#till its like muscle memory or something like that

[dcndrohime]

Getting a Vision, is well and all but i'd rather believe no one start in control too easily, rather accumulate experiences and mastery going forwards.

[cordeliawhohung]

Touch Me 'Till I Vomit (pet!au) [3]

pet!au | part 3 | ghoap x fem!reader (though very heavily just johnny in this one)

johnny's been waiting for this all night

cw: non-con, dark content, groping, thigh-fucking, threats of harm, drugging

Something tethered you to the earth when you woke up.

Not by rope or chain, but by weight. Every part of you was heavy. Lethargic limbs, weighed down eyelids that couldn’t quite flutter open, a diaphragm that refused to pull in enough air for you to breathe. Even your tongue turned into lead in your mouth as you stared up at an unfamiliar ceiling. 

A quiet TV droned on somewhere close by, but its sound was so faded it was impossible to tell if it was the morning news or some late night football rerun. No, it had to be morning, you were certain of it. Or, at least daytime. Gentle beams of sun danced on the decaying walls just out of focus, which would have paired nicely with the scent of cooked meat that wafted into the room had your stomach not twisted at the smell. 

The effects of dehydration in your body was agonizing. Cotton-like dryness accompanied the heavy tongue in your mouth, and your skin felt like it contracted in on itself. Hazy memories attempted to surface in your thoughts, but they were disconnected. Incomplete. You could recall the sweat on your skin at work and the taste of fizzy soda on your tongue, but that was it. All you were left with in that moment was an overwhelming sense of warmth and a panicked frustration. 

You needed to get up. You needed to do something. Yet when you tried to move your legs, nothing happened. Muscles tensed and strained, but a greater weight held them down. Your neck cried out as you lifted your head up — were you laying on a bed? It felt too soft to be anything else — and you only managed to lift it enough to catch a simple glance at the figure on top of you before your head collided with the mattress underneath you. 

A man rested his head on your stomach as if you were a pillow and not a human. Every muscle in your body went stiff with fear as your brain processed that realization. There was a glimpse of dark hair shaved into an overgrown mohawk accompanied by thick arms that wrapped around your hips, keeping your body close to his. It was then that you realized you were stuck in a cage with some sort of beast. No god in the depths of the universe could heed your silent prayer to be unnoticed by him. Your blood had already begun to sing in fear, and that was something a dog like Johnny never failed to notice. 

His head perked up off of your stomach where he caught sight of your conscious state, and a grin bloomed on his lips as he rose above you. Everything felt lighter without his weight holding you down, but that did not mean you were any less trapped. The ocean blue of his gaze paralyzed you into submission as his arms caged your body on either side. 

“Mornin’ Bonnie,” he greeted in a near purr. 

Fear muddled with confusion settled deep in the confines of your stomach where it bubbled and festered. Its taste was soured when coupled with the queasiness that overwhelmed your senses, and you found it difficult to even muster an answer. He looked at you with such adoration in his eyes that it was almost as if the two of you had known each other forever, but you couldn’t recall a single memory of him in your life. The scars on his chin, the slight stubble along his jaw, the collar around his throat; all of it was unrecognizable to you. 

The man chuckled something sweet and bone chilling as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. You felt your body tense and recoil, yet it wasn’t enough to deter him. His inhale of your scent was overly obvious as he bumped his nose against the underside of your jaw like a dog. 

“Still tired? You’ve been sleepin’ all night. Waited all morning for you to wake up,” he said in a near whine. 

Your legs finally moved, but that was not your own doing. The man’s knees slid between yours where he used his thighs to part them. Wide hips sunk down against yours where you could feel him grind up against you through your pants, something that he performed without any embarrassment. The garbled whimper that erupted from your throat as your body wiggled in protest sounded just as pathetic as you felt. 

“Could help ya wake up, if you want, Bonnie. Been dying to get a taste of you all day,” he whispered, voice low and even up against your ear. 

Why wouldn’t your body listen to you? Why couldn’t you fight, kick, and scream? All you had been reduced to was a husk, some empty shell for this strange, delusional man to play with. Your teeth ached to sink into the side of his neck as one of his hands began to wander under your shirt. Fabric bunched up around your waist as he shamelessly pawed at your tits like a ravenous beast. It was only then that you realized your bra had vanished, but that was the least of your concerns. He reveled in the feeling of you with another chuckle while his teeth nipped at the soft flesh along your shoulder. 

His movements ceased when heavy footsteps sounded outside of the door. He did not seem at all bashful for what he did to you, and that smile still remained on his face as he pulled away from your neck to sit back on his haunches, still nestled between your thighs. His unrelenting gaze finally broke away from you to look at the doorway, and your eyes had no choice but to follow his lead. 

The figure that emerged from the shadows of the hallway made you want to tuck tail and run as fast as you could. You thought about it so hard you could almost taste it, yet with your body in whatever state you had woken up to, you were nothing but a pathetic worm baking under the searing heat of his gaze. His tight jaw and pursed lips spelled nothing but disdain, and you swallowed hard. This man didn’t look human. You were certain no other human could look at someone as if they were so far beneath them, yet this stranger had somehow done it. To him, you were nothing but filth. Nothing at all. 

“Eager, aren’t ya?” the looming figure asked as he pressed further into the room. 

“She just woke up,” the man above you beamed. “Come on, I’ve been patient all night. You’ll let me have her, won’t you?” 

“Down, Johnny.” 

Silence fell over the room as the man stepped closer and closer to the bed, and you could feel your body shake underneath his gaze. There was nothing kind or playful about his aura as he knelt on the floor next to the bed. Even when he was on his knees he was still plenty taller than the bed, giving him ample room to reach a hand out for your jaw. His cruel grip drew a squeaky wince from your parched throat as he forced your head to the side to fully face him. Dark eyes watched with careful attention as your pupils dilated. Fear was one hell of a drug, but it was nothing compared to the roofies that still tainted your blood. 

“She’s awake, but still out of it,” the man said as he let go of your jaw. 

“But can I have her? Please, Simon, I’ve been good, haven’t I?” Johnny asked as the man stood to his feet. 

Relief flooded through you when that man — Simon? — finally looked away from you, only for your stomach to drop when his fingers looped through Johnny’s collar. In order to prevent himself from falling when Simon tugged at it, Johnny’s hands came up to rest on his chest, but he didn’t seem nearly as terrified as you felt he should have been.

“What did I say? Not ‘til I say so. Fuck ‘er now, she might get pregnant. Would hate to get rid of ‘er ‘cause of that. You don’t want that, do you Johnny?” Simon asked.

Johnny shook his head and Simon’s grip on his collar loosened, but didn’t fully go slack. There was something in that terrible man’s gaze that softened in a way you didn’t expect. Maybe it was the twitch of his scarred lips, or the relaxation of his brows, but he almost seemed to actually care. About Johnny, anyway. His eyes were as cold as stone the moment they landed on you again. 

“I’ll be back tonight. Make sure she gets some water,” Simon continued as he dug into the pocket of his jumper. 

“‘Course,” Johnny replied. 

Black fabric hung limply around Simon’s fingers as he worked it over his face until you saw nothing but his eyes. Those eyes. Unkind and bitter, just like they were the night before. 

“Remember, play nice,” he added.

It all came crashing down around you as he left the room and Johnny’s attention fell back on you. Fuzzy remnants of memories of your night at work with that large monster haunting the corner in the back. You remember noting how he didn’t take a single sip of his drink the entire night, ever removed that stupid fucking mask. It was him. 

That son of a bitch. 

That realization sparked something in you. Something foul. Something that wanted blood. It demanded that you sink your claws into him, wet your maw with his blood until your mind was blank. But you were in no such state for vengeance. Your body tried in its pitiful way as your elbows dug into the mattress in an attempt to sit yourself upright, but that only made the world spin something fierce, and a sob nearly escaped you as your torso fell back onto the bed. 

“What’s the matter, Bonnie?” Johnny asked as he rested his hands on either side of your waist. 

“That man… that man kidnapped me,” you said. You wanted to scream those words out, to convey your desperation, but your tongue wouldn’t move properly and every thought took nearly all your energy just to form. 

“Oh, Simon?” Johnny questioned with a grin. He always smiled. Always seemed happy. Too happy. “Silly lass, he saved you just like he saved me.”

Saved you? It was crazy enough for you to almost laugh at it.

“No, no you don’t understand, I’m not supposed to be here,” you retorted. 

Your words fell on deaf ears. Johnny’s mind was too shrouded with lust and desire to make any sense of what you begged for him to understand. The hands that rested on either side of your waist instead moved to the waistband of your pants where his fingers gently slid underneath the fabric. He gave it a swift tug, and you found your legs attempting to close in protest only to be blocked by his hips. 

“What’re you so worked up for, Bonnie? Of course you’re supposed to be here,” he said in an attempt to convince you. 

Even with your fuzzy brain, you knew that wasn’t the case. No, you should have been home in your shitty apartment underneath the covers on your bed trying to sleep off a long night’s work. Not there in some stranger's home. Not there with a man between your legs who began to tear your pants down your thighs like an animal. And perhaps he was, in some twisted way, an animal. He looked like a man, spoke like a man, yet he had that collar around his neck as if it was a warning. You should have known this was coming the very moment you woke up to find his teeth bared at you. 

Everything spun as Johnny flipped your legs to your left, and your torso had no choice but to follow, turning you on your side. With your stomach full of nothing but the remainder of your drink and Simon’s tampering from the previous night, you swore you nearly threw up right there on the bed. Your eyes screwed tight as Johnny’s fingers slipped your panties past the swell of your hips. He hadn’t even bothered to fully take your clothes off; just moved them down far enough until your ass and cunt were exposed to him. 

“Please, stop,” you pleaded, voice hardly carrying over the sound of your heart jumping in your chest. 

In some sort of pathetic attempt to save what was left of your dignity, your hands blindly sought after your pants, but Johnny pushed them to the side as he unzipped his own pants. White hot fear raged in your chest as you dared at glance over your shoulder. You would have thought Johnny’s eyes were beautiful if you weren’t filled with terror at the glint just beyond their blue hue. That feeling only got worse as you caught sight of the way he fisted his cock. 

“N-No, you can’t,” you tried to plead further. “Please, I’m not- he said not to, remember? We shouldn’t, he’ll get mad, please.” 

It was the only thing your mind could think of that might convince him. To bring up what the other man had said earlier. Would hate to get rid of her. Simon’s words had seared your brain, and you knew you didn’t want to find out what he meant by getting rid of you. Johnny’s infatuation with you seemed to know no bounds, and though it felt disgusting trying to play into their game, it was the only hand you were able to hold in your state. 

“Just the tip, please Bonnie,” Johnny insisted. The head of his cock pushed against your tight cunt and your body recoiled at the sensation. There was no slick to be found within your folds, the only lubrication came from Johnny’s leaking tip. “That’s it, that’s all I want. I need it.” 

The breath for your response didn’t even have the chance to pass through your lips before he pushed into you. Your thoughts cut off with a simple yelp at the sting and stretch of him while he bullied into you. With the dehydration that ravaged your body, there was nothing to soothe the ache as he forced your cunt to swallow him. You weren’t sure how much of himself he made you take, but you knew if he went any further he’d ruin you. 

“Christ, Bonnie. Fuck, I knew it. Knew from the moment I saw those pictures of you that you were the one,” Johnny rambled as he shallowly thrusted into you, keeping his promise of only giving you the tip of him. “Been waitin’ for this for so long…” 

After a few more pathetic thrusts, Johnny pulled out of you. It was sudden, but the reprieve was almost enough to make you sob. Perhaps animals were capable of telling the truth after all; of grinning with razor sharp fangs and only taking what they promised they would. 

Much to your dismay, Johnny’s hips slammed against you once more, and you cried out. But there was no stretch. No deep ache where your body was supposed to be forced apart to make room for him. Instead of nestling his cock into your cunt — like you knew he wished he could — he slid it between the plush flesh of your thighs with a near growl. You could feel the warmth of it, the way it throbbed with a vicious yearning to rip you to shreds, and it didn’t take him long to start pumping himself in and out between your legs. 

“I promise, Bonnie. I’ll fuck you properly when Simon says I can. Just been waitin’ so long for you I- I have to have this,” Johnny babbled. His hands pressed down on your thighs, forcing them closer together, making the stimulation all the more intense for him. You watched as his head rolled back, exposed neck straining against the leather collar he was bound by where the word Soap glinted on the silver tag; like a proper dog. “A real angel. I told him you were. Thank you. Thank you.” 

You didn’t bother to entertain his insane mumbling with a response, but he didn’t seem to care. Each drag along your heating skin only seemed to melt his mind into a further mess, and all you could do was lay there and take it as he fucked your thighs. It would be over eventually, you told yourself. It had to be. 

Lucky. That word popped into your mind with relentless force, ruining your attempt at ignoring the situation. Lucky. It was a miracle he hadn’t gone any further, hadn’t ravaged your cunt until you were raw and broken. But you did not feel blessed when the bile in your stomach roiled in protest at every thrust. It did not seem auspicious that your head pounded with each violent shake of your body as if your mind tried to self-destruct to save you from the agony of survival. You were anything but fortunate. 

Johnny’s hips pressed flush against the crux of your thighs, and you felt his cock pulse between your legs. His sticky spend shot out and clung to the inside of your thighs as he came, head falling forward against your shoulder until he had fully caged your body with his again. His cum seeped out from the top of your thighs where it dripped onto the bed spread below you. Had you been home, you would have worried about stains. But you weren’t. No matter whatever twisted future Johnny and Simon had planned for you, that would never be home. 

Not bothering to zip his pants back up, Johnny collapsed onto the bed next to you. With you already on your side, it was the perfect position for him to slot his chest right against your back where he wrapped a firm arm around your center. His skin felt warm and disgusting against yours, and if you weren’t so spent you would have attempted to scurry off to clean up the mess he made of you. But there wasn’t much you could do as he nuzzled his nose against the nape of your neck and exhaled a deep sigh. 

“Please,” you pleaded, voice raw, “let me go home.” 

“But you are home,” Johnny chuckled. “Finally home.” 

Home. In the arms of a man with his cum between your thighs. Yes, that’s what he wanted. Johnny would ruin you every night if that’s what it took to get you to see that you really had been saved.

[chiptrillino]

Hi, I love your art sm! I have a question about your process; how do you get references for your art? Are you at the point where u don’t need them, or do u have a go to website? Or take photos yourself?

thank you! I explained my process a bit here in this ask LINK depending on the time and energy, i am pretty much at the point where i can figure out some poses by memory alone. but i need one first very crude sketch in order to like to have visuals about what i like to do? or how to pose the body. So: step 1. Crude sketch step 2. Redraw it properly (sometimes i can right away use the sketch for coloring) step 3. Proper line art for coloring (examples below)

(ID in ALT text)

i don't spend much time combing through the internet till i find the one pose i would like to draw now. i just start to doodle. see something i like. and then refine it. i look up images if i have trouble with some anatomy or i need some help with colors and pattern. but its then things like... "toothy smiles" "male torso with belly fat" "guy stretching nude" "long hair in water" "human skeleton with muscle" "underwater photoshoot" check out how it more or less works and then adapt it to the drawing i am working on. i have been drawing for over 15 years now. i have build up a bit of a visual library, and have reached the point that sometimes i see artworks and know which pinterest image was used as a reference because people stuck to only one photo of a model and basically redrew the original just with some refinement. nothing wrong with that just not something i do or at least avoid doing.

[oogalybooglay]

|gentle now…|

(Sebastian gets hurt so you patch our fishy up)

(YOU GUYS ARE COOL, YOU GET MORE SEBASTIAN FANFICTION!)

The day was as simple as the last, Sebastian was waiting in his makeshift shop inside the vents for expendables to come by and buy something, and honestly? Most of them were just there to flash him with those STUPID FLASH BEACONS! (Authors interjections: in this one, he DOESN'T have a double barrel shot gun)

recently, Sebastian’s had to crush so many flash beacons his hand was sore and cut up so it hurt to move, to he’s had to resort to using the smaller arm.

he heard the familiar thumps of expendables walking to his shop, as much as he didn’t want to, he whispered

“pssssst! In here, I got something for ya”

(Authors interjections: TW this area of the fanfic has blood, and a slight description of glass in the hands, nothing to bad but I though YALL should know before you read ❤️)

you and the others army crawl through the vent, you look up and wave at Sebastian, greeting the shopkeeper with a smile. Standing up, one of the expendables with a sly, mischievous grin, unclips a flash beacon from their belt and points it hat Sebastian, who was already getting aggravated. As soon as they pulled the trigger, he shielded his eyes and lifted them up and snarled,

“don’t do that AGAIN”

He crushed the beacon with his sore hand, forgetting it was, as I said, sore. At this point? It was muscle memory, he winced sharply at the large amount of stinging pain as it shot through his arm. The skin on his hand, which was more sensitive than ever, bled. He felt each piece of glass protruding into his hands, he dropped the expendable and clenched his eyes closed. You see the pain in his face and the blood from his hand and rush over, “are you ok?! Jesus- come here, gimme your hand-“ you unclip a med kit from your belt and pop it open.

Sebastian looked down at you and slowly extended his hand, it was slightly shaking.

