laughing at those memories soon,” Pedro replied, his tone firm yet tender. He dabbed at your forehead with a cool cloth, his fingertips gentle against your skin. “Hold on, okay? I’m not letting you go through this alone.”

As the evening wore on, the room filled with the soft hum of an old record playing in the background—a soothing melody that seemed to make time slow down. Pedro sat by your side, reading aloud from a book he knew you loved, his voice a calm rhythm in the quiet room. Every so often, he’d glance at you with a half-smile, as if sharing a private joke, even if your energy was waning.

“Do you remember what happened at that party last summer?” he asked during a lull in his reading.

Your eyes lit up, a spark of vitality returning for a moment. “How could I forget? You ended up singing karaoke with the entire bar,” you replied, the memory painting a grin on your face.

“Hey, I only got carried away because you dared me,” Pedro interjected with a mock indignation that made you laugh. “And you cheered me on like it was the best performance ever.”

That laughter, though weak, was a balm against the discomfort you’d been drowning in. Pedro’s care wasn’t just about medicine and soup—it was about reconnecting with you, piece by piece, until the illness seemed like a distant memory rather than a relentless enemy.

Later that night, as the temperature dropped and your fever spiked again, Pedro remained by your side, his presence a constant reassurance. “You’re burning up,” he observed, his hand steadying yours as he checked your forehead with a thermometer. “I’m calling the doctor if you don’t feel any better in a little while.”

You tried to protest, your voice barely a whisper. “I… I don’t want to go to the hospital,” you murmured, eyes downcast.

Pedro’s face softened with understanding. “I know, but sometimes we need a little extra help. And I’m not letting you suffer when I can do something about it. Promise me you’ll let me help, okay?”

You sighed, your resistance melting away under the earnestness of his gaze. “Okay… I trust you, Pedro.”

The next few hours were a blur of care routines and soft, whispered conversation. Pedro held your hand as you drifted in and out of sleep, occasionally coaxing a small smile or a whisper of gratitude from your lips. “I’m here,” he repeated over and over, a mantra that became the steady heartbeat of the night.

As the clock ticked on and the room darkened with the night’s embrace, Pedro tucked you in with an extra blanket and sat in a chair by your bed. “You need to rest now,” he said gently. “I’ll be right here, just in case you need me.”

In the quiet that followed, you listened to the steady ticking of the clock and the soft breathing of Pedro as he sat close, his presence a shield against the cold, lonely dark. “Pedro… thank you,” you whispered, voice fragile but sincere.

He leaned forward, placing a gentle kiss on your temple. “No need to thank me,” he murmured. “I just want you to get better. I can’t stand seeing you hurt.”

You reached up, your fingers brushing against his hand. “You always make everything better. Even when I’m at my worst.”

Pedro smiled, a look of tender assurance in his eyes. “That’s what I’m here for. To take care of you, to be here for you when the world feels too heavy. I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

The conversation dwindled into comfortable silence as you both succumbed to the lull of sleep and soft breathing. In the early hours of the morning, when the first light began to seep through the curtains, you awoke to find Pedro still there, his eyes soft with the remnants of sleep as he watched over you.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he greeted with a gentle smile. “How are you feeling?”

Your voice was still husky, but there was a warmth in your tone as you replied, “A bit better, thanks to you.”

Pedro chuckled, a sound that filled the room with warmth. “Well, I’m glad to hear that. Now, let’s get you up and about—slowly, of course.”

With Pedro’s help, you sat up and waded through the fog of your illness, each moment marked by his constant encouragement. “Just one step at a time,” he insisted as he helped you to the couch, where you rested under a pile of pillows. “We’ve got the whole day ahead of us.”

Between sips of water and gentle stretches, you found solace in the simplicity of the moment—the shared jokes, the quiet affirmations, and the palpable care that filled every corner of the room. “Do you remember when you said you could fix any problem with a smile?” you asked, a hint of mischief in your tone despite the lingering weakness.

Pedro laughed, a rich sound that filled the room. “I suppose I have a bit of a reputation for that, don’t I?”

“You do,” you agreed, your smile growing a little stronger. “And you definitely have a reputation for making me feel better, too.”

He leaned over, brushing his lips against your forehead in a gentle kiss. “I’m just happy to be here for you,” he said softly, his voice layered with genuine affection.

As the day wore on, Pedro continued his vigil by your side. He brought you light snacks, read to you from a favorite book, and even managed to coax a few more laughs from you with his animated retellings of past adventures. The room, once shadowed by illness, now glowed with the comfort of shared stories and heartfelt dialogue.

“You know,” Pedro said as he sat cross-legged beside you on the couch, “sometimes life throws these curveballs at us. But it’s moments like these—when we’re at our most vulnerable—that I realize how much strength we really have. And you, my dear, are one of the strongest people I know.”

You looked up at him, your eyes reflecting a mixture of gratitude and admiration. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Pedro.”

He shook his head, a soft smile playing on his lips. “You’ll never have to find out. I’m here, every step of the way.” His words were simple, yet they carried the weight of a promise.

That evening, as the sun began to set and cast a gentle glow over the room, you found yourself drifting once more into a peaceful sleep, with Pedro’s steady presence at your side. Even in your most vulnerable state, you felt safe, cared for, and infinitely cherished.

In the quiet of the night, when the world outside was dark and uncertain, Pedro’s care shone like a beacon of hope. “Rest well,” he whispered as he dimmed the light, “Tomorrow is a new day, and I promise we’ll face it together.”

And as you closed your eyes, your heart full of warmth and gratitude, you knew that no matter how hard the battle might be, you would always have someone to lean on—a gentle guardian whose care would light even the darkest hours.

The hours passed slowly, marked by soft exchanges and the simple comfort of being together. Pedro would occasionally share stories of his own struggles and triumphs, and each shared word helped to stitch the wounds of the day with a tender thread of understanding. “You’re not just a patient,” he would say with a smile, “You’re a warrior, and I’m honored to be by your side.”

In that small apartment, amid the steady rhythm of care and the soft cadence of whispered dialogue, a profound connection was forged—a testament to the healing power of compassion, trust, and a love that transcended even the harshest of illnesses.

When morning finally arrived, you awoke to a clear sky and a renewed sense of hope. The pneumonia was still there, a lingering challenge, but it no longer felt insurmountable. With Pedro’s care, each day brought a little more strength, a little more healing.

“You’re getting stronger,” he remarked as he helped you stand, his hands firm and reassuring. “We’ll beat this together.”

And with that simple promise, you stepped into the new day, knowing that no matter what obstacles lay ahead, you would never have to face them alone.

[cpvnksabm]

Things I Think RTC Did Well In Disability Rep (in 2016-2018 scripts)

exactly what it says in the title. i'm not touching on the pre-2016 scripts because i dont know enough about them and i'm not talking about the 2022 script changes for obvious reasons.

disclaimer, this is all my own opinion as one disabled person, other people may feel differently and that's fine.

Ricky's disability in general

Ricky is a young person who uses mobility aids. He can't talk, implicitly due to dysarthria. He has a degenerative disease, specifically a rare disease which is heavily implied to be neuromuscular. And it's stated outright that his disease is lifespan-limiting and that he's dealt with his own mortality in life.

And all of these things are very underrepresented!

I'm not going to claim that all of these things were explained perfectly or explored in detail in the canon. But just having them on-stage, in my opinion, is a big deal in itself. And it's also a big deal that Ricky is a main character, who has the same character depth as the abled characters, when so many characters like him are reduced to ableist props for other characters' story arcs.

I understand there's been some confusion about the specifics of ricky's disability, in the fandom. And I know part of the confusion comes from the fact that the script didn't explain everything, and glossed over most of the details. But honestly? The fact that so many RTC fans didn't initially understand parts of his disability - such as the fact that it's likely neuromuscular, or the fact that his inability to speak is implied to have a physical cause - just makes it more important that these things were represented on-stage in the first place. They're so underrepresented, little-known, and poorly-understood that many people don't pick up on them even when they are represented!

Just showing these underrepresented disabled experiences on-stage has potential to help a lot of disabled people feel seen, which matters.

Ricky as a victim of ableism

Okay, this one might be controversial, but i'm speaking from the heart here.

Ableism is a huge part of Ricky's backstory and character - the whole Zolar thing is stated to be a coping method to deal with isolation & cruelty. Throughout the musical Ocean infantilizes him in dialogue, and in her song she argues point-blank that he has no reason to be alive due to his disability. The rest of the choir aren't perfect either - sure, nobody else says anything ableist, but they're all bystanders to Ocean's overt ableism, nobody really holds her accountable or acknowledges that what she's saying is fucked up. On top of that, Ricky says after his song that nobody listened to him while he was alive which, combined with the whole choir being shocked upon learning about his deeper thoughts, pretty clearly implies that they all ignored him previously.

And it's so fucking realistic.

Look. I'm not saying that Ocean's ableism was ever handled perfectly in canon. I am saying that when I saw a post-2022 production with the able-bodied Ricky script, I got a sinking feeling in my gut when we got to *that* part of WTWN and I realized the ableist lines had been removed/replaced. Because facing ableism is a huge part of my disabled experience that I barely ever see even acknowledged in media, let alone represented accurately, and the more I face ableism in real life the more I feel I can relate to Ricky, and that is so important to me.

Depicting bigotry in fiction is always difficult to do right - it's a rough balance between "this is not okay and we should not imply that it is" and "many people believe this is okay, wrongly, and that needs to be shown accurately". Sure, you can make it so the antagonist character is overtly ableist and every sympathetic character explicitly says "I do not agree with your ableist views!" and that way it's 100% clear that the ableist actions are wrong. But real ableism isn't just like that. Sometimes real-world ableism is a group of perfectly nice people who just never think about the disabled kid, or how he's doing or whether someone should talk to him, because they've been taught to ignore him. And sometimes it's a girl who swears to God that she's a good person, who considers herself an ally, whose voice stays sweet and kind as she switches between talking to her disabled classmate like he's 5 years old and claiming he doesn't deserve to live.

I think the brutal honesty of ableism in RTC is important. Yeah, it's pretty fucked-up when you think about it - Ocean openly sings about why Ricky shouldn't live, every ableist character is presented sympathetically, nobody is ever actually held accountable for ableism on-stage - and that's just like real life. I'd like to think that it could act as a wake-up call to some abled fans, who are similar to Ocean (+ others) and who could learn to understand the flaws in their worldview when they realize you're not supposed to agree with what she says in WTWN. But even more importantly than that... it makes me feel seen, in a way that I couldn't feel if Ricky's experiences with ableism weren't shown so realistically.

SABM, like, all of it

Do I even need to explain this? Disabled person has a whole furry-themed musical number. That's cool as fuck. God I wish that were me.

Okay, seriously. I think SABM is wonderful and important for a number of reasons. Like all of the character songs, it's important for expanding Ricky's character - not only is it a main glimpse into his interests, but it sets up for us to learn more about his personality and the selflessness that would later lead to the touching Savannah scene. It shows us his deep internal thoughts - it confirms that he has deep internal thoughts - and explains how he's been coping with the ableism he faces.

SABM is weird. I like that. I like that Ricky gets to have weird interests and a weird self-insert fantasy, while being disabled - I like that being disabled isn't treated as his "weird" trait, such that giving him weird interests as well would be "too much". Because that happens a lot! Disabled people are expected to be completely average in every other way to "make up" for our disability. And, yeah, SABM is kind of horny - and that makes sense! Ricky is a teenager, he's in his final year of high school, most people his age do have sexual fantasies. Other characters also reference sex in various ways so it makes sense that Ricky would. And I think it makes sense for SABM to be weird because part of Ricky's backstory is being ignored and isolated due to his disability - that's the sort of thing that, long-term, can leave people without a clear reference point for 'weird' and 'normal', or just leave them having no reason to care about being 'weird' because they're ignored anyway.

But also, if I may get analytical for a moment. Throughout the musical until SABM, Ricky faces a lot of ableism from Ocean, which isn't really commented on - she infantilizes him, both by assuming he's incapable of deeper thought/understanding and by being shocked at the idea that he might talk about porn or sex, and she also argues that he doesn't have a reason to live with his disability. Ocean is a flawed character and an unreliable narrator, but for the first half of the musical, you could be forgiven for thinking maybe you're supposed to agree with her and view Ricky as some pitiable child.

And then in comes Ricky's introduction, followed by SABM. And clearly Ricky isn't mentally a child, in any way - he's developed a whole complex story with deep worldbuilding so that he can imagine himself having sex with alien catgirls. But it also makes it clear that Ricky does have valuable ideas to contribute and, heck, just things he enjoys - which feels significant to me when a few songs ago it was being argued that there's no reason he should be alive.

As I said earlier, the ableism Ricky faces is extremely realistic and relatable to me. And SABM makes it clear that Ocean's ableist views about him are untrue and harmful, without breaking the realism for her to turn directly to the audience and say "By the way, you aren't supposed to agree with most of what I say about Ricky - I'm an unreliable narrator speaking due to my own biases!"

Basically - SABM is a subtle deconstruction of all the ableist things said to/about Ricky throughout the musical. It's an incredibly important part of the musical and an important way to represent a disabled character. And it's also a fucking bop.

Why this is important

Representation matters. That's a concept that has been explained a lot, by people who can articulate it better than I can - I won't fully explain here, just google "why does representation matter".

Look - over the years, many aspects of RTC's disability rep have been criticised in various ways. And a lot of that criticism is completely justified. Many topics were handled confusingly, not fully explained, and not properly explored like they could have been; erasure was pretty much baked into the script, with Ricky becoming able-bodied in the afterlife, and while some productions have tried to alleviate this by retaining his mobility aids nobody has found a workaround for his inability to speak in a genre where it's important for him to sing; and in recent years his disability has been entirely erased from the script, in an incredibly ableist way.

I'm not saying RTC is perfect; far from it. But if I thought there was no value in RTC's disability rep, and Ricky was just some offensive caricature, I wouldn't be in the fandom.

In fact, it's because I love Ricky and see him as valuable disability rep that I think it's important to criticise the parts of the musical that aren't handled well & the issues with disability erasure. RTC had good disability rep - that's why I think it should be improved, why it can be improved, and why i think we should fight against erasure. That's a big part of why I hate the 2022 script changes! Because they erased something that was important to me!

A lot of the things I loved about RTC in the first place are things that I frequently see glossed over, or downright erased, in fanworks. I think sometimes people don't realize the significance of these details, so I wanted to share why I think it's important! Some of these details really need more exploration and more love!