“Damnit…..ow…. Get it over with… it hurts like hell”

you slowly and gently removed the glass from his hand, whipped up the blood, then started sanitizing it, don’t want an infections do we? Sebastian’s reeled back a little and hissed, you spoke in a gentle voice

“easy now… I know it hurts, but we don’t want an infection alright?”

Sebastian rolled his eyes and grumbled, “I know.. I know..”

The expendable were temped to leave, but waited till you were done patching up sebs hand.

after you finished wrapping up his hand, Sebastian flexed his hand and made sure the bandage was tight enough, you closed the Medkit and mumbled, “gentle now… don’t reopen the cuts.” Sebastian nodded

“…….thank you {name}…..”

THE SECOND ONE IS DONE! I hoped you enjoyed it 😜 again, it’s just my second one, so it’s prob bad (update: ITS NOT BAD PAST ME DAMN), criticisms welcomed (don’t be too mean)

100

FUCKING LIKES?? HUH?? HOW DID I GET HERE. I KNOW ITS BARELY ANYTHING FOR TUMBLR BUT FOR ME? GIDIF UTSURZKG TYSM JAHHHHHHHH

[joannasteez]

nsfw alphabet | romans reigns

pairing: roman reigns x black reader

warning/authors note: self explanatory. explicit content below! minors please do not interact. i been wanting to do one of these for a little minute so here it us.

(A) AFTERCARE

the throb in your spine is sweet. but it is torture. it aches. takes the course of your muscles, leaving you limp and short breathed. dragging moans pass into whimpers, the split of your ears and that wayward blur of vision taking you fast. he was good, too much even, making a mess of you to please his own needs. an insatiable desire to see you broken and undone. he loved you, a natural dedication to you like the sun to it's sky, but he loved to wreck you just as easily. pull you to pieces just to build you whole again. 

so he holds you close, like a soft mold against the wide build of him. a tender grip of hands and light kisses to your pulse that will away those harsh thumps of blood. he kneads and caresses. slots the wet of his tongue till its between your lips, taking you in for a tender kiss. whispers delicate into your skin, sweet nothings, that sound like everything. "so beautiful". fingers warms. soothing. "feeling so good on me". his mouth lazy and loving. "you were made for me". 

and you preen, nudge your nose to his and wrap your legs tighter. maybe in the hope to stick to him. 

(B) BODY PART

theres always a favorite, but whats more important is the occasion. for his more amorous needs, when his skin grows skittish and hot. fingers flexing with need, twitching at nothing in the hopes to touch you soon, he will absolutely bring his mouth to your breast. squeeze and pinch and groan till he's had his fill. flick and roll his tongue at the hard of your nipples, messy drips of his spit slipping down past his mouth. and he groans. takes his time and feels you tremble in his lap, breath hitching as you grind at him for some form of friction. 

but when he isn't that needy, struck by lust. his favorite part of your body is your neck. it's where his lips go, if not at your lips, they trail the skin there at your neck. at home, at gatherings. quick pecks and lingerings kisses. it's intimate and possessive. 

(C) CUM

roman had resolved himself early on to the idea that, if he was gonna come undone anywhere, that it'd always be inside you. the tight mess of your heat too incredible to ignore or forsake. he'd groan, something strangled and rugged, hips rutting wild and ill controlled, and when he was ready, he'd pull from the softness of you slow and watch his spend drip lazy.

but you'd changed his mind. or rather, you'd given him a different perspective. in some summer country villa in the dead of the night, surrounded by melted candles and the lulling scent of lavender. you'd been particularly fired up and demanding. "kneel", you'd told him, and without much fight he'd dipped his tongue through your slit. committing the taste of your clit to memory. every moan you made hardening him till his dick ached from the faintest touch. but he worked you good, pleased you, and when he was through, you took him, hot and stiff in your hand and ran him through the soaked mess of your pussy. and there he stayed. rutting and groaning, till his speed and control broke to nothing and he came there. just at your clit. chest rising and falling deep. 

your fingers rubbed and teased his cum at your slit, arching and spreading as he watched. he felt the possession in it, a silent claim that you were his. 

(D) DIRTY SECRET

you're a charming woman. you make people smile. so when the guys on the roster meet you, it's no question that their hand shakes come with a brighter smile, something more genuine than before. and their eyes linger a little longer when they think roman isn't looking. "i like your shoes", but its really your legs. "i like your dress", but it's really your figure. "you look nice today", but they'd rather say beautiful, their eyes flitting to your lips. 

but he hates that part of him would like to watch. he would like to see you with someone else, only to have you after, and have them realize that the difference is jarring. they'd pale in comparison, because you were made for him, or rather that's what he'd like to believe. it's all voyeurism for prides sake, a simple means for his ego to swell. so he keeps that tucked away from you, in the deepest parts of him. where the control of it is strong and true.

(E) EXPERIENCE 

its not about how experienced he is but more of what the experience is like being with him. his in ring persona is manipulative and domineering and a lot of an asshole. he takes pieces of all those things and sprinkles them throughout the loving ways he takes care of you. teases and controls the pace, between kisses. whispers of sweet nothings in between taunts that leave you desperate for more of him. when he grunts, and urges you to "take it". when his hips grind and an awfully harsh beat moves his heart at the dazed sight of you. "my good girl", he'll say in praise. and "i love you", when your eyes take his own in a deep stare. 

but sometimes the tribal chief bleeds into his eyes, suffers the softer parts of him to quiet and he becomes merciless, even in his mercy. tosses and pulls at your body to have you exactly where he wants you and when you spasm hard and soak his skin and sheets a sodden mess he scoffs. feigning disgust as you spurt wet and unrestrained. narrowing his eyes at the shivers your body takes, your voice small and sobbing. begging. “im sorry”, you cry, thighs wet from the seemingly endless onslaught of him. feeling him press into the arch of you back. his knee bending for a better angle. a more brutal pace. he sneers in a taunting manner, reveling in the weight of his power. “no, no youre not. you love coming for me”, his breath heavy. “so fucking needy”.

it's an intense experience.

(F) FAVORITE POSITION

missionary, missionary, missionary. with your legs bent to your chest, spread and aching. well yes, of course. BUT. those lazy days, afternoons, nights, whenever they are, moments on the couch still. when the lights are low and the breeze is a little more than just chilly. you find your self hot, skin damp, nothing more than moans and a mess of whimpers, hips taking a slow ride atop him. the pace lax, his lips sticky from the filthy roll of your tongue. "take your time sweetheart", his palms spread and caressing at your hips. working through the ache. "get what you need", soft and sure. "fuck me till you come" as his hips push upward, a tender nudge into the clutch of your slick heat. hot and hard and patient for you. 

(G) GOOFY

playful during? not so much. maybe when you both have had a drink or two. not drunk but buzzed, and you're not so steady. not as poised and put together. a little clumsy and falling over him. he's kissing your skin, leading with tongue and ending with painless nips of his teeth. you giggle and squirm, and he tries to get you to still. to concentrate, but you giggle more. more and more and it makes this big burly man atop you snort. a cute silly little moment before you're kissing him and asking him to take you slowly. 

(H) HAIR

yes yes yes, he trims. not enough to be bare but its clean. it looks kept, but who gives a fuck about that when he's got a head of hair like he does. its this raven black color almost. inky and long. sticking to his skin, falling over his eyes and at the soft line of his lips. it whips up when his head nudges hard, slick at his back threatening to fall over once more as he pushes his tongue to taste the inner warmth of your thighs. your fingers pulling through it to urge him. his hair is always soft. like fine silk running through your palm. and when you rough at the root, pleading, enough to give him a firm guide to where you need him most, he grunts and waits for another tough short pull because he's such a damn tease. and sometimes when need overtakes the natural authority of him, his hair will get messy, splay out and over till its everywhere, fluffy and kind of damp, as he kisses you with sticky wet lips. sloppy and full of breath. his tongue drunk and his eyes threatening to roll. he clings to you like his own strands of hair. utterly addicted.

(I) INTIMACY

the feeling was an odd one, something new and less known to him. this breaking in his bones, in the wide stretch of muscle, where strength holds fast and his resolve proves unbendable. its a tension in him that splits even till it grows raw to the touch. every one of your kisses making him shiver till groans push hard from his chest without restraint. his spine throbs and in the deep parts of his ears resound this heavy pulsing. his nape shivers at your touches there, delicate and tender. your skin soft and sweet to the tough build of him. you hum and purr, a moan and a kiss, his hips slow to move but persistent for the tight vice of you. he breathes heavy, warm. cursing the ache in his gut for the way it coils and burns unashamed. his eyes watered with yours, welling till a tear slips free. "tell me again", roman pleads. his fingers nailing into the sheets, the brown of his eyes earthy and sincere. "tell me please". and the seam of your lips play along his, sharing his breaths, the pound of his heart rolling into your chest. your arms about him, clinging desperate to savor. his forehead rests against yours and you whisper amongst the silence. "i love you". 

(J) JACK OFF

its a mixture of preference and occasion. alone and needy, he’ll conjure up the filthiest fantasy. your body, your skin, the wet take of your lips and the tender claw in of your nails to him. lines drawn from broad shoulders to the slim curve in of his waist. begging with tears, with short faint breath. please please please, you’d beg. his wrist stiff and his palm tight as he strokes hard, trying to replicate the shape of you. somehow soft and unrelenting all the same, powerful enough to bring him to his knees. and when the dream is vivid enough, the blur of his imagination coming into something defined, he can almost feel you. and just there, amongst the rain of a shower, he’ll come. groans broken and stuttered in their escape.

but it isn’t always like this, left by himself to work through the tension mounting in his bones. sometimes the air is more sultry, more sensual than the emptiness of white bathroom tiled walls and warm prickling water. sometimes he’ll melt into your touch, into the leather of the sofa. he’ll whimper and curse, breathy and fighting for patience, finding himself undone and ill suited to do anything but beg for you to be near him. and you’ll kiss the skin behind his ear, trail lazy and seductive till you take his neck as a place to taste. to lick and suck, teeth nipping to tease. and your hand goes strict, this steady wringing of your wrist that coax’s his hips to lift, chasing the feeling. he huffs, struggles to fight the unraveling that awaits him, breath hot and delicate as he nudges into your neck. lips attempting to kiss, to gain some form of control, but he grasps at nothing, left dazed in his own desperation. he mumbles, incoherent.

“fuck i-“

“please”

“oh-ah…shit”

every muscle in him tenses, a stillness where his breath hitches, before his nerves rattle wild. he drags through a groan, chest pulling in and pushing out, breath after breath as he comes.

(K) KINK

say it with me. overstimulation. roman, within the boundaries that have been set, is menacing. he schemes, he plots. he thinks methodically, and he acts out his ideas in ways that you have only ever briefly dreamed of because trust is a scary thing to give. he'd of course only step as far as you'd let him, but roman was a big man, and so the distances he could cover were more than enough to meet your every desire. and he took to ropes easily, their weight, the strength of a knot as it wrapped about your skin, tight but not too much. the supple inner flesh of your thighs bare and bound, your pussy dripping with anticipation as darkness loomed. the tie around your eyes silky and assuring. you could feel him staring, a grand statuesque form roaming about the room as you laid spread and shallow breathed. 

the bed dipped and you fought against the pounding in your chest, begging for it to still with shudders. the seconds drawn slow into minutes. 

his mouth this gentle skim above yours, tongue slipping to run faint. "breathe babygirl". 

you chase the phantom of his lips for something. a kiss, his tongue, anything. he chuckles dark, a rumbling from his chest that leaves you eager. 

"you trust me?", he asks. fingers running in a clever maneuver toward where you ache for him. his thumb a sweet delicate caress at the pulse of your clit. 

you body melts into the bed, back arching as your hips buck for friction. "ahh", the length of his middle and ring finger burying deep till they cover wet to the knuckle. "oh fuck me, i need-"

"not yet", he cuts. his fingers resting idle in you. letting you throb and pulse. letting you feel and rest in the depth of his touch. 

(L) LOCATION

let's set the scene shall we?...steam, a thick cloud. water raining with a prickling heat. the cascade of it stressing a warmth into your skin, but nothing that beats the heat of him. the tower of his body, taut and statuesque. he's all muscle and power, the pull and push of his hips is vicious and beautiful. languid and tormenting. his mouth drapes your neck, trails lazy till his nose nudges into wet hair. curses and groans deep, melodic. he ruts singleminded, the heart of his pleasure stored in the devious clench of your pussy. his breaths draw in, they release, they shudder, waver with weakness, drag and go broken, all done by the tight slick dripping between your legs. flowing till it trickles along the shower floor. 

and he likes the echo here. the bounce of your moans from tile to tile, till it finds itself slipping clever into his ear. the shower differs from the bed, calls for something possessive and raw. the space doesn't open the way it would in his bed. here he stills your body, holds your hips and wills into your flesh the need to trust him. to trust the hold he has on your body.

your hand trembles, dainty and desperate. pulls his fingers till his palm rest just at the soft of your mound. you groan, weak and dazed. eyes threatening to roll. 

"how's that sweetheart? you like me there? you like me stretchin' that pussy?" 

a tear wells. your voice small. "yes".

(M) MOTIVATON

let's revisit his dirty secret, that slight voyeuristic streak in him that wonders about you with other people. and though he, in the deeper, more quiet parts of him, likes to fantasize about it, what gets his blood going more than knowing they wouldn't hold a candle to him, is the subtle and not so subtle ways you reject these advances. you feel the stares and the lingering touches, the charming smiles and the eagerness for small talk. and you indulge to a degree; coy grins, little intimate laughs where your hand takes to a strong arm that isn't roman's and that slight head tilt to the side as a whisper flows to your ear like some little hushed secret. 

and these little events are all the same. wrestlers in a room, drinking and eating, chatting about everything and anything. 

it's a little easy to slip into a few drinks, to get comfortable. sometimes overly comfortable. and while it doesn't always happen, there are moments where the air pushes beyond flirty into something more solid and the veil is lifted. you pull back, feeling roman's eyes turn cold, because the game is only fun for you when he's playing too. 

"whats one more drink?", someone from the roster will ask. completely taken by your charm. a hand attempting to reach for the lower dip-in of your back to guide you to the bar. "one too many", a soft smile. quick and naturally small about your movements as you slip away from them  and back over to roman before anything else can transpire. 

"having fun?", he'll ask. 

"not anymore", a gentle pout. standing under the burden of his eyes. the grip of his hand at your waist a little more firm than usual. trying against his will to calm. 

he hates to love this little game. 

"we gotta fix that". 

but the fix is a blunt stroke of his hips. hot fingers and an even hotter release. it's this odd chain reaction of waiting and watching, till the possession in him unfurls broad and stifling. his palms twitch and his nose flares. you could have anyone and anything you wanted, this he knew for sure, but you were here with him. choking on the heaviness of a moan as he fucked rough into you against the sink of a bathroom. 

"he'd never have you, none of them would. not like this, so desperate and ready to come".

pride blooming in his chest, the soft warm pull of your heat greedy and unsatisfied as you drip against him. 

(N) NO

roman won't do anything non-consensual based, and nothing that could directly compromise his hygiene or yours. he's all about trust and a shared experience, and if anything goes against that, he won't even consider it. 

(O) ORAL

curtains sweep, flowing delicate. a soft glow taking to your skin as they sway, working to tame the harsh rush in of the morning sun. and the view from where he stands is picturesque. the drape of you against the sheets reminiscent of beloved paintings of old, far too fine and intricate to be handled. but here, he gets to touch you, form the heat of his hands to tender skin. and of course roman aims to be gentle. aims to caress light, to enjoy the feel of you without such harsh rushes of desperation. and he does it well, molds his lips to you unhurried, patient, there at your neck, the smooth plain of your shoulders, till they grow deep and lingering, teasing where your collarbone lives. 

you shift awake, moaning with a drunken sort of awareness. tethered some still to sleep. your fingers roaming the wide stretch of his back. taut muscle and warm skin.

roman finds himself nestling in at where heat runs just at your inner thighs. so close to where you begin to yearn for him.

the steadiness of his patience feeling to you more and more like teasing. 

his tongue licks warm and simple. riles up the rest of your nerves that dare still to sleep. and his lips move, in tandem with deft fingers. panties pulling over and away to make room for the heavy heat of his breath. 

he’s just there, looming over the throb of your clit. eyes lazy and growing fascinated at the way you clench and release about nothing but the anticipation of his touch. 

the tip of his nose leads the seam of his lips as they ghost and when he speaks, your hips chase that faint soft bed of his mouth. hungry for him. 

“i had a dream about you”, he muses. suckling the skin where your inner thigh bends. 

your voice breaks off the remnants of sleep. tone coarse but still to him so damn sweet. “yeah? about what?”

“doesn’t matter”, he hums. a wet gentle strike of his tongue at the tip of your clit. testing the reflex of your hips, a satisfied grin as he watches your hips roll and arousal pool. “you being there was enough” 

you chuckle. hissing as his thumbs spread your wider, angling to push in and trap your clit. the nub pulses, forces an arch to form just at your back. 

“you love to sweet talk”. words breathy. 

“you love to hear it”.’