Overall, I think it's important to understand that media can't always be sorted neatly into "good representation" or "bad representation". And that talking about the good things and criticising the flaws can both be important. I really wanted to share my perspective on this topic. Thanks for reading!

[ghostly-penumbra]

Reflection

Ao3

Summary: Danyal reflects on the mending and burning of bridges.

Inspired by this post.

- - -

Danny stared and stared some more at his phone’s screen, undecided on what he wanted to do.

Somehow, he had seen his brother again.

Damian had grown, just like him, not just in height but as a person.

He was now an established vigilante, a champion of justice in his own right, an ally of the Justice League, fighting evil and protecting the weak.

He was a completely different person from the little boy that had ran him through with a sword at the behest of their grandfather, with a disgusted glare as he stared down at his dying twin.

He was good now.

But in truth, he was the boy that had killed Danny, the brother that he had wrongly trusted, and thought could be on his side.

Danny sighed, dropping his phone in his lap and wondering not for the first time at how they had ended up being so different, already back in the League, how had Damian not been able to see how wrong things were, when they had been raised together, and Danny had realized it early enough? Realize that the soldiers were people, and not just props or tools to be discarded –to be killed – on a whim.

Well, Damian seemed to have realized it by now, been taught better, like all he needed was for someone to talk sense into him.

Why hadn’t Danny’s pleas been enough?

And there was also… their… extended family. Their father, the Batman, and all the people he had brought with him.

Most of them had been… tentative, he would say, in the short time they had interacted. They saw that it was a tense situation and had handled themselves with care, hadn’t pushed Danny, but still showed they would welcome him if he decided to approach. That was nice of them.

The mater of his father, though…

Danny had thought, over and over as he smuggled himself from country to country with mother’s help until they had to cut contact least they be discovered by the League, about seeking his father, the mighty warrior that even his grandfather respected, someone who could protect him from the League.

Then he had found out about Robin, and decided against leaving one child-soldiering life for another.

Then he had met the Fentons, and he didn’t regret it one bit.

(He understood now, though, that the vigilante life didn’t respect ages, and sometimes you just had to step up, because you could, and no one else.)

And now he had the chance to have it all if he wanted. But if he did, it’d have to be everything, he couldn’t be cherry-picking what he wanted and what not, it was all or nothing.

“Nothing it is.” He deleted the number from his phone and the memory of it from his mind, and the slip of paper it had been scribbled on was burnt in green fire along with the communicator Batman had handed him (hesitant, hopeful, beneath his calm façade), and ended up in his trash bin once it stopped radiating heat.

Even if he wanted to have that part of his family, he didn’t want anything with Damian, and he wouldn’t make them choose between the two of them. The Bats were Damian’s and the Fentons Danyal’s, and that was it.

And maybe, just maybe, he would be broken all over again if they all chose his killer over him.

- - -

There is a post on tumblr that uses "Get in the Water" from EPIC: The Musical (my current fixation), where Danyal gives Damian a good scare for having killed him and things spiral from there for the bats. I love it very much.

I don't actually hate Damian or anything (i don't really care for his character, but the bats are a package deal), but as an abused sibling i've always hated with a passion the whole "forgive your abusive sibling uwu, they did't know any better u.u" fuck that noise. Even if they change and grow to be a better person, you don't have to forgive your abusers or be part of their lives so that they feel better. Fuck that very much.

i'm a bit of a hypocrite tho, since my fave is Jason and i forgive him the Titan's Tower incident (but if what i've read about Tim talking shit about Jay after he became Robin is true, then I won't even excuse him. shoulda hit 'im harder. i'll have to check that). alas i also don't care for Tim so i don't really read as much on his relationship with Jason. it's complicated but I wrote what i wanted.

please feel free to leave your opinion! on the subject, on the fic, i'd love to read it!

update: now with a what-if scenario in Rejection

[arceespinkgun]

I know I already talked about it and all the reasons are probably obvious, but I still feel like I have more to say about why how Astrotrain was handled in the Skybound comics irritated me so much... somehow I still feel annoyed thinking about it and maybe if I type it out that feeling will fade XD

I remember in earlier posts I'd made, I kept saying how happy I was to see DWJ giving so much attention and depth to characters who may have actually had good spotlight episodes in the G1 cartoon, but who aren't often discussed and could have had so much more pathos in their stories. Beachcomber is a great example, as are Elita-1 and Cliffjumper. Astrotrain was the instance of this on the Decepticon side, but was also special IMO because those others still had strong influence from G1. Everything we see of Elita-1's characterization, for example, could be extrapolated from her appearances in the cartoon... I mean, I basically characterized her identically to how DWJ ended up writing her in a fic way before this series started XD But as I said in one earlier post:

... Everything about Astrotrain here baffles me. He was locked-up in the Nemesis, wants to kill Megatron who killed his “love,” has no desire to hurt the lifeforms on Earth… and yet still considers the Decepticon movement for the “greater good…?” Plus, all the twists on other characters seem heavily based in G1 or their bios and stuff, but I can’t think of anything in which he had any of these traits???

And because certain overlooked characters were getting this exploration, I think I was willing to ignore things like Ravage being treated like a prop or other characters who often get overlooked, like Trailbreaker, getting nothing so far. But given what happened to Astrotrain, I suddenly am much more critical and it's killed my interest!

Astrotrain's motivation apparently involving another character also brought up many questions. It would be one thing if Megatron had slighted/hurt him directly, but it makes Astrotrain's sense that the Decepticon ideology in general is still correct despite all his misgivings and desire for revenge against Megatron incredibly interesting. I thought Astrotrain was by far the most three-dimensional of all the Decepticons in the comic, and anticipated he'd have an arc and that by learning more about why he still believed in the Decepticon dogma, we'd come to learn about the Decepticon faction in general!

However, none of this ended up being the case. We don't really learn anything. We don't know why Megatron killed his love, Astrotrain never changed or grew as a character, and with Megatron's execution of him and what DWJ says about Astrotrain in the letters page, it sounds like none of this was even on the writer's mind at all. In fact, Astrotrain appears to have existed mainly to further characterize Megatron's brutality and Starscream's enslavement... that's what the death does. It wasn't even about him as a character.

And you know, I'm fully aware that this is the point. In Skybound, there just isn't any room for complexity among the Decepticons. You have to escape, like Thundercracker, or be devoted like Soundwave. But I want to draw a comparison to another sympathetic Decepticon character from something else. In the show Cyberverse, the character Slipstream craved respect. That, as well as feeling torn between the clashing agendas of her superiors and her own ideals, were major struggles for her. In the end, she did end up gaining the respect she desired... but it wasn't from some Decepticon. It was from the Autobot hero, Windblade, but it took Slipstream's willingness to grow and change for that to happen. Slipstream's development was very important to this show thematically, since it would explore the idea of peace coming between the factions, and Windblade's character arc and motivation ended up being heavily shaped by Slipstream.

Why do I mention all this? Because I think this shows how this idea can be handled so much better. If Astrotrain had grown in any way whatsoever I wouldn't be so angry about his execution. But to me, it reads like everything interesting about him are things we the readers learned, but that were already true for him. He also interacted with other characters, but he didn't leave much or any impression on any of them at all, did he? I guess I just wish I could have known more about Astrotrain's "weakness."

[gaylordscooter]

Don't Bring a Papyrus to the Castle are you Insane

It's been awhile since Nightmare’s tormented them. This was, of course, a good thing. Supposedly.

It could mean that he's been planning something during the time of inactivity. It put Horror on edge. He's always been the most paranoid, even with the tough competition.

The main difference between Horror and the other two was that they would roll with the punches. Horror wanted to be prepared, which was a problem, because he ended up driving himself insane trying to figure out what Nightmare could possibly be planning.

In all honesty, Nightmare was slacking in his latest attempts to boost the negativity in the air. The last thing he did was play a bunch of scary movies and then pretended to be like the monsters in said scary movies when it was time to sleep. He did not account for them blowing him up when he acted like the Thing.

It was ever since they started working together. That's when Nightmare started losing his edge.

No one was going to mention it, but it was almost kind of…fun? Living at the castle. The alternative for Killer and Dust was an empty world with nothing else to do except think about how horrible they are. As for Horror—well, he at least had a stable source of food. For the most part, they were never actively put in danger. Almost everything Nightmare did was simulated, albeit simulated situations of terror cultivated for them. They also had comfortable shelter with their own rooms and all.

At first, the three hated each other. They still kinda do, but working together lessened it a tad…maybe more than that, but again, no one was going to mention it.

“what if he gives up and kicks us out? or what if he just kills us?” Horror guessed as he paced around the so-called “living room” which was really just the great hall of the castle but none of them called it that. “he keeps us around for our negativity, we know that much, so what happens once he can't get the amount he wants from us anymore?”

“he wouldn't kick us out,” Killer said dismissively. He was leaning back on one of the chairs, propping his legs up against one of the many very long tables in the room. “i think he’s gotten attached to us. that's why he hasn't been doing anything.”

Dust, who was sitting next to him, scoffed at the notion.

“what? you think i’m wrong?” he questioned.

“i doubt he cares about us,” Horror muttered.

“atatata, i said attached. big difference,” Killer said. “we're like toys to him, toys that a little child doesn't want to let go. children don't go out of their way to toss their toys out.”

“i don't think you can equate him to a child,” Horror retorted.

Killer cocked his head. “really? ‘cus he sure acts like one sometimes.”

The doors to the living room swung open and a familiar darkness filled the air, but instead of Nightmare entering the room—it was Papyrus instead.

Killer fell backwards, the chair clattering against the floor, while Dust turned away while clutching his hood. Only Horror was able to look him in the eye.

“WOWIE! THREE OF MY BROTHER?” Papyrus quickly looked over the room, narrowing his eyes and stroking his chin, as if looking for something. “IT IS A LOT CLEANER HERE THAN I EXPECTED! CERTAINLY YOU THREE AREN’T DOING ANY CLEANING.”

Killer remained on the floor. He brought his hands up to his face. “this is a sick joke. this is a sick joke. tell me i’m hallucinating. is this a bad trip?”

“this is real, bud,” Horror answered.

Killer groaned.

Horror glanced at Dust and back to Killer again. Clearly, neither of them were equipped to handle this. He sighed, “i’ll talk to papyrus and tell ‘m to leave you two alone.” He walked over to Papyrus, which took a minute with how huge the hall was. He internally grimaced as he saw Papyrus's expression flicker to worry when he noticed his injury. “hey…bro. don’t mind the gaping hole in my head, i forgot to wear a helmet, y’know how it is.” Despite being such a long time since he’s talked to Papyrus, he was able to slip right back into old habits. Such as lying to him.

“I SEE…” Papyrus looked tempted to CHECK him, but decided against it to Horror’s relief. He peered behind Horror to get a good look at Killer and Dust.

The two of them simultaneously turned even more away from Papyrus’s gaze as if it’d turn them to stone.

“don't mind the other me’s, they're—uh a bit…different?”

“YES, YES, ALTERNATE VERSIONS I AM WELL AWARE OF THAT,” he declared proudly like he studied for this.

Horror blinked, not expecting that. How much does he know? He asked himself. He was scared to know the answer. He choked down his mess of emotions to keep a neutral face. “right…uh, yeah. it would be best if you left ‘em alone. they might explode or something if you approach them.” That might not even be hyperbole with how those two were reacting.

“VERY WELL! NOT EVERYONE CAN HANDLE THE GREAT PAPYRUS’S OVERPOWERINGLY POWERFUL PRESENCE.” Even though the “everyone” he was referring to were copies of his own brother.

“yep…you're just too cool for ‘em.” This was very quickly steering into an awkward direction. Scratch that, it was already awkward. He was talking to a younger version of his brother before he manipulated him to eat human flesh. As far as he knew, this Papyrus would never have to go through what he had. And that's not to mention the two brother killers in the same room as them. He could only guess how stressed those two were.

Nightmare was probably reveling in it. Asshole.

Papyrus sighed uncharacteristically. It wasn't his dramatic sigh that was for the sake of gaining attention. He was troubled. “Are we doing the thing where we pretend everything’s fine and dandy despite everything telling us otherwise?”

Horror choked on the spit in his throat that wasn't there. “i—uhhh.” He darted his eyes to the side, suddenly the wall to the right was very intriguing and he would much rather look there.

“There's a GAPING HOLE in your skull and I don't even WANT to ask where that eye came from!” Papyrus exclaimed while throwing his arms out. He gestured to his torn shirt with blood old stains right at the edges. “I just know THAT’S not ketchup stains. Sans, how dense do you think I am?”

“i—”

“Actually, don't answer that. I already have a hunch.”

Horror hung his head in shame. “‘m sorry,” he mumbled.

Papyrus's expression softened. He knelt down to Horror’s level to look him in the eye and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m not mad…I’m just worried. You always hide stuff from me and it hurts you!” He was very clearly looking at the hole in his head. “You hid what happened from your brother didn't you?”

Horror flinched. “yeah. yeah, i did.”

Then, to Horror’s surprise, Papyrus brought him into a hug.

Silently, he brought up his arms to return the hug.

Dust and Killer dared to turn around to see the display. Only to quickly look away once more when Papyrus looked at them with a warm grin.

The silent hug ended and Papyrus stood at full height once more.

“how much do you know?” Horror asked.

“WELL!” Papyrus started, already returning to his cheery and boisterous demeanor. “THE GOOPY THING SURE SHARED WAY TOO MUCH PERSONAL INFORMATION ABOUT YOU THREE. IT WAS PRETTY RUDE, HONESTLY, SO I DIDN’T WANT TO BRING IT UP UNLESS YOU DID.”

Killer and Dust couldn't avoid looking at him now.

“EVERYTHING. I KNOW EVERYTHING THERE IS TO KNOW,” he clarified.

Killer reached a shaky hand up to grip Dust’s jacket from the ground, perhaps looking for comfort, or because if he didn't hold onto something he would dust right then and there.

Dust grabbed his wrist in turn, gripping it way too tight.

Papyrus narrowed his eyes at them. “YOU’RE GOING TO KILL ME AND YOU CAN’T EVEN FACE ME HEAD-ON ABOUT IT?!”

Killer blinked. That wasn’t a pun, was it? No, of course it wasn’t.

“DON’T GET A-HEAD OF YOURSELVES, I’M NOT MAD. NO NEED TO DIVE HEAD FIRST INTO SUCH ASSUMPTIONS.”

It most certainly was a pun. Killer tried to suppress a chuckle, but he failed. It was like a dam broke as he bursted out in hysterical laughter, rolling around on the ground.

Dust looked down at him in shock and let go of his wrist.