“roman…”, you urge. pleading his name. 

he hums. “you ever known me not to take care of u?”

“no”. 

“then relax for me”. command gentle and restraining. 

his thumbs move, circling firm. but you need more. 

he's touched you, but barely, not in the way's you've at many times known him to, when the air is heavy, your body's clinging and rutting one against the other, senseless and wild. in those times, the urgency takes him and possesses him with a more vicious sort of passion. storming with impatience. but his time here though, as he skims your skin and takes delight in the heavy bursts of breath from your chest, whiny and incapable of waiting, is endless. 

and his restraint has much reason, if nothing more than to see you weak and undone. his kisses sweet at the light quiver taking your thighs, and the soft slipping lick he takes at the fat of clit. a steady downward stroke, moving to reach at the wet clench of your entrance, till he curls lazy, drooling with thirst, adding to the mess of you. 

oh his restraint has much reason, mouth working till it covers over the whole of your lower lips, roman's hands like nails as they push to suffer your thighs under their weight. anything to spread you further, to get himself deeper into the taste of you. tongue prodding till it dips through to where you drip and throb, muscles clenching, begging for a stretch and to feel the fullness it knows he can give it.

he slurps obnoxious, your taste steeping in till it soaks his mouth. forces something raw out of his chest, a lax groan that rattles your bones. 

and he holds there, suckling till he feels you grow weak into the bed. whimpers that break off fragile. 

his touch, where ever it finds itself, is all passion. every flick and caress, every roll and kiss and tensing bite, every moan and every second he takes to please you is this raw form of devotion. a wordless sort of reverence that is singleminded in its plot to draw from you the finest pleasure. 

(P) PACE

he's an all around type of guy, and the pace varies upon his mood, but you can always tell what you'll get before he even touches you. when those coffee brown eyes twinkle in their mischief, and his touch pours hot into your skin, you know he'll tease you till your nerves stress and your voice breaks with begging. the dip and roll of his hips shallow and unfulfilling. almost like he can't stand to see you happy and satisfied, and you hate to love him then. his taunting words and the amusement in his eyes, high off control.

but sometimes he reads more vicious. his touch is the harsh piercing of a nail and his hips knock into you rough as they see to your undoing. he spreads you wide and grows relentless, ego fed by the writhing of your body and the limp form your moans take. his pace is brutal then, stills your hips to dig into you till he's buried to the hilt. 

and other times a softness overtakes him, washes him whole and drives him to the utmost gentleness. his ministrations grow tenderly deft, hips steady and patient. he takes the time to feel you, every short twitch and the lingering way you cling and pull at him, coaxes him deeper till you've taken every part of him. 

(Q) QUICKIE

if he doesn't have to have a quickie he won't, but life doesn't work that way and sometimes, when the pull in his gut is far too harsh to ignore, he'll pull you aside and make quick work of sharing that neediness, till you're attacking him quick and breathy, kissing his lips wet and hasty. his hips rutting, sweat breaking at his skin, his forehead nestled into your neck as he chases that heavy pulling in his gut and the burn in his flesh that comes with release. 

(R) RISK

he's not as much of a risk taker as he'd maybe like to be. he's very much all about his image and staying negative press free. and you of course respect his wishes, but there are times where he will indulge your riskiness, at private events mainly, where cameras are more than likely non-existent. 

(S) STAMINA 

his restraint will more than likely dictate this in a way. if he's hard pressed to release the tension in his bones, he makes quick good work of taking care of you before he does so for himself, and sometimes that can look a little quicker than usual but other times, more often than not, the pleasure can feel endless, with these short bouts of reprieve, right before he's back to doling out pleasure. 

(T) TOYS

the voyeur in him can't hate your use of toys and you are more than proficient at pleasing yourself. can you bring yourself to a hair pulling release, completely breathless and ears split as you feel the undoing of your nerves, maybe not as intensely, but thats where he comes in. he's all about the collaboration, anything to see you twitch and quiver uncontrolled, to have you begging and pleading his name. 

(U) UNFAIR 

he's the BIGGEST TEASE, and definitely has more moments of unfairness than you do. he mocks you, denies you sometimes even, and when he's in a less generous mood, all in the name of seeing you squirm, he'll even downright ignore your advances. 

(V) VOLUME 

the volume is something that is shared more equally than not, neither of you more louder than the other. the both of you falling into your moments where words and noises are unabashed in how loud they can be. but it's never insanely loud. theres been a time or two though, at a hotel maybe, where a knock comes about a complaint. 

(W) WILDCARD  "do you trust me?" you'd asked him. 

"yes", without hesitation. 

and the rope wrapped tight about his skin was beautiful, something quite more artistic than you'd expected. his muscles bulging against the taut knots and tawny twine. his hair hanging long and damp, stray pieces sticking to him as his skin grew red with desire. his thighs spread and restrained, dick aching and standing stiff. in need of much attention. but you were not in the service of pleasing him. no you were very much enjoying the tremble in his body, the desperate way he chased your lips, and the lazy pass of his eyes as they took to the tight lace painting your skin. 

you lean in, bowing forward, your nails resting at his thighs, lips running to ghost the seam of his. tongue escaping to lick a less than faint strip. and he rumbles, cock twitching, his chest rising the more you tease his mouth. 

"you're so good. so obedient". 

your hand itches to touch him, fingers delicate and controlled as you take his warm length to caress light. and he accepts what friction he can get, his head lulling back, hair swaying, a groan flowing as your touch becomes slightly more firm. his hips rut forward, and then your touch disappears. a frown taking your lips in confusion. you'd thought you'd made yourself rather clear.

"if you can't control your urges, then maybe you don't deserve to come". 

" 'm sorry", the loom of your figure leaving him, and it nearly leaves him ill. "fuck, i'm sorry". 

you hum, thumb reaching to sooth at his cheek. the only touch you can afford to give him as you watch him suffer. 

(X) X-RAY

you could say so many things, but to put it short and sweet, he's above average, but not incredibly big. he's thick, veiny, and a bit curved. just enough to slightly knock the wind out of you. to have you feeling full. 

(Z) ZZZ

he'll fall fast asleep rather quickly. after he's sought to your needs, he'll pull your body in close to share the heat of him, shape the silhouette of you with his warmth and allow sleep to take him. and other times, when you're last to sleep, roaming around till your restlessness is no more, you'll wrap an arm around his waist, attempting at a big spoon, but it's no use of course. and he'll remedy that by turning over in his daze, a soothing drag of a hum sounding from him as he's pulling you to his chest. effectively turning him into a body pillow.

[awkward-walking-potato]

Deadpool x GN!reader where they’re both sparring/training together but the reader passes out from exhaustion from not taking care of themselves. Rest of the fic will focus on wade Wilson helping and taking care of them (whilst slightly scolding them for not doing a better job with their own health and mental health.)

no rush, take your time ^^

Take a Breather

The training room at the X-Mansion echoed with the sound of fists meeting padded gloves, heavy breathing, and the occasional quip from Wade. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting stark shadows that mirrored the intensity of the session.

“Come on, Y/N, keep those hands up! You know the bad guys won’t wait for you to catch your breath,” Wade teased, though his tone was just light enough to keep you motivated.

You forced a smile, wiping the sweat from your brow with the back of your hand. “You’re enjoying this way too much, Wade.”

“Hey, if getting punched by you counts as fun, then I’m living the dream,” he shot back with a grin, his mask pulled up just enough to reveal the curve of his lips.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t deny the small rush of adrenaline his banter gave you. The past few weeks of training with Wade had been grueling but effective. Despite his often flippant attitude, he was a hell of a teacher—at least when it came to fighting.

But it wasn’t just the combat training that had you worn down. Between teaching your classes, grading assignments, and being a mentor to the younger mutants, your days had been packed from dawn till well after dusk. You were exhausted, but you couldn’t afford to slow down. The kids needed you. The team needed you.

Wade, of course, noticed. He always noticed. But you were good at deflecting, and he was good at letting you. Until now.

“Alright, let’s go again,” Wade said, holding up his hands in a defensive stance, ready to block your next strike.

You took a deep breath, trying to summon the energy to continue. Your muscles were screaming for rest, but you pushed them forward, delivering a series of quick jabs. Wade easily parried, his expression shifting from playful to concerned as he noticed the sluggishness in your movements.

“Y/N, you’re slowing down. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” you lied, even as your vision began to blur around the edges. “I’m fine. Just need a second.”

But you didn’t get that second. As you went for another punch, your knees buckled beneath you, and the room spun wildly. You heard Wade call your name, but it felt distant, like he was speaking through water. Before you could comprehend what was happening, darkness closed in around you.

When you came to, you were lying on something soft. A bed, maybe? The familiar scent of the mansion’s infirmary hit you first—sterile, with a faint hint of antiseptic. You tried to sit up, but a firm hand on your shoulder gently pushed you back down.

“Whoa, easy there, Rocky. You’re not going anywhere just yet.”

Wade’s voice, though laced with its usual sarcasm, was softer than you’d ever heard it. You blinked up at him, your vision clearing enough to see him sitting beside you, mask off, a look of genuine concern etched on his scarred face.

“What… What happened?” you croaked, throat dry.

“You decided to play the hero and forgot that even heroes need to eat, sleep, and maybe, just maybe, take a damn break once in a while.” His tone was half-scolding, half-worried.

You groaned, closing your eyes as the memories of the past few days—or maybe it had been weeks—came flooding back. The late nights, the skipped meals, the relentless pace you’d set for yourself. It had all caught up to you in the worst way possible.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, not really sure what else to say.

“Don’t apologize to me,” Wade said, his hand still resting on your shoulder, grounding you. “Apologize to yourself. You’re the one who’s been running yourself into the ground.”

You opened your eyes again, meeting his gaze. “I just… I didn’t want to let anyone down.”

“Yeah, well, you’re no good to anyone if you’re passed out on the floor. You ever think about that?” His words were blunt, but the concern in his eyes softened the blow.

You nodded slowly, the reality of the situation settling in. “I guess I haven’t been taking care of myself.”

“No kidding,” Wade muttered, but there was no malice in his tone. “Look, I get it. You’ve got a lot on your plate, and you’re amazing at what you do. But you’re not a machine, Y/N. You need to take care of yourself, or you won’t be able to take care of anyone else.”

You sighed, the weight of his words sinking in. He was right, of course. You’d been so focused on everyone else that you’d forgotten about your own needs.

“Okay,” you said after a moment. “I’ll try to do better.”

Wade’s expression softened, and he gave you a small, almost shy smile. “Good. ‘Cause I don’t want to have to carry your ass back to the infirmary again. You’re heavier than you look.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that, the sound surprising you with how light it felt. Wade grinned, clearly pleased with himself.

“Now,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “you’re gonna rest. No more training, no more classes, no more anything until you’ve gotten some actual sleep and eaten something that’s not a protein bar, got it?”

“Yes, sir,” you replied with mock seriousness, though you couldn’t help but feel touched by his concern.

“Damn right,” Wade said, crossing his arms over his chest. “And if I catch you skipping meals again, I’m personally gonna cook for you. And trust me, you don’t want that.”

You chuckled, the tension in your chest finally easing. “Deal.”

Wade nodded, satisfied, and for a moment, the two of you just sat there in comfortable silence. Eventually, though, he spoke again, his tone more serious.

“Y/N… you’re important to a lot of people around here. But you’re important to me, too. Don’t forget that, okay?”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, and you gave him a small, sincere smile. “I won’t. Thanks, Wade.”

He gave you a playful wink, then got up from his chair. “Get some rest, kiddo. I’ll be around if you need anything.”

As he walked out of the infirmary, you felt a warmth in your chest that hadn’t been there before. Wade Wilson might have been a lot of things—crude, sarcastic, and more than a little crazy—but he was also someone who cared. And as you drifted back to sleep, you knew you were in good hands.

That night, you slept better than you had in weeks. And when you woke up, you found a plate of breakfast on the nightstand with a note that read, “Rest up. We’ve got more ass-kicking to do later. – W.”

You smiled, knowing that with Wade around, you wouldn’t have to go through this alone.

[allforthegaymes]

Monster Jean Drabble

(AU where Jean stays with Palmetto instead of going to the trojans.)

Jean’s business major means he has probably the most amount of free time between the Monsters. And with Andrew’s refusal to let Jean join their night practices till he’s fully healed, he gets dropped off on Aaron most nights.

As much as the twins would deny it, he’s eerily similar to Andrew. He sits there quietly in the dorm, hunched over a textbook on the same desk that Andrew smokes on.

Jean cant help but watch from his spot in the kitchen, the blonde sits up to stretch, looks out the window, and then slouches back down to scribble down a couple more notes. Then repeats the same actions over and over till he finally slams his head down into his book with a loud groan.

Jean takes that as his opening, walking over to set a plate down in front of him. Not above snooping he lets himself stare down at his page of notes.

Its something to do with the muscle groups, theres a collection of clear sticky notes that Aaron has been laying over the model to try and label all the groups properly, before he rips it off and tries again. Memorizing where they are evidently.

Aaron looks up at him with an unimpressed look, but still reaches down to start scarfing down the sandwich Jean put in front of him.

He takes one pause to breathe halfway through the sandwich, “are you going to give me some freak insight on a horrible experience you had that can somehow be related to this?” When Jean doesn’t respond immediately, he continues, “Josten loves giving unprompted stories, but only when you dont want them”

Jean hums, “Josten has more life experiences than me evidently.”

Aaron nods his head, “somehow that man acts like hes never gone outside in his life, then one day you catch him sleep deprived at 2am and youre forced to hear about how to lie to the government in order to get a new social security card”

“I hate when he tells that one,” Jean shudders at the memory, reaching down to snag the empty plate back from Aaron after the man lifts it to lick it clean, “just wait for the deli freezer one, it takes an hour to get through”

He turns back towards the kitchen, dropping the plate into the dishwasher before doing his daily fridge check.

Andrew had recommended it to help him establish a schedule for himself and to feel like he’s contributing more to the apartment.

The blond man had effectively banned Jean from all chores, forcing Jean to establish his own habits within the apartment

So he found himself writing down every content of the fridge on one side of the whiteboard and a list of things they needed to buy from the store on the other side.

Another loud groan from Aaron in the other room, hands and face loudly hitting the textbook in front of him before he called out for Jean.

Jean sat on the other side of the table from him and read flashcards back and forth with him for the rest of the night.

By the time night practice ends and the trio manages to tiredly stumble home, theres a plate of snacks in the fridge and begrudging note, written on a clear sticky note, telling Andrew that Jean got him a new pint of cherry garcia ice cream.

Jean and Aaron are laying on the bean bags in the living room, both passed out around a pile of flashcards.

[liveyun]

𝐀 𝐏 𝐑 𝐈 𝐂 𝐈 𝐓 𝐘 — 𝟏

banner by @itaeewon 🌹

pairing. min yoongi x female reader (oc)

genre. arranged marriage au, angst, fluff, eventual smut

w. mention of parent death,overthinking ; anxiety, smoking, yoongi falls sick; he's confused; fluff?

wc. 10k 🤕

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The voices in his head refuse to shut up.

He's driving back home, but his wish to lie in bed has long faded. A bitter taste lies on his tongue for now, constantly feeling the bile rise up to his throat and making him want to puke out.

The wind flushing against his skin is freezing cold; but he doesn't think of the cold or the autumn wind now. Neither the smell of stir fried Kimchi nor the smell of fried chicken or the snacks and meals, for he's passing through the streets of Seoul right now, a starless, dark night.

But the smell of fried Kimchi pancakes seems to have paused his flurry of thoughts, if anything, the smell: the smell itself provides a small comfort to him. If it would've been some other day, he thinks, Jeongguk might've dragged him here and made him eat till they belched and slept with full, happy stomachs. It wasn't often that he used to visit the streets or pass by them; and neither was it often when he used to eat out. But if by any chance it'd be an outing, or a random pass-by the streets, with Jeongguk , he'd know that he's not gonna return home with an empty stomach.

That kid had a bottomless appetite and seeing how enthusiastic he was about his food made Yoongi feel full.

Yeah, he was invited to dinner meetings all the time, but the familiarity of a homely place like such where one didn't have to pretend, to be prideful or maintain fine airs about them, or couldn't burp or sigh at the taste of the delicious food, was not it. Or could wipe your runny nose at the spicy seasoning floating through your taste buds. Something as mundane as chewing felt like a sin in such places.

They're meant to be just for business. Nothing else.

But here, you can curse and swear with soju running raw in your blood, enjoy the local cuisine market on screen with elderly uncles; letting yourself free without any worries for tomorrow. A place where you weren't monitored all the time; or were expected to behave; a place like such, Yoongi realized, he cannot recall if he had recently visited.

A very strange sense of nostalgia washes over him.

A very weird one. He didn't know if such nostalgia was supposed to feel this intense, not when he has memories floating in front of his eyes.

He almost feels like he's seeing everything in front of him. He doesn't realize his pupils are shaking wildly because it's all the memories which are flooding in his system, the memories which he has already buried within the cobwebs of a dungeon in his heart and never wants to pull them out. His throat feels dry, and even a huge gulp of saliva doesn't help.

It's funny how tight situations can have variations too.