“papyrus, you—you can't just do that to us!” he cried between laughs. “i can't breathe!”

Papyrus smirked. “YOU CAN’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO! WHAT? ARE YOU GOING TO KILL ME IF I DO?”

“papyrus, please.” Killer gasped desperately for air.

“ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT. THAT’S ENOUGH MACABRE JOKES ABOUT MY OWN DEATH FOR NOW. I DON’T WANT YOU TO DIE FROM LAUGHING, I’M NOT HERE FOR REVENGE.”

Now it was Dust’s turn to laugh, except it was silent and he was banging his fist against the table trying to keep it that way.

Papyrus looked pleased with himself.

Horror couldn't help but smile genuinely. Leave it to Papyrus to make him laugh no matter the situation.

“NYEH HEH HEH! AS ALWAYS, YOU CANNOT STAY GLUM IN MY PRESENCE FOR LONG!!”

Of course now was the time Nightmare decided to enter the room—or make his presence known. For all they know he could’ve been here the entire time, just hidden.

Killer immediately got up from the floor while Dust regained his composure.

He approached Papyrus and Horror, using his tentacles to lift himself up and tower over the two.

“No. No, you're not supposed to be happy,” Nightmare said in disbelief. His single eye was cracked wide open with utter contempt. The air around him was suffocating. “You're not supposed to just forgive them.” Tentacles stretched out and pointed at the three Sanses as if threatening to impale them. “They all betrayed you.”

He flicked a tentacle at Dust and Killer in particular, “They KILLED you! Multiple times! Even when you begged them to stop!” He was screaming, but it didn't have a threatening edge to it, despite his anger.

He turned his attention to Horror, leering down at him with his eye going slit. “And you. You think you're better than those two just because you didn't actively kill all those people, but you're not. You doomed everyone. You manipulated your brother into eating human flesh. He didn't want that.” His gaze finally landed back on Papyrus. “How could you forgive them?”

Underneath that anger he sounded…wounded.

Papyrus answered him without hesitation, “They must've had a good reason.”

Nightmare flinched back like he was hit. His tentacles retracted and curled against his body. His aura grabbed at their souls with an unbearable pressure. “You choose to believe in them, despite everything? Even though they harmed you in ways brothers should never?!” he roared.

“I will never stop believing them!” Papyrus declared. Those weren't empty words, he knew that.

Something in Nightmare snapped. He couldn't bear to stomach Papyrus’s unfaltering belief any longer. He opened a portal to the Papyrus’s universe but when he tried to grab him to toss him through his touch instantly encased him in ice. He didn't even process it as he made the motion to toss him into the portal anyway.

Once the portal closed he saw the three Sanses on the floor, struggling against his aura. They’ve never had that problem before, usually they could withstand it when his aura leaked through.

He finally registered the flecks of ice on his hand. He was revolted, he's only used that kind of magic once before and he made an effort to never let it happen again. When did that happen?

How did that happen?

He froze that Papyrus, he realized.

He never meant to—

He didn't even want to—

…He wasn't keeping track of his aura. He wasn't keeping it in check. He was killing them. He wrestled with his magic trying to force it back to normal. It was so much harder than usual.

What was happening? He was losing control. He couldn't lose control. That wasn't something he was allowed to—

Ah.

There was a knife impaling him, in one of his tentacles.

Killer glared at him with fury he’s never seen or felt from him before. For once, he had eyelights in those usually lifeless sockets and they were piercing through him just like his knife. He didn't hesitate to draw the knife back to drive it back in again over and over, it wasn't until Horror grabbed him from behind to drag him away from Nightmare.

“you just saw him freeze papyrus with a single touch and you're gonna get closer?” Horror said.

Killer struggled against his hold, swinging his knife and trying to reach Nightmare in vain. “i don't give a shit!”

The sound of a blaster rang out. It was aimed right at Nightmare’s head.

“dust, don’t,” Horror warned in vain.

Dust shot him a look of malice.

The blaster fired anyway, hitting Nightmare square on the forehead. He let out a horrific screech and a tentacle reflexively struck at Dust. Luckily, it only pierced the floor in front of him.

“you think you're real funny, huh?! bringing in a papyrus and trying to turn him against us? go on and have a tantrum because shit isn't going your way! when will you learn that we're not your fucking toys, asshole?!” Killer barked and wrenched himself free from Horror's grip. Thankfully, he didn't bother to get closer to Nightmare again.

Nightmare shrieked inhumanly in response. He frantically glanced between the three, bracing for another attack that never came.

“i remember when i thought you were terrifying! but you're just so immature. you just gonna scream your lungs out instead of talking?” he taunted.

A tentacle shot forward at Killer's head. He didn't even flinch as it halted an inch away from his nose.

The look in Nightmare's eye was rabid. He only had a speck of self control left. It took every resemblance of logic in him left to refrain from killing the three of them right then and there. He wanted to. Oh how he really wanted to.

A small voice told him he would regret that.

He tore his eye away from the three, turning around to open a portal. He had to leave, now.

He went through and it snapped shut, and the three were free of his presence.

They let out a breath they didn't know they were holding. It was easier to breathe now, too, without Nightmare’s aura choking them to death.

Killer sighed and put his hands in his pockets, letting his shoulders slump. “‘m going to my room.” He walked off towards the end of the hall.

“killer, wait,” Horror said.

He paused mid-step, sighing. “what?”

“i’m not just gonna let you board yourself up in your room.” He turned to Dust. “none of us should be alone right now.”

Killer chuckled, amused at his concern. “oh really? what, so you can act like a support system like you’re someone who actually cares about me?” he spat. He shook his head dismissively. “i am going to my room,” he repeated slowly, enunciating each word this time.

Horror sighed as Dust also walked off.

However, Dust wasn't walking to leave the room, but rather towards Killer. He grabbed Killer's shoulder from behind, stopping him in place.

“horror i said—” His eye sockets widened when he turned to see Dust instead. He frowned. “you too, huh?”

Dust patted him on the shoulder with the same hand.

“‘m not even going to pretend that means anything.” He shrugged his hand off. “you forget that i have just as high of LV as you. i know what that does to you. we don't have the capacity to care. we're numb!” he said bitterly.

“you sure are the most emotional for someone so ‘numb’,” Horror chimed in.

“that's not—”

“true? you were laughing just a moment ago. you’re so shaken at what happened you want to be alone. you're gonna tell me that's ‘numb’?”

“well i’m not feeling normally either!” Killer snapped. His hand mindlessly hovered over his soul, covering it from their view. “it's all so short lived what does it matter anyway?! i just need a second alone, everything will go back to normal, and then Nightmare will torment us again, cycle repeats,” his voice broke, unusually filled with emotion. “that's our lives now.”

“you don't have to isolate yourself—”

“shut up! you don't care about me! neither of you do! you never will, because i killed papyrus—the only person who’d care for us unconditionally. i can blame the anomaly or nightmare all i want but it's my fault that this is happening.”

Dust was taken aback. His face was hardly visible, but Killer could see that he was stunned.

Killer always insisted he wasn't at fault for what happened in his universe; that it was just the anomaly's fault. It was what Dust hated so much about him, half because he was mad at his audacity to shift the blame and half because he was jealous he could do that. Turned out he was jealous at nothing, because he couldn't do that.

Dust tried to sign something.

“i don't know what that meant, but i assume it's an insult.”

Dust shook his head. He tried again, but in a way he hoped Killer would understand, by pointing at him and motioning to where his own soul is.

Killer tilted his head. “you want my soul or something?”

Dust face palmed.

“don't be dense, killer. he's telling you that he does care about you!” Horror interjected. “we both do, dumbass.”

Dust brought his hand down and nodded.

Killer scoffed and crossed his arms. “well don’t expect me to reciprocate.”

“okay ‘mr. edgy i can't feel anything but i need to go in my room to cry’,” Horror teased.

“i wasn't going to cry!” he retorted.

“right…” Horror trailed off, getting an idea. “either of you wanna get a snack? nightmare's not here to stop us from raiding the fridge.”

“of course you would think of that,” Killer said.

“you down or not?”

“duh!” Killer threw his arms up. “let's go!”

The three of them walked out of the hall together and made their way to the kitchen.

The kitchen looked much more modern than the hall, as if it belonged in a mansion rather than a castle. None of them questioned how any of the appliances were powered.

To their delight, they had plenty of time for rummaging through the fridge and eating. They ended up staying at the table and chatting even after finishing their food.

Nightmare was taking much longer to come back than any of them expected. It was almost nighttime and he had yet to show up. They almost wondered if he was coming back or not.

To everyone's shock it was Papyrus that entered the room. They weren't sure if it was the same one at first until he started talking.

“I AM HERE YET AGAIN!” he announced.

The three of them gawked.

“YES, YES, I KNOW IT IS SURPRISING, BUT THE GREAT PAPYRUS CANNOT STAY DOWN FOR LONG! I HAVE RECOVERED FROM THAT CHILLING EXPERIENCE…” his eyes shifted to the side, “MIRACULOUSLY!” He posed proudly with his cape-scarf blowing in the nonexistent wind behind him. “ALTHOUGH, I WON’T BE HERE FOR LONG. I AM ONLY HERE TO SAY FAREWELL.” He extended his arms out, offering a hug.

Dust hesitated, while Horror couldn't even react before Killer sprang up out of his chair to accept it.

“IT’S UNFORTUNATE I HAVE TO GO, BUT I HAVE MY OWN UNIVERSE THAT IS IN NEED OF A PAPYRUS!” He said as he patted Killer on the back and ended the hug. He walked over to one of the windows. “TRY NOT TO MISS ME TOO MUCH!” He jumped through the window. Just like that he was gone.

Horror hurried over to the window to catch the sight of a portal closing and sighed in relief. “he always knew how to make an exit.”

They assumed that since Papyrus arrived, Nightmare would show up at any moment, but it took another hour for him to arrive.

He hurridly passed through the kitchen, probably on his way to his room. It seemed he didn't expect them to still be hanging out in the kitchen as he made a note of ignoring them.

Dust managed to sneak a glance at him and the huge scorch mark on his back. In addition to that, he had less tentacles out than usual, he swore he saw legs underneath his cloak which were usually covered up.

Killer and Horror were too caught up in talking about the sudden Papyrus encounter to care.

Meanwhile, in Nightmare's room he stood in front of the mirror hung on his wall, glaring at himself in contempt.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

It was the very thing he said to himself when he decided to do this. When he decided to gather those three and take them to the castle.

Don’t get attached.

He told himself. Yet here he was, in front of his mirror trying to convince himself that he hasn't gotten attached.

They were supposed to be his source of negativity, in a way, mere food.

The scorch mark on his back and missing tentacles were proof of his failure. He wouldn't purposefully seek out his brother if he wasn't attached to them. He wouldn't try to salvage the situation he created specifically for his entertainment.

But it wasn't entertaining. Not anymore. That was the problem.

He hit the mirror off the wall with one of his remaining tentacles.

He didn't know where to go from here.

[queenrogah]

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐝 ― wi hajoon au.

₊˚⊹ᰔ summary: A well-known celebrity and his devoted manager cross the line between professionalism and desire when a daring photoshoot ignites unspoken passions—leaving them questioning where business ends and longing begins

₊˚⊹ᰔ pairing: wi hajoon x OC

₊˚⊹ᰔ tags: manager x artist romance, yearning (my fave), a bit steamy??

₊˚⊹ᰔ word count: 1.5k

₊˚⊹ᰔ a/n: happy valentine's day everyone! i really waited for a week to post this au on valentine's day and now here it is! my first wi hajoon au and i hope you guys like it :))

⤷ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

Minhee had always been the perfect professional. At only 28 years old, she tirelessly yet passionately worked her way up in the entertainment industry to become one of the well-known managers out there. She's the notorious manager for one of the hottest models in this generation—Wi Hajoon. With that well-defined face features, expressive dark brown eyes, that toned masculine physique that makes him so charismatic to every gender in the world. Minhee is so grateful upon receiving this job and she's been going on with Hajoon for almost a year now. She ensures that Hajoon remains impeccable as she manages everything from different contacts and his media appearances.

Today, it's another day for a photoshoot for Hajoon. It's the photoshoot for the perfume he's recently endorsing. When they attended the meeting about the photoshoot, the staff explained that the concept will be daring, designed to exude sensuality and allure—and Hajoon is the perfect face and body for that type of concept.

Hajoon is already getting ready for the shoot, several staff working on him to make him perfect for the job. Minhee is just sitting by the corner, checking Hajoon's schedules and talking to the production team in this photoshoot as she also reports back to her boss.

The photoshoot soon started as Minhee watched Hajoon professionally handle it. She's been watching Hajoon model for every product and every magazine out there, but today, his aura is something else.

Hajoon is only wearing jeans and an unbuttoned top, revealing those toned abs that are perfect for the daring concept. Those intense eyes burning through the lens of the camera and his hand found the belt loop of his pants, slightly pulling the material down and he shows a bit of his v-line.

Minhee realized that she's been staring too long as she tried to distract herself on the props that are going to be used for the rest of the photoshoot.

“Alright! You're doing a great job Hajoon! Next concept is the kiss marks,” The creative director motioned the makeup artists to do their work, “Put it on his collarbones and his neck. It must scream desire personified.”

I heard Hajoon chuckled when the creative director said that last line. I watch the makeup team get the kiss mark stickers ready, but when they were putting it on him, they got a bit frustrated.

“The sticker isn't sticking that much, it can look too fake for the camera.” One of the makeup artists said to the creative director.

“Damn, it should look authentic.” The creative director stressed out, just knowing that the kiss marks stickers are not working now, and they're running out of time.

Hajoon, who is concerned about the production team, thought of some other way. He glanced over at Minhee, who is busy typing something on her laptop.

“Why don't we use a real person? Maybe my manager, Miss Minhee?” Hajoon suggested, his voice smooth as silk.

Minhee stopped typing on her laptop as she blinked, momentarily stunned by what she just heard, “Excuse me, what?”

“You heard me, Miss Minhee,” Hajoon said, a playful smile tugging his lips, “Besides, you're already wearing a perfect shade of lipstick. Why not help out?”

Everyone is now looking over at Minhee, those eyes pleading that she should help out, “But I'm his manager…” That's all Minhee could ever say.

The creative director pleaded, “Just this once Miss Minhee.”

Minhee closed her eyes and took an intake of breath, then she heard Hajoon stood up from the makeup chair as he walked towards Minhee.