He feels the taste fresh in his mind, his mouth. The taste of flesh against his own mouth, rough and inexperienced, hot and needy. So hot, so raw, the breath and the bitterness of coffee his own tastebuds tasted as his warm muscle sneaked into the cavern, wet and warm, full of smokey eagerness: he had wished the night never to stop.

He did not want the night to break to dawn.

His first kiss.

Funny, because the younger him had drowned in the feeling, and the feelings, the raw actions were seemingly reciprocated with such urgency, that his own hands were restless, roaming all over where they could reach the soft, warm flesh,and how he wanted that time never to end. His veins were caught in a fire he burnt himself in, a burn which has left scars forever in their wake.

Once started, everything has its end destined in the pathway.

Daegu. A similar, very similar fast food street. In between the dark, damp walls where the rotten leftovers were left to the scavengers,were possibly dumped, the smell so pungent and foul, a place so dimly lit, but the flames inside his heart were bright enough to burn the whole place.

He hadn't thought of how terrible the place was, or how it grossed him out now. The memory of the place is hazy, just as fragments of burnt paper, but the feelings still coursed through his veins like hot iron. And so the blurred lights of the stalls merge with his sight now to his memory, and suddenly, it stops.

The nostalgia felt like the dust flying in a hot summer noon, like the loo, which everyone tries to avoid.

And the tightness in his chest isn't nearly as tight as it used to be all the times the memories flooded him.

He doesn't really like nostalgia. It is a feeling which always hangs within your memories, a strange emotion which always leaves a trail of melancholy behind it, no matter how good the nostalgia might feel to be. No: there's always a feeling, ratther, a question in your mind about what if. A desire to live a life based on the past, totally ignoring how good your present can be.

Humans are never really happy with whatever they own, because suddenly they know the worth after it's already too late. You can only mourn.

But not anymore, though.

" Yoongi? "

Broken from his trance, Yoongi looks to the source of the voice. Even before looking at the person he knows it's him through the smooth, steady voice. An unfairly proportioned, carved-by-the-god-who-took-her-time face, with curious, bright almond eyes almost covered with black, fluffy tresses of hair greets him.

Ah, yes, he has to crane his neck up to look at the man.

Kim Seokjin.

Kim Seokjin, his senior, and one of his bestest business partners one can ever wish for. A friend he always looked up at. (quite literally?) The CEO of Kim Corp., Seokjin might be a man better visioned, more experienced, more thorough, and even more free-minded than Yoongi is, with a sense of humor enough to make you wheeze till tears on a gloomy day, or even annoy you at your best. An unfairly handsome man who seemed to age backwards and maybe could accidentally be casted to any movie and you won't even catch him slip.

One of the bestest friends you could ask for.

Yoongi found himself smiling at him more widely than he was used to.

"Hyung. "

The older man's eyebrows shoot up at the sky. Sure, he has seen Yoongi smile, or try his hardest to feign to do so too, but oh boy. You don't see Min Yoongi grinning at you often, for why the grin seems a bit too genuine ( mind you, he was more than happy to see him smiling like that. A smile which he feels can brighten up anyone's day.) : a smile which somehow made the cheese tteokbokki resting in his tummy dance, but well...

For now, all he does is offer the plate of cheese corn dog, piping hot towards the grinning man, silently urging him to take one.

“I'm sure my eyes don't spread misinformation, but is this really Min Yoongi whom I'm seeing here at this street, standing here, letting the world look for free?”

"I definitely cannot tell you about your eyes, if you offer your corn dogs to every stranger you meet on the street...so I can't really tell if it's anything to you, though. ''

Yoongi shrugs, and Seokjin rolls his eyes, wrapping his free arm around Yoongi's smaller figure with a snort, leading him to the stalls nearby, but not before flooding him with a river of questions to Yoongi who occasionally answers one or two.

“Jokes aside, I can tell you have a lot to tell me. Hey, don't gimme that weird stare: that works only with your officials. Tell me more, and all that can happen above a nice platter of crispy fresh kimchijeon, ha, the aroma!”

And Yoongi had no chance but to comply. Above all, he was thankful to have such a jouvial company at such a night.

“You gotta be shitting my dick.”

Seokjin audibly chokes on the bite of his crispy pancake, and with a muffled cough, looks up at Yoongi. He again has one of his expressionless façade on his face, and Seokjin just maybe needs some time to process the why's and how's of questions popping in his head.

“I'd rather prefer a toilet.”

Yoongi says that almost nonchalantly, as if he's discussing how hot Seoul is. Unbelievable, but so Yoongi of him, he thinks. He shallows down his food, and presses his lips to a straight line, which screams that if you don't tell me right now...

and Yoongi knew that look way too well.

But however, again it surprises Yoongi himself again as all that he does is to shrug with a smug face and the man opposite him visibly frowns with his jaw open.

" Yoongi, my dude, you're getting married. You're getting married ! That too, all of a sudd— ”

Seokjin puts down his chopsticks to the plate, shaking his head as he gulps his food down. Shit, he was nearly choking on his rice..

“You- you're on the top among the powerful bachelors of South Korea, " Seokjin emphasizes with a click to his chopsticks, pointing it towards the man in the question.

“The last time I was told the stats, a certain Kim Seokjin was on the top, actually..”

Yoongi shrugs again, raising his brows with a playful smirk which only infuriates the man opposite to him. With the same energy, Yoongi clicks the chopsticks back, making a small circle in the air with the edge.

“It's you, actually..”

"Hey, that's not at all what I meant! "

Seokjin’s voice is full of excitement, pitched to the extent that Yoongi slightly flinches at the intensity. It's high enough for the customers beside their tables to peer curiously at them, some frowning or some chuckling. Seokjin visibly flushes, and Yoongi has his lips pressed to a thin line now. He's trying his hardest not to cackle, and the older man looks like he's trying to spot a place to bury his grave and sink in.

Seokjin quickly snatches away a napkin to divert the attention, clearing his throat and wiping his grease smeared mouth with the napkin.

And then, with a far more hushed tone, he continues.

"Wanting to know about your tea was a bluff bro, a bluff ! It's not often I see you in a casual sweatshirt and jeans. It's not often I see Min Yoongi in front of me snacking on Yachaejeon like the good ol times. I just wanted you to eat.

To spend time with me. To gain some weight because you're skinny. Because you don't eat. I just thought we'd be either heading home sober, catching up with what we've left behind or get wasted on a bar stall later at night, but you dropping a bomb like that wasn't it!"

“You're not calling my marriage 'your tea', are you, hyung?”

Yoongi's eyes are now narrowed to slits, almost like a cat’s when he's about to pounce on you, throwing daggers to Seokjin's way, who just nervously laughs, cheeks flushed a deep shade of red.

"Definitely not, my dongsaeng, haha.. All what I was saying......is, that if it hadn't been our fateful meeting, would I have ever even known about this te— errr, your marriage? "

Yoongi shugs again.

"Don't think so. Word spreads fast. Mr. Kim hangs out often with the old man, so even if not, I was sure to be expecting your cheeky ass at my wedding, though. "

Yoonngi casually takes a sip of his soda, swirling the can in his hands to fizz it up, but soon realizes it has been a grave mistake to have said this to Seokjin who looks so shocked, almost to the point he sees his large, curious eyes glossy with fake emotion.

"This just proved you don't care about your hyung anymore."

Seokjin croaks, wiping the non existent tears from his cheeks. He almost looks like a dejected hamster, Yoongi thinks, but keeps that to himself. Yoongi is about to respond, when Seokjin suddenly scoots closer to him, and almost squeaks. He was almost lured to think that Seokjin was offended, but the mischievous glint in his eyes tell otherwise.

"Tell me, have you seen them already or not? Or shared a text? "

"I met her in person today itself, some few hours ago. I kid you not, hyung, don't- don't stare at me like that,” he quickly retorts as he sees how Seokjin's eyes widen comically, a thick eyebrow arching, “Your eyes shall pop out of your sockets if you do so. "

But just as soon, Yoongi watches his expressions go devoid of any amusement, exactly as he sees him during the office hours. Like the CEO Kim everyone knows and shits in fear, too.

Still not as serious as that, because the glint still sparkles in his eyes and food is stuffed in mouth, making his cheeks squish out as he chews noisily.

" Tell me, what is she like? "

RECEIVED : 8:20 AM

seokjin hyung : Another day, another slay 🔥

wake up lazy cat

bruh

…

RECEIVED : 8:35 AM

hey plz check i sent some money to u. get some food ur skinny

SEEN 8:35 AM

me : it's not there

RECEIVED 8:40 AM

seokjin hyung : HA

HELL OF A MEAN GUY YOU'D CHECK ONLY FOR MONEY! 💔

SEEN 8:45 AM

me : i’m a businessman for a reason.

RECEIVED 8:45 AM

seokjin hyung : rude (⁠ ⁠；⁠∀⁠；⁠)

SEEN 8:58 AM

me : 👍

RECEIVED 8:58 AM

seokjin hyung : i hope u haven't forgotten abt our deal

SEEN 9:20 AM

?

RECEIVED 9:20 AM

seokjin hyung : what.

DELIVERED 10:00 AM

me : o yea i forgo

Yoongi makes a small tsk as his fingers accidentally tap on the send option, without him getting the chance to type the last "t".

And it somehow surprises him, because Seokjin, who replies within seconds, hasn't responded back, yet, and already two minutes have passed.. suddenly, a ping makes him look back to his screen and surprisingly the sound came from the talkie on his desk , now ringing continuously.

He receives the call, and is greeted by the crisp voice of his secretary. However, he's quick to recognise the distaste in his voice, too. But he doesn't press on it, because as far his voice is normally just as professional as he usually maintains, and is good at it. His voice is crisp, but Yoongi can read the irritation well-hidden behind it.

" Good morning, Mr. Min. May I let you know your schedule for today?”

“Well, Jeon, I suppose you know better?"

With a quick hum, Yoongi now sees the tabulated form of his schedule on his laptop screen. Cool, just as he thought it would be.

Another meeting with the designer group Jung's for the winter fashion week collaboration, which should end by almost 11:45, or max 12.

Okay. One excursion to the base point of d-7 duplex. Should stretch till 12:30, alright, another visit to the sketching department to see the collaboration work in progress, and the estimated time for visual sketches is done already? Impressive. Reviewing these would take his most time, as he is supposed to be commenting on them all before the designs are confirmed for the higher base project.

Maybe that's one of his favorite things to do, because he loves to see the raw skills float in front of him, the passion in their explanations, such young aspiring artists blooming with their artwork, and the creativity in their visualization of the ideas he could only admire as outfits.

He's glad to have such skilled visual artists as the roots of d-7,which he hopes he can express his gratitude once apart from a way other than just paying them wages..

Visual designing may seem easy, but there's really nothing in this world called easy.

Visual des-

“after years of applying and getting rejected, it was the last chance for me to be finally a visual designer for Valentino,which despite having many limitations,is the star of my dreams; only if I could attend the event at Singapore past this month, which on my presence, would approve me for so in the last streak. But past this month....”

His mind wanders back to your sweet face. That was random. The sadness and the helplessness laced within your voice made him close his eyes, and just again, he feels as if he's back to yesterday on the balcony at the Park's, with you standing beside him...

“That chick would be lured in here to design for us, without any further queries. "

The sudden, bitter voice makes him snap his eyes open, focusing back to the screen. He couldn't just..

What's this?

13:00

Lunch with Mr. Old Min.

His first instinct is to call Jeongguk right away, and ask whatever the fuck is this.

Does that old bastard think that any circumstance like this would make him desirable enough to be seen daily? He can barely stand him for a few minutes, now, for lunch? It's not like he actually has ever maintained the ‘ideal’ father status ever even now or back when Yoongi was a kid.

Ha.

And for what, prey? If it's about any bullshit he spoke about yesterday, he wasn't sure if he could bear it anymore.

Yoongi wasn't sure if his suspicions were actually correct as he feels like a man like him would have nothing to talk about but that, about how this marriage is a step towards his son's future, but he knows better.

It's all business to the old man.

He rubs his eyes, dejectedly. This is just the beginning of the day, and woah, what a start.

Well, he had no other options but just so exhale and say fuck it all, and start the day.

No matter how hard he tries to ignore the shrill, annoying voice of the lady in charge presenting the presentation, a draft of the outfits designed inspired by the renaissance, he cannot help it. He doesn't even know how and why are the sparkling elements added to the outfits relevant to the era where everything designed was a result of prolonged, deep thinking. When people were evolving.

Elegance and sophistication were a close observation, but chic was not the style how Renaissance was based on. And this lady is trying her best to explain otherwise, saying that maybe these are inspired but they as well should have the cliche of the 21st century as well, as Yoongi thinks that it's not at all a good idea.

Blending trends with the original idea might not be the best out there, especially when it feels like the outfit design looks rather frumpish.

The lady in charge is simply groveling to win hearts but by the bored looks, Yoongi knows that many are thinking similar to what he is. Yoongi was rather impressed at how fast the design was finished earlier in the day, but now he feels that maybe it was all in vain. There's a small spark of hope inside him which says that maybe the other team has a better idea than this, and let time be no further wasted in this experiment.

It could've been, only if the theme was different.

He tries to keep a straight face, maintaining his professionalism with a rigid posture. A quick peek all over the conference room convinces him just exactly that his thoughts match with everyone else in this room, especially the head of the illustration team, whom he's acquainted with. Jung Hoseok. Everyone else in this room is at least trying to suffice the bland explanations, but he's not at all even trying. He looks pissed, his eyes shooting such criminal offensive side eye glances that Yoongi almost wishes to laugh, but he knows better.

A glance to Jeongguk, and he sees the poor kid struggle to keep himself from frowning, hard. Jeongguk is one of the most creative people he has ever seen, and he often wonders why he is not putting his skills at the right place, rather than having a major in business and being in that field.

To be the jack of all trades is hard, but Jeongguk excels them all.

Besides, most of today's schedules were totally messed up, and the meetings one after one were delayed for one reason or another. It's nearly 12:30, he notices by the giant wall clock above the whiteboard. The toe of his left shoe taps slightly to the floor with a rhythm, getting roasted second by second by the never ending speech.

He only wishes if the main points were jotted down here..

“Painters like Michelangelo, made it clear with the carving of—”

“ It would be much appreciated if the real point is explained, rather than just beating around the bush, Miss Choi. Irrelevance is highly avoided. ”

Hoseok’s raspy voice takes over the shrill voice of the lady who visibly is embarrassed, too flustered to gather the correct words to speak. Yoongi is somewhat thankful that someone finally spoke up, but he feels a tad bit bad for the girl : her idea was nice, and rather creative, just not fitting the winter nor the theme actually fit for the week or the topic. Or is it actually the nervousness which seems to creep out from her to him making him feel bad for her, because a few moments ago, Yoongi himself was close to losing it all.

His words have her fumbling with her files, something Yoongi knows is because of fear.

His gaze meets her nervous ones right to the opposite end of the table, and he sees defeat in them right in the moment he sees the pupils shake. He's been in this field for way too long to understand that helplessness, that dejection.

He sees her step back with a bow, mumbling something which he couldn't hear. She nods lightly, and sweeps back to her destined place.

Yoongi silently wishes if she could fight back for herself. If she could point out the valid information, but seems like she wasn't prepared for that. She wasn't prepared to be interrupted, too.

And so it's not really surprising when he notices the whole conference room having a thick air of tension and Yoongi does not have to assume anything. The members of the Illustration team are visibly intimidated by their head, who's now tonguing the inside of his cheeks, eyebrows furrowed in deep concentration.

Yoongi knows that the prompt response has been shit from his side— he doesn't even know who's to blame now.

Maybe he needs to speak up.

“Rather strange for the total prompt, but overall, better than what has been used for add ons, ” Yoongi begins, attracting the attention of the whole team, and everyone present seems to be a bit more attentive, a bit better with their posture, including Hoseok as well, whose eyes are on him.

All eyes are on him.

Normally, or even in a parallel universe, or him some ten years ago would've freaked out, fidgeted, squirmed on his seat- but now he barely feels the effect on him. It's all a daily basis thing, all calculating eyes on you and all what you're left behind is to just think, think and think about what meaning they could possibly hold behind them. Nervousness and fear flooding in your veins you're left with sweaty palms and a quivering mind, but for Yoongi, he was used to it all.

He does not care now.

“ Mr. Min, I think better— ”

Hoseok begins but Yoongi knows what he's about to speak on. He wishes the prompt to be given to Yoongi’s department. Yoongi wishes otherwise, because just because of a mismatch of prompts, he doesn't want any more dilemma to choose— the Jung team is overall flooded with skill, and he wishes them to bloom; he knows that this batch was particularly picked for the newcomers who are freshly picked from the team of art and management resources. D-7 are a group of professionals, but Jung Team are known to be ametures.

He scrolls mindlessly through the internet, but maybe not too mindlessly.

And so he raises a palm to stop the younger man speaking, and thinks it is rather bold of him to quirk a brow in return. Well yes, maybe he wasn't used to being questioned after that, so. Maybe he wasn't used to it all.