“Come on Minhee, just for this shoot. It's just you and me being professionals…right?” Hajoon tilted his head as he smiled down at her. Minhee couldn't even hide her blushing face when Hajoon is literally standing so close without wearing a damn shirt.

Minhee still hesitated, thinking that this was wildly unprofessional—or she's just the only one calling it. But then again, it's just this once, just for this photoshoot. If a few kiss marks on Hajoon could save the shoot, maybe it was worth swallowing her dignity.

Minhee soon stood from her seat and with a deep breath, “Fine. Let's get this over with.” She said, trying to sound composed despite the intense fluttering in her chest.

Minhee was soon guided by the makeup artists as they gave her lipstick to make her put on. Hajoon is waiting on his seat, watching Minhee still has that hint of hesitation in her.

“If you're still not sure, I'll—”

Hajoon didn't continue his sentence when Minhee applied the fresh lipstick on her lips, the vibrant red accentuating her full lips. Minhee stood close to Hajoon, trying not to die in embarrassment.

“Just don't make this weird.” Minhee muttered, ignoring the way her heart raced.

“I promise.” Hajoon replied to her, his voice low that only she could hear.

Minhee took a deep breath as she finally leaned in and pressed her lips gently on Hajoon's skin. The first kiss mark bloomed against his skin, bold, and unmistakable.

Minhee moved methodically as she planted marks along his collarbone and his neck, each mark more confident than the last. Hajoon's skin is so warm against her lips, and despite her efforts to keep her composure, she can't help but still feel overwhelmed by the spark crackling between them.

When Minhee finally pulled back, she looked at her work and looked into Hajoon's eyes—which are already glued to hers.

The makeup artists interrupted their gaze at each other as they checked the kiss marks, signalling the creative director that it's perfect already.

“Thank you Minhee,” Hajoon softly said, his voice carrying a weight that made her stomach flip.

“Just doing my job.” Minhee replied, forcing a professional tone in her voice.

The shoot went on and Minhee went back to her work again. She can't help but steal glances over at Hajoon again, who is beautifully covered by the shape of her lips, showing off the alluring concept. When the shoot finally wrapped up, Hajoon thanked everyone who worked with him and treated them all with coffee and pastries.

Minhee waited for Hajoon to get himself ready to head back to his place for him to rest and soon made their way back to the car.

“You know what, you have a future for modelling lipstick brands.” Hajoon casually said.

Minhee snorted a laugh, “I’ll leave my job as your manager then.” She said in a playful tone.

Hajoon pouts, “Okay, I take that back.”

The ride back to his place is filled with that deafening silence and Minhee felt that heavy atmosphere between the two of them. When the car finally parked, Minhee watched Hajoon leave the car and made his way to his private elevator—but Minhee realized that she forgot to tell him about his schedule for tomorrow.

Minhee left the car as she jogged towards Hajoon, “I forgot to tell you that you have another media appearances on—”

“Maybe you should leave your job as my manager.” Hajoon suddenly said, his hand stopping the elevator from closing between them.

Minhee blinked in confusion, “What?” She was purely flabbergasted on what she just heard.

Silence stretched between them, thick and electric. The next thing that happened made Minhee’s heart skip a beat. Hajoon pulled her inside the elevator as it closed behind them. She became acutely aware of how dangerously close they were—the faint scent of his cologne wrapping around her senses. Hajoon shifted his gaze into hers.

Hajoon leaned in closer, his presence overwhelming Minhee. Before she could even second-guess, his hand slid around her waist, pulling her flushed frame against him.

“Hajoon, I—”

“I can't help but think of those lips,” Hajoon whispered, his lips hovering over hers, “I want to be your canvas again.”

This is the Wi Hajoon pleading to her and she can't help the unprofessional thoughts running in her head right now. He's everyone's fantasy and she's not believing that she made him feel this way.

The tension broke as Minhee found herself leaning in, their mouths colliding in a heated, desperate kiss. Hajoon's lips were soft but filled with demand, moving against hers with a hunger that left them both dizzy. Minhee tangled her fingers in his hair as he pressed her against the elevator, their ragged breaths mingling in the confined space.

When the elevator chimed, they broke apart, panting and wide-eyed. Hajoon calm down his senses as he kept staring at Minhee, who was also surprised on what just happened.

“I really wanted that to happen.” Hajoon said, breaking that silence.

Minhee glanced at him, “Do you really want to be my canvas?” A hint of desperation in her voice.

Hajoon caught that message as he leaned in to her again, capturing her lips in a searing kiss. The kiss right now is more intense than they shared earlier, Hajoon soon gripped the back of her thighs as he effortlessly picked her up, letting her legs wrap around his waist.

Hajoon pulled away from the kiss, “Do you really want this Minhee?” He made sure of everything that's happening right now.

“I hope I won't get fired.” That's all Minhee could ever reply to him as she kissed him again.

The moonlight casts a gentle light over the two people who found themselves craving for their touch for the longest time, and haven in each other.

[propertyofkylar]

kinktober day three: hatefucking (m!whitney x m!kylar)

word count: 953

warnings/tags: hatefucking, anal sex, bullying, name-calling, dubcon, pc mentioned a few times but gender neutral, this is just pure toxicity

Whitney’s bullying was always egregious, but this time it felt like it was going too far. It was bad enough that he spent days humiliating Kylar publically, even fighting him in front of everyone at lunch. But how did they get into this situation?

The two boys were alone in a classroom after school, where Whitney had dragged Kylar for what he anticipated to be more torture. And Whitney was alone without his posse for once, and you were nowhere to be seen. So that left just the two of them.

Kylar was cornered - he had no way of escaping. So he just swallowed, hard, and hoped it would be over soon.

“Such a fucking freak,” Whitney spat, rage burning in his eyes. “There really is something wrong with you. You’re so pathetic. What do they even see in you…”

The mention of you made Kylar freeze. His hand darted into his pocket, feeling the handle of his knife. But Whitney’s eyes caught the movement and a wicked smile spread across his face. He took a step forward.

Kylar tried to back up, but caught his foot on a chair and stumbled, falling hard on his ass. “Got you now,” Whitney smirked. 

“I bet this is what you fantasize about doing with them, huh? The two of you alone, with no one else to see…” Whitney trailed off, hovering over the smaller boy.

“S-stop,” Kylar said. But Whitney only laughed. 

He crouched down next to him and touched Kylar’s jaw in a menacing way, making the other boy shudder. “Well, let’s see it, then,” Whitney said. And then, in one fluid motion, he tugged down Kylar’s pants and underwear.

Kylar tried to cover himself up, but Whitney pinned his wrists to the floor. Now Kylar was entirely on his back, with Whitney above him. “Damn,” Whitney let out a low whistle. “Not gonna lie. Wasn’t expecting that.

Whitney flashed another wicked grin, before he took off his own pants. “Mine’s bigger, though.”

Kylar couldn’t help but stare at the massive cock in front of him. It was hard and red, and surely an inch or two larger than his own. He gulped subconsciously.

“This must disgust you,” Whitney mocked, grinding his cock against Kylar’s. “You wish this was them, don’t you? Too fucking bad.”

He had no idea what Whitney was so angry about. But he was right - Kylar felt reviled by his touch. 

“Please,” Kylar whispered. “I don’t want to…”

Whitney burst out laughing. “Wait, really? Oh, I fucking knew it! Of course they wouldn’t have touched you like this,” he punctuated his sentence by grinding again. Kylar whimpered. “You’re a fucking virgin!”

Kylar felt his face go bright red. He had been found out, and so easily, too. “No…” he mumbled. It was too late. 

“Well, there’s a first time for everything, right?” Whitney sneered, spitting into his hand and rubbing his own cock. “No worries. I can teach you everything you need to know. That way, you might actually be able to please someone before you die.”

Kylar’s heart was racing as Whitney poked his wet cockhead at his asshole. Through his own masturbatory habits, Kylar was no stranger to putting things in his ass, moaning and whining in his bed and pretending you were touching him. But this? This was a different beast entirely.

“Wait, please,” Kylar begged. That made Whitney’s eyes light up. Wrong thing to say.

“Don’t worry. It’ll only hurt a bit,” Whitney jeered. 

And then, he was inside Kylar.

He cried out as Whitney’s fat cock entered him for the first time, a mixture of pain, pleasure and sheer disgust running through his veins.

“Pathetic,” Whitney growled as he slowly began to move his hips, thrusting back and forth. “I bet a loser like you thinks their virginity is something special. Too late for that, though.”

With one hand, Whitney propped himself up above Kylar, while the other came down to stroke his cock, which, unfortunately for Kylar and his ego, was incredibly hard and leaking precum. 

“And look at this! The fucking freak likes it!” Whitney laughed, thumbing over the tip before gripping the base, timing his strokes with his thrusts. “What a fucking creep. This is hot for you, huh? Getting defiled by someone like me?”

“N-no,” Kylar squeaked out, but he was betrayed by his own body with a loud moan spilling out of his mouth uncontrollably. 

Whitney’s hips began to speed up, and his hand on Kylar’s cock did in tandem.

“Pathetic fucking loser,” Whitney groaned, his face growing flushed. “You love the feeling of my cock. You love the feeling of my hand. And this is the best you’re gonna get. No one else would ever touch such a fucking freak.”

“No I don’t,” Kylar responded, but both of them knew he was lying. It became even more obvious as Kylar’s breaths grew more and more ragged. 

“No fucking way,” Whitney laughed. “You’re really about to fucking cum from this? I should take a picture. I know a certain someone would love to see that.”

“Ngh,” was Kylar’s breathy response as ropes of cum spurted across his belly. 

Whitney laughed again in a breathless manner. “So - hah - fucking pathetic,” his hips were like a jackhammer into Kylar. “So fucking - fuck!” 

He came inside Kylar, painting his insides as he let out a low moan. Then, and rather quickly, he unceremoniously stood up and stuffed himself back into his pants. Whitney frowned and pressed his heel into Kylar’s chest. 

“Now stay away from my slut,” Whitney seethed. “Fucking freak.” 

And he spun on his heel and walked out, leaving Kylar alone, breathing heavily and leaking Whitney’s cum on the classroom floor. 

[mothhball]

I (still) adore you.

Pairing | Neil Lewis x gn reader, established relationship

Warnings | FLUFF <3 no explicit smut, but nsfw themes and brief mentioning of oral (m receiving). Everything else is fluffy. Possibly ooc Neil. Basic Instinct 2 slander

Summary | You’re trying to tough it out during sex, but Neil insists on checking in on you.

Words | 897

Notes | short soft drabble for this man while I’m in the middle of writing more filth with Jon. Fic title from ‘Till Forever by Labi Siffre

You wanted to enjoy this; you really did. At first, you were just as excited about it as Neil, the both of you giggling and grinning as you filled the online shopping cart with some new toys and equipment. You were excited as you checked out and waited for the package to arrive, and you were even excited as you unpacked the items and you got into the skimpy little outfit that you picked out yourself.

But now, in the middle of having your hair pulled and going down on him… you’re just not feeling it. You’re no stranger to rough play, especially not with Neil whose knowledge of obscure sex positions and raunchy practices seemingly knows no bounds. But today, you just feel weird. Awkward and unsure of yourself like you’re handling a dick for the first time in your life.

He pulls his hips back, freeing his length from your open mouth and placing a gentle hand on your jaw to keep you from going after him. Confused, you look up at him with big eyes, only to meet his worried gaze.

“Are you okay?”

The question makes you pause, and despite yourself, you nod. “Yeah…” you murmur, causing him to raise an eyebrow.

“You’re lying to me, aren’t you?” Neil leans down to place a gentle kiss on your forehead, running his hands trough your hair to rub at your scalp and down the back of your neck.

“No…” you try again, even though you’re trying to convince yourself as much as him. Your boyfriend gives you a knowing look, and in that moment, you know that he can see through you completely. You’re his favorite book to read, and he’ll never tire of lovingly thumbing through the pages that make up you in your entirety. At the start of all this, back when you were just starting to see each other, you were a puzzle he clumsily tried to solve. But now, it’s almost second nature to study the way your brows knit together and your lips twitch. Unravelling all those miniscule details has become one of his most beloved hobbies. Like picking out easter eggs in the backgrounds of his favorite films. And even better: it involves you. Just like he wants the rest of his life to involve you.

“Mhmm… I don’t believe you,” he decides, moving his hand to smooth out the little line between your eyebrows with the pad of his thumb. “I know that look.” Neil’s voice makes your heart ache with warmth, but you can’t help but feel guilty when he’s this soft with you while you’re leaving him hanging.

“I’m sorry, I just… I don’t know, I’m just not feeling it. You’re disappointed… aren’t you?”

“Disappointed? Babe, I waited 14 years for Basic Instinct 2. That was a disappointment. You’re fine, I promise.”

He chuckles into the crook of your neck, placing a few more tender kisses right over your pulse until he pulls back to reach for a pillow to prop up your head.

“We’re a team, remember? If you’re not enjoying yourself, then I’m out as well. You don’t need to force yourself through anything. I love you” Neil smiles at you, tracing patterns onto your shoulder and arm with his fingertips before he scoots back. “M’gonna get you a shirt to keep you warm...”

The bed creaks a little when he gets up and steps over to the closet to get you one of his shirts, retrieving his boxers as well in the process. Of course he’s still hard, and part of him wants to make some jokes about it, but he has the decency of keeping his mouth shut. Big boy pants, Neil. Put them on. You sit up slowly when he returns to your side, and he helps you put on the t-shirt, pulling the garment over your head to make you feel less exposed. Neil handles you with care, and his eyes are filled with love as he wraps his arms around you. Slowly but surely, you’re starting to feel like yourself again.

“What do you want to do instead?” he murmurs, resting his chin on top of your head while he runs his hands over your back. “We can watch a movie or play some games? Or we could –“

“Neil?” you cut him off, and he stops immediately.

“Yeah?”

“Can we just… stay here and do nothing? Just for a while?”

His expression softens and he kisses the crown of your head. Once, then twice and a third time. He doesn’t answer verbally, but it’s clear that he’s more then happy to indulge you. Warm hands lay you back down on the mattress, and he pulls the comforter over both of you before he wraps you up in his arms once more. A comfortable silence settles over the two of you, and the tension slowly seeps out of your body as you melt into Neil’s embrace.

“Maybe you can tell me why Basic Instinct 2 was such a disappointment.”

He laughs. It’s an honest, bubbling laugh that makes your insides feel fuzzy. A grin spreads on his face, and he tilts his head down to affectionately bump his nose against yours before he leans in for a sweet kiss.

“I’ll set a timer for an hour. That should get me through at least a third of my arguments.”