“ I think a few modifications need to be done at some point, otherwise it's all good. ”

He sees Hoseok's jaw drop slightly. He sees all the other members present in the room having their eyes widened, including the girl who was just presenting— What did they expect? Yoongi watched the gears in their brain work quickly, and by the time Yoongi spun the paperweight in his fingers, he blinked at Jeongguk, and the younger quickly took the initiative.

Funny, he thinks, because never in these ten years had Yoongi ever been so in place with an assistant, and it has been seven years since Jeongguk has been his assistant. Never had he ever talked about how a blink, not even a nod could signal him to do the deed of ending for the day.

Well, Jeongguk knows him just as he knows Jeongguk, he thinks. Maybe, maybe it's not vice versa to this point.

Subconsciously, his lips quirk upwards at the sight of the younger getting up, fixing his coat.

“ I think we should wrap up for the day, everyone. ”

His voice, professional as ever, echoes in the room and suddenly everyone's business like manners breaks, relaxing in their seats. Yoongi too, let out a breath he didn't know he was holding onto.

Jeongguk’s round eyes meet his own, and Yoongi nods, slowly watching the members leave one by one, a small hum of conversation peeking in between them all. It's rather comfortable , he thinks. Yoongi relaxes back in his seat, loosening up his tie knowing well that his schedule for the day has ended. Well, not really—

“ It was gracious of you, hyung. ''

his eyes flick through to see Hoseok’s curious eyes set on him, and in his peripheral vision can see Jeongguk cock a brow at him, somewhat questioning like. Hoseok’s cold and competent demeanor has been shed off totally, as his child-like countenance holds surprise towards him.

“ That was the least I could do, Hoba. ”

Yoongi replies with a short hum, and he knows that the human bunny must have his eyes jumping out of his sockets to hear him talking to someone informally, something which doesn't happen often in the office premises. Hoseok’s face blooms in a heart shaped smile, his whole soul brightening up. That's a contagious smile.

He hears a sound of surprise from Jeongguk, on turning to him. He assumes that he's great at hiding that too, because he quickly clears up his throat and nods. Yoongi smiles a bit at him, and upon collecting the files, the three men head out for the rest of the day.

Yoongi is trying his best to not just fucking slam the plate of roasted shrimp on this man’s face.

He wishes absolutely nothing but a comfortable bed because his back hurts from sitting in such a straight posture for hours, not even having the time to stretch his aching limbs. Not to mention this uncomfortable suit which was once comfortable, but he's been wearing it since the morning— is he to blame?

oof, a part of him wished to roam nakey nakey in his home, but that..eh, cannot be.

He totally cannot ignore how fancy this place is, and he can see the whole Seoul from the large, spacious windows. Rooftop restaurants usually feel nice with a vibe so free and open, but not in front of this man who makes him want to deliver straight punches on his face and dislocate his jaw. The younger him was forced to oblige by his father's commands, but the him now doesn't see why can't he just fucking trash this old man till he—

He bites back the anger rising up to his throat. It's not often his father wishes to “ see him ” and be polite all of a sudden, not when it's because of him Yoongi has a bitter time managing something he didn't wish to even engage in. But maybe he has long gone through the stages of grief and acceptance has been his companion, so he has to grit his teeth the hardest to tolerate it all. He has seen it all. He has endured it all. Does he still have to?

“ Why aren't you eating, son? ” Oh, right. You wanted me to be here just to eat.

“ I’m not hungry. ”

Yoongi tries, or desperately hopes his lie isn't blatantly obvious, because he knows his tummy has been rumbling for an hour or so, but there's no way he'd be dining with this man. Not only does he hate how this old man has no etiquettes, chewing loudly or arguing with a damn waiter for a toothpick, he also hates his presence in common.

If he knows Yoongi well, Yoongi knows him just as well too, to know that this is just an excuse and he wishes to do something else, and that's enough to silence down his hunger.

“ Have you chosen any destination for the wedding as of yet?”

I knew it. Yoongi knows how selfish this man can be, and for him this question doesn't make any literal sense. He just met you yesterday, and there's no way..he expects Yoongi to move so fast, like that. What does he think he's in, 526 AD?

“ No. ”

Yoongi found himself speaking before he could think properly, seeing the old man in front of him wipe his mouth and cock a brow. Alright, if he's trying to communicate silently.. he guesses time has taught him better. To keep this non permeable layer on the top of his persona especially infront of this man, he knows he does it well. He won't utter a single word, because for the sake of fuck, he just saved your number in his phone a few hours ago! You cannot just expect him to do anything related to the marriage so quick, especially when his father's initiative had him tossing around his bed sleeplessly the whole night.

He would not let him use his fiancee for the profit of his own company. It's fucked up, not only in a single way but more than one. He's not much of a family guy, but marriage cannot be one sided- and for you, maybe he's lowering himself down enough to try and be a good guy for you, but does this old man ever even think of something which isn't business?

“ Do you not think time’s enough? You were told about the marriage a week ago already, ”

the man's voice has annoyance laced within, and Yoongi nearly snorts at his audacity.

“ Is it your wedding or mine, father? ”

“ You need to make it quick, ”

his retort comes back, and Yoongi can't help but feel satisfied at his growing anger. He knows to play the game, because this old man has been acting as if it's his own marriage. First, he gives you no other options and keeps on his emotional blackmail of never getting a partner who has been in his life for more than a year, second, for how it can benefit the Min family as the only heir.

Yoongi has long ago swept away the anger suppressing the guilt of his own mother being in his life for less than his teenage years, but he's tired. He kept on running forward without noticing how much this old man hurt him, but there has to be a time where you need to stand up. Maybe not for yourself, but for people who're soon going to be a part of your life. It's not always about yourself, but people you care about.

Yoongi found it ridiculous. Marriage just to make kids and raise them up like a handful of peas let out in a open windowsill. Just to make kids. And even possibly, money.

Yoongi found the idea suffocating at first. His own parents’ failed marriage had a big contribution in his way of thinking how arranged marriage can also be a forced marriage if the goal is only to lengthen the generation, not at all thinking that the parents involved are also humans. Humans with feelings cannot be forced to live a life destined to be forever with expectations, which could often either lead to success or failures. But to Yoongi, success in lives like these were forced failures masked with the stench of cash to make them look lavish.

So the thought of making it "quick" is enough to make him hiss in irritation. His eyes are now narrowed to slits towards the old man, anger slowly making its way to fog his already hunger ridden brain..

“ Why. ”

“ I've already told you, son. ”

“ What, Yeseul isn't talented enough as you promised she was to the team? ”

Yoongi tongues the inside of his cheek, visibly watching the old man try his hardest not to crumble down to flames. Comically, one would see smoke coming out of his ears. It makes Yoongi snorts out a humorless snort.

“ It's none of your business, do you get that? ”

The old man nears slightly with his neck down, eyes set firmly on Yoongi. As a child, the stare used to scare him the fuck out of his balls, but now this stare is enough to make him stifle a laugh. The manipulative stare which he expects everyone to become his puppet with. Well, I just hit his nerve.

“ My wedding, and none of my buisness, you say? ”

“There are other ways I can ask her to, I'm just trying to make it seem well ordered. ”

Again he goes. The same manipulative tone. If he thinks that his position can get him everything, maybe even if his arms reach longer than Yoongi’s imagination do, but Yoongi knows it well that he's all bark but a rare bite.

He would not let this happen. He knows his father is a corrupt man, who uses unfair means in his business. This is why D-7 is owned solely by Yoongi, who was once under partnership with his father. Yoongi has totally bought all the shares, making D-7 go public and him being the biggest investor. Thrusting in people not eligible enough to be in art, his father had already infected the industry more than enough, and now he wouldn't absolutely let the small shares marking the small partnership to the old man rise up.

“ Genuinely asking you. You could've opted any other way you're insinuating, but why this, out of many? ”

Not a pretence, but out of pure curiosity. He may as well as think this to be many reasons why he can bother Yoongi, but the pricking question hanging in the margin of the sword, that the danger lies just in the end.

Nepotism can be buried by the strength of dollars, but in some cases revolting unscrupulous businessmen like him, he knows that this would be a hot topic for the media. And the mere thinking of using someone so innocent and dragging to this pit of hell is honestly enough for him to throw up. You're already a hell of a talented designer, and if he wishes to invest your designs under the name of his good for nothing wife to whoosh up the sales, he'd rather not marry you.

That's.. a different thing now, isn't it?

His father keeps quiet. Yoongi feels the burn of his stare digging holes in his skull, however, lets out a deep laugh at the end.

“I guess you're naive enough to not know how profitable it can be for both : her, you, and even me.”

“ At least I know for Yeseul, it is not. ”

“ She's your mother,”

Stepmother, he almost wishes to hiss the word out, but saying it out loud would definitely make bile rise up to his mouth, because his already starving self cannot physically bear any more stress than already he has been carrying around. He's not ashamed to say that his stepmother is younger than Yoongi himself, and an absolute gold digger, who he doubts even has a degree of graduation.

Such an ostentatious person gets often compared to Mrs. Min, his mother by all the rising gossip every single day. Yoongi closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, knowing that this conversation would rather have such wounds pricked up inside his heart which would have him bleeding longer than he could bear.

“ No. ”

He sees the old man flare his nostrils in anger, kissing his teeth: and Yoongi doesn't even feel a bit sorry for it. It is what it is. And he would not make any fuss about it. He'd rather call that woman his sister than his mother, and seriously? Yoongi doesn't give two flying fucks about who she is. Yesterday the discussion didn't go too well, and he felt a lot more bothered than his manifest could muster, but he knows that his father's current wife, Yeseul, has no skill or whatsoever to be the president of the corporation his father owns. It is what it is.

And not even an exaggeration, he knows that it's all the glitters and gold which attracts her to this sophisticated man; it wouldn't be long time from now when he'd be left again with a balding head and an empty bank account.

Someone younger than Yoongi himself and he wants to call them his parent.

Ha.

And that's the reason why the old man wishes to hire ____ to work under him, but in the end the credits would go to Yeseul, because apparently that woman had promised his team to be a better visualization designer.

He wants Yoongi to marry you, so that the hiring would seem rather natural, and Yoongi thinks that it would only drag you more to the mud of the industry and gossip, which he does not want.

“ More like my junior. ”

Yoongi cocks his brow, sipping some water from the glass nearby his wrist.

“ Remember that she's my wife. My legal wife, and your mother. ”

A bitter scoff escapes Yoongi, his nostrils flaring at his sentence as he peers down to his empty plate.

“ She is not my mother. ”

Yoongi makes sure he stresses on the word not, dragging out each syllable with a rough taste on his tongue. He can tolerate many things, but not the absence of his mother, which has left a gaping, open dent in his soul forever. The only gentle presence he ever had in his growing years was her, the only person he called his family, that too, is no longer present with you.. he could feel his stomach churn with anger.

He had a single mother. And though she was no longer with him, he does not consider anyone else to be in the same position as his mother. A mother who raised him up, sacrificing everything for him. Despite having another parent, him, he never even had his shadow touch any of them. He feels anger totally cloud his mind, now that the gentle touch of your soul had touched him, he was about to lose it all.

“ I fucking dare you to even lay a finger on ___, her you fucking stink. I’ll make sure that no amount of money can heal you afterwards.” Yoongi growls loudly, raising a sweaty palm up and ordering for the bill.

Yoongi is out of his head, and he totally has lost his sense of rationality. Triggering the pain of his dead mother along with barrelling his fiancee to this topic makes him a person he doesn't know yet. Yoongi is done with this conversation, this sick conversation about his morally grey buisness.

And he totally misses the somewhat shocked and fearful, agape mouth of the old man in front of him as Yoongi sweeps his coat out of the headrest after paying and marches out of the venue without taking a look back. his head is throbbing with pain and stomach is wild with ugly sensations.

He wishes to take this slow, talk to you more and atleast befriend you and be comfortable before any preparations, but this situation.. he doesn't fear his father anymore, but. It's you. It's you who he fears because of the industry, because of the dirt which smears every part of him. He's used to it, he had to make himself so, but he cannot let someone as pure as you be contaminated.

Once again it's all a haze infront of his eyes. The strong wind hitting his face from the open car window does nothing to soothe his burning thoughts, and neither does the low humming of music in the radio. It all feels a blur.

He remembers not much, or rather forces himself not to. After that, eh, meeting with that old man, the only thing he knew was to call Jeongguk and ask him to clear all his schedules for the day.

The voice from the other side sounded very concerned, but Yoongi is thankful he only asked whether he's alright and let the topic drop without dragging it much. He just hopes that Jeongguk understands. And then he's straight up driving somewhere he doesn't know where, but he's tired. Mentally, physically, and every way possible.

He's tired of thinking so much. He's so tired he totally missed the constant buzzing of his phone on the center console.

Little does he know that not receiving his calls has sent Seokjin to hayware.

All what he knows are the words, the flashes of memories which float infront of his eyes and the constant struggle to keep himself as where he is and not getting lost in the moment, to fall back within the memories. The constant ache in his head which replays your voice saying, “ I don't ” and the picture of your sweet face. The constant scowl he remembers of his father saying he wants him to marry you only for his own profit.

Did you really mean to sacrifice your passion for a stupid marriage?

His grip on the steering wheel is so tight, his knuckles have turned white. What if the old man approaches you and lures you to work for him? Yeah, of course for an outsider that business would look so organized, so well planned, but only people like Yoongi know the truth.

He's the sweetest to anyone who doesn't know him well. Hell, even he believes that the woman he married might not know him any better. He could sell your soul to anyone in front of you with you being totally oblivious.

All that glitters isn't gold.

He knows your passion for art even if he doesn't know you. He knows that maybe you'd be willing enough to work for that man, but would that be okay if that woman, Yeseul takes all the credits and you've lost your deserved recognition? Would you be able to manage to be afloat on the dirty smear of the industry without blaming yourself?

Would you hate him? He won't listen to shit. An artist has every rights to be credited and if it's snatched away by every means, he really wonders if you'd be alright with it. Alright with the theft. He doesn't gives a single fuck about the ever shitting media who just needs a topic to whisk on untill it's shit. He just cares about you.

Wait..

Does he—?

But one thing he already knows is that the news of his marriage would be enough of a bonfire starter.

He's now leaning on his car, aching limbs begging to have a seat but the tension in his spine doesn't budge.

Even if he had promised himself, he finds himself slipping down his mask, each time the memories of his happy self, his young happy self with his mother comes to his mind and the realization floats that he cannot rewind those memories any more. She's no longer with him.

All he knows is the burning sensation of nicotine filling his lungs all down to his toes, and the puff of smoke released out releases his tension, even by an inch if that is, too. He breathes out the smoke through his nostrils, fidgeting with the small silver lighter in his hand. He knows that it's a shitty, wrong way to cope up with anxiety , although his healing nails thank him for letting them be.

But at least the cigarette does not tell you anything. It does what it's supposed to do, what it's meant to do, what it's made to do, and dies.

So much like a human.

The park he's standing in the corner of is noisy, but somewhat tolerable. The warm air is making him feel stuffy, and the cool place has the least effect on him. The place feels..nice. He blinks twice, feeling his eyes burn with the hot weather, too.

Somehow his mind convicts back to you.

And somehow, knowing very well that his father's company is filled with back stabbers.. somehow if the information is leaked abroad, would you be alright?

God fucking damn it. Why is he thinking about all these when you're possibly oblivious and thinking of your marriage?

What are you doing now?

How are you?

How did your day go?

Why would you want to marry a guy like him?

All these thoughts are totally enough to make him squirm. Why does he care? He just met you yesterday. He knows not much except some things, but still, the pull to just know about you is eating him up right now. It's just crazy how the thought of you not liking him irks him a Lot, like, a Lot.

Shifting the cigarette to his left hand, he reaches to get his phone from the console. His throat feels dry as fuck, almost feeling as if it'd crack up.

He'd kill for a bottle of water, but well, even swallowing his saliva feels like a mountain breaking down on him. It's been a long time since he checked on his phone other than calling his secretary. He should've checked, because the upcoming projects do have connections to files which only he has access to. Well.

.. alright, there's a spam email.

…..next, a Google chrome updat—

…..?

…

[ Seokjin Hyung : 95 missed calls ]

[ Seokjin Hyung : 350+ unread messages ]

Yoongi felt a sweat bead run down his temple.

He totally forgot about the fact that he was supposed to meet Seokjin nearly an hour ago, and when he sees the endless thread of texts, he almost feels like tearing up.

The poor man had texted him since 12:30 asking if his schedule is light enough for their meeting, or he'd meet him some other day. The texts get vigorous after each text, angry emojis and random keyboard smashes asking him about his condition. The guilt is slowly building in his lower tummy to know how considerate his friend is, and how ignorant he was to him.

They had a deal about visiting the local mall and hitting the game zone, but..

He wishes to call him, so bad. His throat is running dry, and the throb of his head deepens, more. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he desperately wishes he had the courage to call him and talk, and maybe actually share his problems, but he knows Seokjin would be so mad… not that it's like Seokjin is a person who's out of control, but as a caring friend, he sometimes gets a bit overactive.

He knows Seokjin would be the only person who'd understand him better than anyone else, but maybe calling him after he's cooled down would be the best option. He knows Seokjin isn't that level headed, but he deserves an explanation, and maybe he isn't ready right now.

And so he leaves the texts as they are, texting back a single “i’ll call u back asap”, and navigates to his contact list. He's contemplating hard, right now. The “ favorite ” starred contacts stare at him, Seokjin, Jeongguk, Taehyung, and then..yours. His fingers hover over Seokjin’s for a while, and then, over yours.

Maybe it's not the right option to call you. Nope, not at all. Why would he even think that? You two aren't even friends. Not when he doesn't know if you're free enough to talk to him, not when he doesn't know if his call would be a disturbance.

Not when he feels like his call would annoy you. He shouldn't, because it's been just a day you've shared numbers, and wouldn't it be too early to call and just ask,“Hey, whatcha doing? ” Nah, that would be way too awkward. Way too—

“ Mr. Min? ”

A soft voice chirps beside him, knocking out all the air out of his lungs. He has never been this reactive to a voice, blame his fucked out state. He catches himself turning immediately to the source of the voice, arms beating flat against his windowsill, gasping.

Wildflowers.

He's met with a faint smell of honey, and jasmine, and the mixed smell of wildflower bouquet that greets him, the cluster of yellow and small lavender flowers resting with the lush greenery among them. His brows furrowed slightly at how a bouquet of flowers is what he sees in the beginning rather than the voice, but a small moment of realization takes place when he sees the person hiding behind the gigantic bouquet.

“ Fuck. ”

He doesn't notice how a cold breeze caresses his flushed, hot skin, as a pair of warm, doe eyes stare up at him.

You.

“ ____? ”

“ Did I scare you off? ”

Your lips quirk upwards, a hard attempt to hold back your giggles to see how flustered he looks, surprised till the extent you'd say, if comically, he looks like a cat caught playing with boxes at midnight with his fur sticking up in all the directions, wide eyed and mouth agape.

His eyes are still wide when he relaxes visibly in your presence, sighing down with a smile.

The faint smell of tobacco greets you and subconsciously scrunch up your nose. You're not a big fan of cigarettes, and maybe it's your instinct to shove away the smell. You didn't want to assume too much, but maybe you did get the bad boy vibes from this man. So his smoking didn’t really phase you as much as it should've.

Light beige shirt with rolled up sleeves and tailored pants. Pretty, flowy black hair parted on forehead, and pale skin flushed with a sheen layer of sweat. He looks really..handsome but also very adorable with those flushed cheeks, but also, so..tired at the same time.

His eyes scream for rest.

Out of so many people, you have to admit it. Min Yoongi was the least of your expectations. A simple walk from your favourite florist to back home, there's a lovely little park, where you often visit for giggles and laughs, and honestly speaking, you couldn't even imagine Yoongi standing there, even if it was in a far corner.

You didn't really wish to say that, but a La Rose Noiré standing in the corner had actually attracted more attention than he'd even ever intended to. Would that be a co-incidence to say that he didn't leave your mind even if he had physically left your home hours ago, and now that he's standing in front of you?

His eyes lack the glint they had yesterday. His shoulders seem unfairly tensed, even if his posture is leaned back. You don't know him, yet, but there's a certain hue of coldness around his shoulders, and all the calculating gazes and stares he gave you yesterday, you somehow found the way to nudge into the warmer side of him, or so you assume.

He doesn't seem to be the most affectionate of a person, or so you assume, again. The internet, irrespective of their own words, never fails to regard him to be made up of stone. Is that anything new, though? you beg to differ. His quick consideration of your whole situation despite being demanding for both of you assured you that this man wasn't the man stealing the headlines and trends on twitter. Even if that was the bare minimum, you appreciate it.

“ I— I just didn't expect you here. ”

His words lag behind with a flurry of coughs and furrowed brows, and you see him shuffling his phone back to his pocket, crushing his cigarette underneath his shiny black shoes meanwhile. He doesn’t seem too well, you see.

His skin is paler than usual, and his silky hair slightly unruly, some strands sticking to his forehead. His skin seems to be a bit more flushed, too. He seems uncomfortable in general, and he covers his mouth to sniffle back a sneeze.

“ Mr. Min, are you not well? ”

No verbal response comes back, but a quirk of brows is enough to answer you. So unreadable, you think. But it does not take rocket science to figure out, does it? Without thinking twice, your palms reach up to his slightly sweaty forehead.

You have to tip toe a bit to reach up to him, but that's alright. Was your palm too cool or his skin burning that it felt like his forehead was a preheated yok?

No, you realize.

“ Mr. Min, you're burning up! ”

Not much of a response comes back, but his eyebrows simply shoot up a bit more, and a bit more coughs which seems to have flushed his face, even more.

He grunts something in response but you miss it, and your palm cupping his warm (and surprisingly soft ) cheek, the action catching him and you both off guard. His eyes widen and so do yours, feeling a heat wave rush up to your face. He coughs, and you immediately remove your hands from his cheek, your palm tingling faintly afterwards. And maybe your whole body too, with embarrassment.

Dear god.

You didn't really mean anything….er. Having the habit of being a bit too affectionate to your siblings would actually make you slip accidentally, you couldn't even imagine. Especially when it's..your fiance.

“ S-sorry. ”

You cringe inwardly at how fucking small you sound, especially hating the stutter that came with it. You wish the earth could suck you up before this conversation advances, right here and right now. It was an accidental touch, a touch which was more instinctive than intentional, yet you do feel that fuzz in your stomach, the fuzz which makes your heart skip miles.

He gives you a small head shake, rubbing his neck with his hands, not before muttering out an it's okay.

You feel relieved a bit, knowing that at least you didn't creep Yoongi out. Or who knows. That undecipherable gaze, those dark brown pupils and that neutral expression. You cannot really say what's going inside his head, and you can only pray otherwise. Oh dear..

Only if you had known Yoongi, you'd have known the effect of your cool touch on the poor guy. Of course you'd miss how Yoongi's heart felt like it's up to his mouth, trying to jump off it's way out to you.

Fuck, what was happening with him?

( literally ).

“ Mr. Min, you need to get some rest. Your.. your fever’s quite intense. ”

You see him clear his throat, running a big hand through his ruffly hair. He nods with a sigh, and you actually notice how pale he looks. He looks disturbed, sick and tired all together, and you suddenly ponder how much and what actually happened to him to be this stressed, but you don't whip on it.

“ Have you eaten? ”

Even if he was already pale, you see color draining down from his face even more, almost as if he himself was yeeted to a moment of epiphany. He wets his lips with his tongue, shaking his head, silently eyeing you for your reaction.

He has not eaten anything as well.

“ Mr. Min, make a call to your home, right now. To whoever is waiting for you. ”

His face morphs to a baffled expression, and you have to think that this was the only expression he has clearly shown you today. But whatever it is. You nod as a confirmation, confusing him even further. As you were told, his father and he live alone separately, but there has to be someone back home, right ?

“ Mrs. Kang…my caretaker would be present at my house, but..why? "

His voice seems way too groggy for his own good, and you can't help but pinch your eyebrows in concern. It seems that even talking is taking a lot of effort for him.

“ Call her, and let her know you won't be home tonight. ”

You have to bite your inner cheek to process how the word home sounds when you say that out loud, because another expression breaks out on Yoongi’s face : his lips part in a slight pout, asking a silent explanation from you. Another small adorable expression.

You bite your lips to cease the smile wanting to break free to see this man so cute that you have to stop yourself from giving in and squishing his cheeks. Who'd know that such an intimidating guy such as himself would be a small, steamed mandu when confused?

Well, at least you didn't. Dear me, he's way too adorable for his own good.

That would be inappropriate. Not after whatever you’ve just done.

Mentally preparing yourself once again, you advance just a bit more closer to him, pretending to offer him the bouquet in your hands.

“ Because you'd be resting at my house today, Mr. Min. ”

a/n : hello and i hope you enjoyed reading the first chapter of apricity 🤪 of course, this is an all new, re-written chapter which i finished in a single day after four months of procrastination 💪🏽🤕

all sorts of feedbacks are always welcome, and, i’m always open for an ask or a text hehe ;D

[posletsvet]

I had another one of those thoughts that are bordering on slightly delusional.

Chances are it's already been pointed out by someone before me, but. How come Geto's body reacting to Gojo calling out to him was 'a first' for Kenjaku? Did they only ever choose those who happened to have no loved ones that would want their person back? But we have Itadori's parents, and they deeply loved each other and didn't stop loving till the very end. Is the bond between Satoru and Suguru really so strong as to surpass the one between a happily married couple? And then it sort of struck me that perhaps it's the first time Kenjaku so openly and directly violates their host body's will.

I like to entertain the thought that Kenjaku is not at all detached from human connections and emotion. While they are capable of seperating their conscious from the experience that comes along with the body they're inhabiting, this experience is still an intrinsic part of that body. All romanticization aside, one's personality is dictated by one's physiology. Our feelings are something biological, a network of interconnected structures and chemical levels within our bodies. Who we are is engraved upon our hearts, in a literal sense. To quote Kenjaku themself, 'The body is the soul, and the soul the body'. If it were otherwise, they probably wouldn't be able to mimic various people's personalities so accurately and convincingly as to fool their closest friends and family.

So maybe Kenjaku does feel their host's lingering emotions and is to some degree influenced by its impulses. Maybe while in Kaori's body they did feel the love that remained in her for Jin, did feel the body's budding affection towards a child it gave birth to, did have some maternal instinct. But knowing full well those feelings are but a product of their current body, I imagine they have a far better grasp on them, too, and treat them as tools at their disposal, just sometimes indulging in what the body tells them to do. In Kaori's case, I think they could afford to go with the flow more. They felt the body's urges and responded by acting upon them -- because why not? They're an epitome of 'mess around and find out'.

With them taking over Geto's body, it's different. They're no longer eminence grise operating from the shadows, they've entered the game they'd been orchestrating for so long. Now they're truly proactive, and no longer being under disguise they're more themself than ever, too. And it directly contradicts with the person Geto is (or was). We do not yet know what Kenjaku's true intentions are, but it's unlikely they align with what Geto would want to put his mind to.

And Geto never wanted to do any harm to Gojo. In those ten years, never once did he make a move directly against him. Meanwhile it's an inherent part of Kenjaku's plans. So when it comes to it, Geto's very nature, those tiny glimpses of him still lingering somewhere within his body, cries out against it.

Caring for people around him was Geto's defining trait, and his body still carries those attachments, that love. Responding to Gojo is an instinct his flesh still remembers. Trying to protect him is engraved upon Geto's muscle memory. Kenjaku's actions are essentially at odds with all that, so that puts the body and the soul in discord -- and they clash eventually, getting out a reaction from otherwise dormant and inanimate flesh. No wonder Kenjaku calls that poetic.

[imperial-agent]

Out of pure curiosity, what do you think is missing from Halsin's story?

after writing it all down, i realized it's not just what's missing but also what's broken, inconsistent and shallow about Halsin, hopefully that still answers your question :)

his backstory in the underdark comes out of nowhere and is never again brought up!! it is, in fact, brushed off as just some silly goofy thing that happened to him once!! hihi haha i was a sex slave for two years. im so embarrased to tell you this, tav haha anyways how about round two with the twins ??? while im standing speechless mouth agape struggling to process the story he just told me. to say it was written and handled poorly is putting it mildly

he is shown to be a shrewd person (with his francesca choice for the new archdruid back in emerald grove) so expand on that! show that he's more than just a pile of muscles! show me he's cunning and has bite! there's so much political intrigue in act 3, have him comment on it, on gortash's plan, have Halsin compare it to some other people/events that happened in the past and how they mirror what's currently happening in baldur's gate, my dude is 3 50, he's seen some shit im sure, even living in the forest the news would reach him so no excuses

he's so closely tied to act 2 i have no clue why he's locked off as a companion till you find daniel (which on my first playthrough was just before attack on moonrise, that almost made my blood boil bc not even 2 hours later orin snatched him up??? and i was like?? ok?? she took who? i barely know the guy?). i think he's too tight-lipped about what happened all those years ago with the shadowcurse and i would have loved to hear more about it (like the implication of him killing isobel and the conflict with the thorms)

I need him to be the biology/nature expert equivalent to Gale with his weave expertise. he should have more to say about the worms!! he should be studying you under the microscope the entire game!!!! literally bring back all the missing EA halsin dialogue!! i should be able to drag his ass into the underdark!!! I WANT HIS KNOWLEDGE! I WANT IT TO BRING BACK BAD MEMORIES! expand on drows and their culture in this game by using halsin as the conduit that tells you everything he learned from spending his time here!! so maybe that info dump in act 3 about him being a slave wouldn't come out of nowhere

i refuse to believe he'd have nothing to say about the elder brain after seeing it. i want him to be absolutely repulsed, terrified but also intrugied by the mindflayer colony under moonrise, i want him to cautiously study every nook and cranny there and offer his insight

absolutely baffled he won't say anything to that one dragonborn druid back in baldur's gate that is trying to keep a tree alive???? for all his distain for the cities he sure is quiet here, seeing nature failing in the middle of it while a guy is desprately trying to keep it alive. maybe make it so these two actually manage to turn this spot into something more beautiful, a lush tree in the middle of a concrete road that attracts people who come over to relax in its shade

if they bring up his hatred of the city life, why not let me turn him into a full on shadow druid (which is already hinted on during one of the conversations with him in act 3), kind of how you can keep shadowheart a shar worshipper or steer her toward selune. plant some seeds of his loathing back in act 2, how nature had to be sacrificed because people had delusions of grandure (the elder brain plot and the thorms) etc

besides wanting to cure the shadowcurse and enjoying whittling there's nothing more to this guy. after the curse is lifted all he's got are the ducks.............. once he'll mention he doesn't like the city life. okay, you've been on this earth good 350 years, my guy, you know how cities are don't act surprised

an alternative ending is missing, you should be able to go with him

personally, i think his personality is missing because he is too flat and frankly, boring. he is too agreeable even if you're a meanie to others. just as long as you don't kill innocents he's a ride or die. it's not his fault of course, he's just badly written, too surface level. which is a terrible shame bc i'm so in love with him but i'd like to fall for his personality too. once there's a fleshed out one. so it's quite hard to speculate on what's missing about a guy there's barely any information on in-game tho :'(

[defire]

Back to the Dregs Part 7

Part 1 Next

Content: nonsexual noncon touch, captivity, fear of sexual assault, memories of child abuse, manhandling, caretaker turned whumper, ptsd being triggered

Michael inspected the cuff he was wearing, especially the weld where the chain met the cuff. He ran his tongue over his teeth, hating that he was going through this stupid decision again.

Break out somehow and risk getting caught and beaten within an inch of his life–maybe having the soles of his feet burned again–or sit here and get beaten a little less, maybe.

Looking back at the other times he'd berated himself over choosing to stay, or failing to escape, he felt his mind changing a bit.

"I mean, what the fuck was I supposed to do?" He muttered, twisting the chain gently till it locked up.

The manacle itself was padlocked shut, so that wasn't going to be its weak point.

The door opened and Michael recoiled from his study, putting his hands in his lap and going pale.

It was Chris, with his soft dark hair framing his pocked face with an unpleasant contrast.

"So, how does a bag of cereal with a cup of milk sound?" Chris said.

Michael was a bit too nervous to answer, finding his teeth clenched tightly as he wondered if Chris had seen what he was doing.

Chris set the bag of cereal on the bed next to Michael's feet and sat down, offering the plastic cup.

Michael stared at it, then raised his eyes to Chris. Around him, he felt a bit more comfortable being honest about how he was doing.

"I'm not really hungry."

"How bad did you get it?" Chris narrowed his eyes. "Can I see?"

"No!" Michael grabbed the edge of his shirt, leaning back. "Why does everyone--everyone want to see my stomach or something?"

"Sooner or later you're gona have to take it off." Chris said gently.

"You can tear it off my cold dead body." Michael snarled.

"What are you so sensitive about?" Chris said, a flicker of suspicion crossing his face. "Hm? I won't tell anybody."

"Chris, what the fuck kind of fool do you take me for?" Michael said. "I've been kidnapped and now I'm being asked to strip. The answer is a resounding hell no."

Chris huffed, took a sip of the milk and raised his eyebrows at the flavor.

"Look Michael, that's not what this is." He said, way too calmly.

"Then what is it about?!" Michael demanded, jerking his bruised wrist at the heavy chain.

Chris frowned, finishing the milk and tossing the cup to the ground.

Then he stood up and walked toward Michael, who scooted away to the furthest corner of the bed. The movement tensed the muscles around his ribs, making him grimace as he pulled his legs up as far as they'd go toward his chest.

"Michael," Chris said in a warning tone. "It's me or them. You want Jordie doing it?"

"Off my dead body." Michael spat.

Chris suddenly moved at him and Michael cringed hard under his arm and hissed, expecting immediate pain. The big man's hands landed on his arms, though, fingers closing around them.

"No, please," Michael struggled and yanked at them, tears springing to his eyes. "Don't do it."

"Don't do what?" Chris grunted in the effort it took to restrain him, now roughly patting down his free arm. "What are you hiding, Michael?"

"Nothing!" Michael shrieked, and began crying as Chris frisked both his arms very thoroughly, checking his hands between each finger, then his armpits, then the nape of his neck under the ponytail.

"Don't!" Michael shrieked hoarsely, ineffectually jerking at his arms and trying to kick him. "Fuck, please, don't."

Chris's fingers traced over his neck again. He was frowning.

At that moment, the door opened again, letting in Pete and several others crowding in behind.

"What is going on in here?" Pete shouted.

Chris let Michael go and got off the bed. Michael sobbed and sniffled under his arm, trying to stop. All he could feel and think was his foster father's fingers digging into his neck as he slammed his forehead into the glass, and the burning points all down his arms. "I don't want you to ever feel like you don't have a family, son." He couldn't let himself think about that. He couldn't let anyone see his arms.

Michael shuddered, instinctively tightening his ponytail before he dried his eyes on his pj shoulder, head down in shame.

"Chris?" Pete raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

"Didn't mean to sir." Chris said, eyes down. "I thought he had a weapon."

"Well thank you Chris," Pete said dryly. "Looks like you've moved up our schedule."

"He doesn't want his shirt off for some goddamn reason." Chris said a little resentfully.

"Unchain him, Jordie." Pete said. "Michael? You going to behave?"

"Sure, if I'm not going to get fucking molested."

"No promises." Gabe jeered.

Michael winced at the hands on his arms as he stood up from the bed.

"Turn around, face the wall." Pete said.

Michael gritted his teeth and did. Turning his back to them was like baring your neck to a wolf--terrifying. It was a familiar feeling that pricked at his eyes. At least they weren't taking off his shirt, he thought, as the zip tie tightened painfully around his bruised wrists.

"Come on Jordie--ah!" He hissed as it sank into the bruises. "Come on man, it doesn't need to be that tight!"

"Too late." Jordie slapped his head.

"Come on." Pete said, and Jordie gave him a little push toward the door.

Michael fell into an uneasy silence as he was walked back to the halfway-room created by the crates.

Light from the big window at the end--which turned out to be a loading door--flooded the entire space, blending the smells of warm wood and gasoline with golden sunlight and machinery downstairs.

Michael noted the evidence of maybe fifty workers' labor overnight. Crate had been loaded in by the hundreds, and he'd been too fast asleep to be woken up by any of it. This time, there was a chair and a tripod set up in front of the crates, with a full on camera attached to a laptop, angled a little away from the chair.

Jordie shoved him down into it with a painful jolt. Michael's hair was already getting rustled up by the manhandling.

He had a knot of dread in his stomach when he looked up into that camera and saw his face in the screen to the right. Half of his face was looking pretty battered, which wasn't surprising, since it felt like he was wearing playdough on his eye. A swollen, split cheek and a black eye made him look... like a kid again, he thought instinctively.

He looked away in distress, set his jaw and focused his gaze on Jordie, reminding himself that he wasn't a little kid, and he could've taken that guy if his hands weren't bound.

Pete stood behind the camera, watching the little monitor.

"Alright guys," He said. "It's go time."

Taglist:

@fleur-a-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @whumped-by-glitter @whump-writings @mimostic @tildeathiwillwrite

[tightjeansjavi]

i think joel deserves a picture of someone he really loves. like maybe ellie finds a polaroid camera or something and begs maria to take a pic of her and tommy to give to joel

Nonnie, thank you for sending this in ♡ I absolutely agree that Joel deserves a picture of someone he really loves!

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

Photograph

Summary: Ellie gifts Joel a present worth more than a million words.

word count: 1.2k

pairing | Joel Miller, Ellie Williams, Tommy Miller

Warnings: some angst, allusions to child loss, holiday blues, domestic fluff, Christmas traditions, Joel is just a big ole softy, Ellie wants to make sure Joel feels loved this holiday season, post!outbreak Joel, Jackson!era Joel, peepaw! Joel, no reader in this one, +18 minors dni!

Joel Miller feels indifferent around this time of the year. The season of giving, joy, Yule-tide Carols, the whole shabam wrapped up in a pretty velvet red bow; Christmas time. Her favorite time of the year. A sore spot on his tender felt heartstrings. Like a scab that never quite was given the opportunity to properly heal. Picked at by grime stained nails tearing at the flesh till it bleeds once more. Tissue scarred. An ugly reminder that she was never coming home. She was thousands of miles away, buried beneath the earth.

This time of the year makes him feel like Scrooge, or like the Grinch. Except, he doesn’t want to steal Christmas, and his heart's too big for his ribcage to carry.

The cold doesn’t bother him, not really anyway. He thinks freshly fallen snow along twisting tree branches is beautiful. He loves the aroma of fresh pine needles, oozing tree sap, mulled wine. A simmer pot bubbling on Maria’s stove reminds him of a simpler time.

He loves hot cocoa, the rich kind that tastes like a warm hug doused in sugar. He loves the twinkling lights adorned on the evergreens in Jackson, and the way that the eyes of innocence twinkle beneath them. He sees her eyes in the golden flickering lights too.

His favorite Christmas movie is National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. A family classic, one that never fails to make him chuckle. With a mug of spiked hot cocoa in hand, and Tommy standing beside him, he leans over, “I think this year I want to get a Christmas tree. I—want to make the season special for Ellie. Will you help me, Tommy?”

He rasps in a half whisper. Clark Griswold had just cut down a tree to replace the one that uncle Lewis had accidentally burned down with his cigar. Laughter echoed through the expanse of the room when the unsuspecting squirrel leapt from the tree.

“Course I can, Joel. We’ll cut one down tomorrow, okay? The finest one that we can find. Ellie will love it.” He nodded with a smile tugging on his lips. He brought his arm around Joel’s shoulders and gave them a firm squeeze. He knew his brother was trying.

And so the following morning, before patrol would head out, he and Tommy set out on horseback to find the perfect tree. It didn’t take the brothers an awfully long time to locate one. It would fit nicely in Joel’s living room. They sawed it down together, working side by side before tying it to the horns of their saddles to drag it back to town.

In the evening hours, Ellie returned home to a sight most surprising and pleasant. Joel in the living room, a strand of twinkle lights wrapped around his forearm. He’s maneuvering himself around the evergreen. Moving by long since dormant muscle memory.

“Joel? What’re you doin?’” Ellie asks from the mouth of their shared living space. Her cheeks have already begun to ache from how hard she was smiling. She never thought she’d witness the day that Joel would give into the holiday times.

“Wrappin’ the tree with lights. What’s it look like I’m doin’, baby girl?” He asks with a grin. His dimples make a rare occurrence that Ellie treasures every moment of its presence.

“No shit, old man.” She giggles. “Need some help?”

“Would love some, kiddo. Before your old man gets himself all tangled up here.”

They don’t have many ornaments to hang outside of some that Maria and Tommy lent them, and wooden animals Joel carved himself. Joel was a firm believer in quality over quantity. When it’s time to place the star on the very top of the tree, Joel offers Ellie his shoulders. She declines out purely from the fear of hurting his old man back.

He doesn’t argue when she returns with a step ladder. He’s there at her side, of course, making sure the ladder is steady as she climbs up the steps. He cherishes these moments too.

When the star was placed perfectly in the center. Father and daughter step back to admire their work with their heads resting against one another’s. He was reminded just how much he loved a decorated Christmas tree.

Time ceases to exist when Joel spends it with his baby girl. They bake cookies, string up garland and hum Christmas songs of the past, side by side.

It's Christmas Eve, and Ellie is frustrated with herself. She doesn’t want to let Joel down this Christmas. She wants to give him something special, because he deserves it. After everything he has done for her, he deserves the world even when it failed him. No amount of presents could possibly explain the love she felt for her father, but she knew that he held sentiments dear to his heart, and it didn’t take much to convince Tommy to help her out either.

A photograph, after all, was worth a million words.

On Christmas morning, Joel slept in. Something that he usually didn’t grant himself the pleasure of indulging in. Even in domesticity, he struggled. The house was still and quiet as he rose from his slumber. Freshly fallen snow greeted him from the frosted window panes. Children outside, throwing snowballs, making snow Angels while the adults chattered about life, and how precious these moments were.

He stuffed his chilled bare feet in a worn pair of slippers that had seen far better days. He let out a yawn, a quick scratch to his covered stomach followed by a deep stretch. A subconscious reach to his left for his gun; forced habit that he couldn’t quite break.

He dragged his feet across the creaking floorboards as he descended down the stairs. He peeked around the corner in search of Ellie’s presence, but she must have already gone out.

In the kitchen he stumbled upon a steaming mug of coffee and a single photograph. His brows knitted together. Fingers traced across the seams of the film before it was gingerly picked up. He studied the image with a softened look, eyes turning glassy when he flipped the photograph over.

Scribbled in red ink that was unmistakably Ellie’s penmanship,

Joel, I wanted to get you something special this year because you deserve it, even though I know you believe that you don’t. Now you get to carry Tommy and I with you everywhere you go. (Or you can pin us on the fridge) Merry Christmas, Dad. I love you so much.

-Ellie

“Oh.” He whispered, brushing away a few tears that slipped past down his cheeks with his thumb.

The front door squeaked open before shutting softly. Ellie kicked off a bit of snow on her boots before she made her way into the kitchen. Her cheeks were rosy from the nipping cold air as Joel’s warm brown eyes met hers across the expanse of the counter top.

“Baby girl..” he started, unable to get his emotions conveyed the way he wanted.

“Those better be happy tears, old man. Y’know how many times we had to take that photo? Tommy kept blinking every time the damn camera flashed.” She laughed.

Joel laughed through his tears as he set the photograph down. He padded around the side of the counter before his strong arms wrapped around his baby girl, hugging her tight. His fingers gently stroked her hair, holding her close. “The happiest tears this old man can possibly weep. I love you so much, baby girl.” He sniffled.

Ellie’s own tears couldn’t be held at bay any longer. She threw her arms around his neck hugging him close with her cheek buried against the crook of his shoulder. “Merry Christmas, Dad.”

“Merry Christmas, baby girl.” He murmured with a warmth spreading throughout his heart.

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Banners made by the lovely @saradika

[snoozepotato]

We’ll Be Fine -2- (Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x f!Reader)

Disclaimer: I do NOT own the original source material or any of its characters.

she/her pronouns

Congratulations, I have gifted you a younger brother for this story!

Category: slice of life, slow burn, mutual pining

Warnings: swearing, anxiety, therapy mention

Masterlist

Summary: Your brother and his friends barge into your flat while you're distracted playing video games.

Part 2

~CHAMPION~

The door to your flat bursts open as your brother loudly makes his way into the space, two of his ‘little friends’ following reluctantly but not far behind. You make a mental note to move the spare key… Again. 

Maybe ‘little friends’ wasn’t the best term to describe them… They were all absurdly enormous men who looked ridiculous standing in your wee apartment. Creating a massive wall of muscle now blocking the entryway, Soap, and Ghost having stopped just beyond the door.

The lot of them spot you from across the room huddled on a sofa sitting tailor-style, game controller in your hands. Your bewildered gaze shifts to them for a moment, eyes bright, pupils constricted. Suddenly movement erupts on the screen before you, attention snapping back instantly.

The unaware enemy crosses your path, before getting the chance to unholster their weapon you are on them. Crosshairs lock on

 and you pull the trigger. A burst of bullets spraying from your P90, each making contact with the offending player's skull. Starting at the throat making a vertical line up between the eyes as you fight against the recoil, you pull the trigger once more riveting another round of bullets into their cranium. 

They crumble to the ground and you are already on the move, reloading, readying yourself for the next altercation. Focus solely on the screen in front of you, and the distant sound of gunfire guiding you to your next victim. Doing your best to block out the three sets of eyes now watching intently, and the drumming of your heart. 

“Oh SHIT it's been a while, didn’t know you started playing again since therapy, I wanna watch you kick some ASS!” Your brother boasts loudly, making his way across the small room, hurdling over an armchair, and plopping down beside you on the couch carelessly. The sudden force ripples across the surface, rocking you both back and forth on the seat.

Thankfully the action doesn't faze you, you've gotten used to this kind of behavior from your sibling. The group watches as you ambush enemy after enemy, ducking between cover, and healing a few scrapes till the words ‘YOU ARE THE CHAMPION’ appear across the screen in bold white lettering.

“CHAMPION!” Your brother exclaims loudly, throwing his fist into the air. The movement once again rocking you back and forth from your position next to him. The action is more startling this time now that your focus is broken.

You haven't spoken a word the entire time, sitting rigidly in your spot on the sofa. Your body feels as though it's vibrating, coming down from an adrenaline high. You attempt to let out a held breath but it comes out shakier than desired, mentally cursing, feeling warm color pool in your cheeks.

This had been an attempt at something normal, something you used to enjoy… But the current situation brings on a wave of nausea, finding the stale air suddenly hard to cloak down. Clammy hands trembling as you maintain your grip on the controller, you needed to calm down.

Head downcast, loose hair falling like a curtain around either side of your face. Thank God for muscle memory, with a few button presses you exit the match and slap the controller into your brother's outstretched hands. 

“wanted to watch you play,” he grumbles lips pressing into a thin line, narrowing his eyes at you. You let out a breathy laugh, rigid shoulders slumping, a small amount of the tension lifted from the room.

“You just did, why don’t you play with your friends,” you say while getting up from the couch and heading into the adjacent kitchen, anxiety still bubbling in your stomach.

Soap moves to take your spot while Ghost stays near the door, silently observing as you make your tea. You take a moment to tuck your loose hair into the hood of your sweatshirt before picking up the steaming cup on the counter.

“Please knock next time,” you announce, a request shot towards your brother.

Heading out of the kitchen, mug in hand, you give them a quick thumbs-up before silently disappearing behind the door on your left.

“She used to play this game a lot, she’s REALLY good, I mean you watched her play, that rampage,” your brother laughs as they fumble around in the game's menu.

Half-lidded eyes study the closed door, Ghost wonders why you stopped playing, wonders if you have ever shot a gun before. None of this should matter to him, he finds the fact that he's dwelling on it to be mildly concerning.

Thanks for reading <3

@tallrock35

[singnied]

A Little Lick

Kim Bora (SuA) x Lee Siyeon

Warnings -> Ab Licking, Fingering, Dom SuA, Sub Siyeon, Praising, Use of the word "puppy", Use of the word "Unnie".

Disclaimer: I wrote this on Ao3 beforehand, since the other SuaYeon fic im writing is taking me some time. I edited this a bit to fit my new style of writing- but for the most part this is old work.

"Such a good girl for me, aren't you baby?"

----------

Siyeon didn't even think she would enjoy something like this. She couldn't even fathom that she would have the thought of trying it. Yet, here she is, on her knees infront of Kim Bora; licking her abs.

"Look at that pretty tongue, running on me like that. You're so pretty on your knees like this. Aren't you?"

Siyeon could only let out a muffled agreement from being squished against Bora's stomach, making the older woman let out a laugh.

Siyeon had her hair bunched in Bora's hand, her whole head being controlled by Bora's want. Bora decided to be merciful for once and pulled back Siyeon's head; letting the poor girl get a break.

The moment Siyeon was pulled away, she took a breath and spoke in a whiny voice.

" U-unnie... ah.. please let me t-touch myself- I can't hold up anymo-re..!"

She didn't get the response she wanted.

"Oh yes you can. If I see your hands anywhere else then on my thighs, I'll spank you till you're sobbing into the sheets. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes ma'am..."

"Good puppy."

Siyeon let herself be pushed back into Bora's waist. Continuing to lick and suck on her stomach like instructed. Bora slowly started to play with her nipples. Getting turned on by the sight of Siyeon being so dehumanized by her command. Her breathing was getting faster by the moment, body getting sweaty.

"Thats it, puppy. Make your unnie cum."

With a few more licks and a particularly tight squeeze on her thighs, Bora orgasmed. Her head threw back while her hand gripped Siyeon's hair harder; forcing a whimper out of the girl. Bora fell back against the bed and sat for a moment. Recollecting her strength before looking at the patient girl infront of her.

"C'mere, puppy. You deserve your reward for making unnie feel so good."

Siyeon happily crawled her way over and laid herself over Bora's lap. Head on one side and ass on the other, her stomach resting on Bora's legs. She spread her legs out nice and wide for her.

"Muscle memory, eh?"

Bora joked, earning a grumble from Siyeon. After a little calm snicker from the older woman. Bora snuck her left hand to the front part of Siyeon's neck and held a strong grip, not enough to choke Siyeon but to assure her that she isn't in control.

Her right hand traveled it's way inbetween Siyeons legs and ran a finger through her wet pussy. Siyeon letting out a long sigh, finally getting some touch. Bora slowly pushed a single finger in, slowly thrusting to stretch the girl out.

"Unnie.. more please."

"Patience, puppy. I want to take my time with you."

Bora rubbed her thumb against Siyeon's sweaty neck, making Siyeon melt against Bora's body. She tightened her grip against her neck and slowly pushed in two more fingers. The sudden intrusion making Siyeon twitch and gasp.

"A-ah! Fuck- wai-t-"

Without any response, Bora started moving her fingers quickly in and out of the woman. Three fingers impaling her and there was nothing she could do. Siyeon's hands started gripping onto Bora's thigh. Begging the girl to slow down even a bit to let her process. Yet, she didn't comply. All she did was tighten her grip even harder against Siyeon's neck. Completely cutting off any air that could get to her lungs.

"This is what you wanted, right? You know you love it. Your pussy even says so. Its practically leaking onto my fingers."

Siyeon couldn't even get out a proper sentence, the only thing coming out was desperate whines and whimpers. Soon enough, Bora could feel her tighten up on her fingers, indicating she was close.

"I feel you tightening up, puppy. Go on, cum for me.~"

"F-fu-... U-unnie-!" Siyeon yelped.

A few more thrusts and Siyeon came, her body arching against Bora and letting out jerks and twitches as Bora kept going. She only stopped once the overstimulation kicked in and Siyeon started whining and trying to pull away.

"You did so well for me. Such a good girl."

Bora slowly pulled out her fingers, sucking on them to clean them off. She let go of Siyeon's throat and rubbed the red marks left on her. She pulled up the younger girl onto the pillows and flopped ontop of her. Nuzzling into her and giving her kisses on her jaw and chin.

"We can clean up later, rest up, pretty girl."

--------------------------------------------------------------

Proof-Reading this made me twirl my hair ngl.. I seriously cannot see Siyeon as anything other than a bottom or submissive top with SuA. Anyways, I hope everyone had a great new years, stay safe n enjoy :).

[joannasteez]

almost blue (1)

pairing: cody rhodes x black reader warning: explicit descriptions of violence and sexual activity. minors please do not interact. readers eighteen and older interact only please. descriptions of alcohol consumption and the use of deadly weapons. authors note: JOHN WICK AU!!! so excited to share this! i had this sorta kinda in my back pocket for a while, while trying to build up tanks of blood, which you can find to read here. not everything in this is super true to the world of john wick but the most im using as inspo is the aesthetic anyways. also a one off mention of john wick lol. that and some of the names for certain things. italics in the beginning represent flashback perspective music inspo: almost blue by chet baker word count: 4800 tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @theninthwonder @kill-the-artiste @empressdede @southerngirl41 @2-muchsauce @crxssjae

new york. the continental hotel and it's flatiron shape. september 2019. the rain, this soft unsteady pitter patter. a gentle gray coloring the sky. the air cold and biting. the city filling its brim with a sleepless droning. 

and amongst the deathly sort of decadence—gold trim and blood red carpet floors—bath water disturbs till its sloshing to overtake the tub. a messy spill against the floor. his lips working over yours. fingers kneading deep enough into skin that it stains with the print of his touch. nails tender in his hair and your body melting in till the heat of him breaks over your skin. his everything settled into the wisp and charm of your voice as his pleasure becomes whole. too great.

—but his memory tires from old moments like these, a shell of itself as it attempts in vain to restore to it's former glory. has been in a perpetual state of exhaustion for sometime. but this straining is singular. a throbbing at the forefront of his skull. a tight pulling pain at the nape of his neck till it's creeping wild at the tip of his spine. forcing him to grow ill as he works to reminisce. body wistfully undone. and what words do the men of our time say about insanity? to be in a perpetual state of trying, doing, in hopes of something new. and so on he went, flirting with this disaster, this run of nostalgia, so much so that memory has forsaken him, taking these little complexities —the new york rain and the taste of your lips— along with it. 

but cody can handle the load and reload of a glock 26 as fast as he does it well. a deft maneuvering before the barrel raises and he pulls the trigger, the recoil driving sharp. a bullet through the skull and the splattering of blood. whoever meant to kill him, now dead in his wake. 

but what cruelty this is. a traitor to his own body. living with nothing but the means to kill and tattered memory. with him still, only, all of the things left unsaid—

you'd smelt of vanilla. the yearning about his tongue deep and yet to be settled. his lips a shadow as they feathered against yours. his questions overdone with a frightening passion. "where are you ten years from now?" 

your fingers slipped over his skin, as easy as they would over porcelain. a delicate taking over wet soapy muscle till it clawed over his shoulders and against the heat of his cheeks. "somewhere warm and comfortable. retired".

where ever you were, is where he wanted to be. "am i with you?"

a reversion, just barely perceptible, but there all the same. something like fear, like hesitation, pushing against a situational sort of tenderness in your eyes. the warmth slowly but forcibly outdone by the cold. lukewarm. just like the fate of too old bath water. not enough of either extreme. lukewarm. 

"seems more like a question for you to answer".

"answer it anyways".

and he couldn't feel your lips anymore. too much air, too much distance. caution thick. woven about your words. the tones. the inflections. "ten years from now, you'll be somewhere as warm, as comfortable and retired too".

"am i with you?" 

to draw such a long length of need into the air. passions and hopes and dreams. cody knew. it would've been easier to take the sear of a bullet, the ripping tear in of a knife or the crack of something blunt and unforgiving to his skull. those things easier than the down trod of such a silence. your eyes having gained more and more distance. fear peaking soft and brown before the quick slip over of indifference. like you didn't care for his whispered words sounding too much like forever. and recovery from bullets and knives and blunt force was tedious. sewn up skin and the reformation of fine motor skill. but this. the way you suffered him to feel the drift away of your body and the simple, delicate, eager push in of your touch. something in his heart—amongst the lukewarm water—failed. this low dropping into a less lively place. 

new york. the continental hotel and its flatiron shape. june 2024. a peak of the sun amidst more grayish than white clouds against an icy pale blue sky. the air breezy with a teasing smell of rain. like a stray tendril before some great unraveling. the city as sleepless as it's ever been. 

and amongst the deathly sort of decadence—scarlet sage in bloom and the ever present air of readymade violence—cody sips at a short glass of brandy. an edgy spike to his tongue as it settles. everything of the continental he possessed now lost to time and the overwork of his sore tired memory. lost to a bout of corrosion done by words left unsaid. because he did not remember your answer after the persistence of his "am i with you?” all thats left, this great blurring. of words and the finer littler complexities. your lips and your eyes and the soft ways of your touch. and maybe it came to be this way for good reason. using such a burn to his ego to fuel the fire of his rage. revenge for memories unforgettable. around the glass of brandy, his hands feel stronger. less careful in how they hold. caution be damned. he sips again to finish. his finger buttoning his suit jacket, making way from the bar and across the communal space of the hotel. 

warmth at his ear and a twitch in his trigger finger. something like eyes resting over him. watching him.

he continues to a connecting hallway. elevators and mosaic floors. maybe the brandy wasn't the best idea, but neither was coming to such sacredly awful ground. lovers trauma and all that bullshit jazz. 

the fourteenth floor is quiet. his steps carpeted by soft wool. a second twitch in his trigger finger that leads into the sharp driving heat reminiscent of staggering gun recoil. a sweet burning in his arm, the muscles knowing, remembering. but he has nothing of use on him. nothing to snuff out and quiet that vicious call of death. his hotel room styled with a modernistic flare to it's luxury. clean and unadorned. a simple reflection of his own style thankfully, but nothing extravagant to weaponize. he would have to, if needed, to make due. a slim ball point pen, sleek and multifunctional, rests next to a complimentary bottle of wine. "enjoy your stay", in cursive. cody feels the warmth at the tip of his ear again, something greater than a simple bout of paranoia. his fingers slip the pen into his pocket, a reversing in his steps to triple check the locking function of the room doors.

and he shouldn't be so wound up should he? conducting business was, is, has always been forbidden on hotel grounds. 

his fight or flight saying otherwise. breathing over his skin overwhelmingly warm. lingering wearily. intuition always a nagging son of a bitch but never wrong. it's never failed him. 

cody showers, stands amidst the icy rain of too cold water. cody showers, because warm baths terrify something in his body. the possibility of turning stale and lukewarm. too distant and uninviting to be either extreme. like eyes and soft lips he can barely form well enough to reimagine. 

and the bed sheets are welcoming. slipping along his skin with a delicate relief. but still, something feels wrong. a heaviness to the air that precedes this faithful old tryst with life. with death. the ring of his phone working to unburden him suddenly, but for only some seconds. the number blocked. he answers, rushing to fish that ball point pen from his dress pants. sleek and multifunctional in his grip. but the urgency in his maneuvering cuts short with the slip in of something dangerously angelic. memory sore and exhausted no more, but now rushing back to him fervid and unrelenting. a tender charming tone in his ear that disrupts the stalwart build of his resolve. september 2019. june 2024. five years of an almost complete pain. icy feeling wind with the teasing of a torrential down pour. almost there but not quite. the anger and the pain never red enough. the sadness almost blue. 

"the loft in tribeca" you start. cody commits it all to memory. the words, the tones, the inflections. shuffling to rough his pants on. pen in his pocket. phone wedged to his ear as his fingers rip off the casing of a pillow. body easy as it maneuvers to protect his six o'clock, leaning against the wall. his eyes scope along the room. an over examination. waiting. "if you're not dead in the next 30 minutes, meet me there". 

the call drops. 

the slow unlocking click of his hotel room door. his muscles burn with remembrance. eyes sharp. his ears attune. the shells of them warm. cautioned steps approach the entry way of the bedroom but they fail to go unnoticed. thudding against the soft carpet. and if not for the possibility of his demise, cody would laugh. surely this was amateur hour. boots and inconspicuous were no more suited together than suede in the rain. and he'd made that rookie mistake before. back when he was a rookie. but the high table were no idiots, sending rookies to bring his head in, unless they hated him that much and felt he should feel the brunt of that hatred with some disrespect. and disrespect it was. 

cody's breath holds. his head thumping against the wall before he makes a swift crouch to his knees. a gun rounding the corner, and a bullet flying aimed for where his head had knocked in. a simple quick diversion. nothing special or particularly extravagant, but enough to give him seconds to maneuver. and oh this is disrespect in deed. dominik mysterio the source of his current heavy breathed, adrenaline rushing circumstance. cody knuckling the hold of the still upward pointed gun with a punch before another sinks into domink's abdomen. a short grunt breaking from the scrappy, ill-sophisticated, mullet wearing piece of shit. and surely dominik is more of a piece of shit when his heavy boot toughs into cody's jaw. racing for the gun. 

but cody is quick. has felt and faced harsher things. if anything, its more of an irritation he feels than a full measure of pain. it was hard maintaining good skin considering the life he led. he spits against the carpet. iron on his tongue. red staining the clean line designs. he reaches for dominik's leg just before he's in reach of the gun. pulling him near and flipping him over quickly. a rough hand in the silk of domink's mullet as he rains down punches with the other.  cody ill satisfied as he hears the sloppy singing of grunts from the younger mysterio. and as his frustration mounts, swindled by the audacity of the high table, dominik gains an advantage. his hips shifting up to propel cody, his arms lean and tight and trapping over cody's and rolling. 

"you three piece suit, hugo boss wannabe wearing motherfucker", dominik's face bloody and angry. his fists balled and quick as he comes down against cody's face. 

the impression of the pen presses into cody's thigh. memory and dexterity working like a trained muscle. amidst the  barrage of fists, cody reaches for the sleek ball point pen. clicking the tip and rushing it into dominik's side. harsh vicious stabs till the pain takes hold enough for him to hesitate. plunging the inky tip into his neck, where blood flows to gush. breaking up out of his skin. choking on air and the pain of a slow to come death. 

"bulletproof three piece suits asshole", cody roughs out. kicking dominik for satisfaction. 

if you're not dead in the next 30 minutes, meet me there

the loft is the same. unadorned by that uncanny but natural weathering of time and neglect. warm homely autumn inspired tones with splashes of green and hand carved wooden furniture. cody ever the horrendous sucker for hand carved shit. an intimate union of labor and passion. ever the reflection of a once lively relationship. carefully cultivated, ending poorer than a bastard dying with his eyes wide open. because when you go that way, you deserve it. but cody? his passions didn't deserve that violent abrupt end. and yet here he is, creeping past the entrance. a painful stuttering of footfalls as he goes. muscles sore and his skin on fire. 

dominik mysterio was a warm up. a warning even. the call must've went out. a bounty worth enough for people to try him. the train ride to tribeca interestingly violent. a woman with a knife, a man with a gun and another thinking his bare hands were some great unstoppable force. and no, cody did not make quick work of them. not as quickly as he would've liked. but he managed. and at the very least, he'd suffered a slitting cut to his cheek and a laceration to his chest. that piece of shit running the blade right through his tattoo. some maybe secondary bruising and a bad headache. but he's not dead. not like the idiots that tried and failed to kill him. 

the loft, much like the continental hotel, is agreed upon neutral ground. a place for trysts and the sharing of information. or rather, thats what it used to be. now, cody isn't so sure. 

and his limping is pathetically loud. shoes a heavy clack against the floor. makes him bristle annoyed. you stand just behind the kitchen island. wine bottle opened. a glass in hand as you sip. more beautiful than he remembers. soft looking still, your eyes casting over the rim as you sip, undeniably deceptive. 

a gun lays easy on the coffee table sat between two couches. too easy. but his displeasure gets the best of him. he shifts for it quickly. a swift up of his hands positioned about the gun, aiming for your face. 

you knew his whereabouts. so much so that you knew the whereabouts of the people trying to kill him. taking the chance to trust could cost him his life. and cody quite likes his life. 

"you had me scared a little bit". a gentle float of words. a finger dancing along the rim of the wine glass. a daring stare down the barrel of the gun. "i thought you got bested by a second rate mysterio". and when cody doesn't move, captured by pain, caution and the mystique of your presence, your eyes roll. his form fixed and perfected. trigger finger cool, but his heart unsure. "cut the melodrama. put the gun down cody". 

"you knew i was being followed", he clips. jaw tight. 

"i mean...duh...", you give. dry and teasing. finishing your wine. "half of that was me, and lets not be silly", covering the length of distance between your bodies slowly. a stalking patience. a fierce feline approach. "you shot a bullet through the skull of one of thee most important men. finding out don't come cheap when you fuck with the high table". 

"everybody seems to forget I had to bury my father", the barrel of the gun kept high with perfect aim as you near closer. "killing that sack of shit was just me evening the score". 

"i didn't kill your father cody". 

was that sincerity? empathy? a sudden waft in of warmth after years in the cold. it felt unreal. true but unreal. and he was sure it wouldn't last. 

"obviously", cody bites out. 

your forehead nestles against the barrel of the gun. his memory overwrought. his senses in a frenzy. a horrible mixture in his skin of pain and elation. steeped with the fear of having to endure another sudden vanishing. angry that such an endurance was his portion in the first place. 

"so then why is the gun still pointed at me?"

his fixed form eases. your hand slipping the gun from his hold gently. fire over his skin as you touch him for the first time in five years. a deft maneuvering about the cold heavy metal to expose the contents of the magazine. amusement coloring your eyes and spreading over your mouth for a teasing little smile. 

"they're blanks anyways", emptying the magazine as the faux bullets fall to the floor. your hand settling down the gun and its magazine on the coffee table. leaving him in an exasperated awe as you head toward the kitchen. "just wanted to see how thin your patience has worn". 

your chin jutting over to the couch. hands full of medical supplies as you pad over to him softly. his body aching and slow as it rests into the tender leather seating, but moving without delay still. always under the gentle charm of your voice, his being falling under this servile sort of subjection. making him bristle silently within himself. all that time and distance amounting to nothing for his resolve. 

cody surrenders. mind over matter no longer needed. succumbing to the full weight of his pain. hair messy with red droppings of other peoples blood. his muscles sore and the hammering about his skull diligent and taunting. 

"my pain has always been a funny little joke to you". 

you pull the coffee table closer to the wide spread of cody's legs. your own slipping over to straddle the strength of one of his thighs. your body warm and comforting against his skin. an old feeling blooming in his chest. you were doing this on purpose. he's sure of it. to see him waver and yield to the charm of your presence. gentle touch dabbing to rid his cheek of dried blood before you went about cleaning the wound. his fingers itching to form to your body, desperate to push dull nails into your skin again. to form in and caress with the intent to renew his memory. 

your eyes flit to his crotch. "its a lot more than little. give yourself some credit", you muse. applying butterfly stitches. 

the air is thick. forces him to maintain a steady breath. memory overwrought once more. a mighty rushing in that heats him whole. your hands working his button up open. the lax take of your palm to his belly forcing a throb to the crux of his thighs. the closing in of the distance makes for easy intimacy. a registration of the lesser noticeable, more complex things. the prick of your nails telling familiar stories, as they work to rid him of the shirt all together. tender and caring, similar to how they used to be. your eyes roaming and thinly glazed over. he spares a glance at the wine bottle. halfway done. your ministrations functional but indulgent of the moment. of his skin.

a quicksand sort of state of affairs. if he doesn't pull himself together now, he would fall into you. full consumption. and he can't possibly risk his life because he's half hard and overdone with sentiment. 

"how long have you been following me?"

you apply something like a salve after cleaning the nasty chest wound. an anesthetic. how sweet of you. to suddenly take his pain into consideration.

"a few months". 

"why am i not dead?"

your body adjusts a top of him. somehow closer. your knee nearly running into his crotch. "yet", you give. beginning the process of suturing. "the question everyone wants to know is why is cody rhodes not dead yet". breaking shortly to peer over him. a full examination it seems. heat rising in his cheeks. "cause he's no john fuckin wick. so why is he still here". pressure of the needle feeding into his skin. your lip tucking under your teeth in full concentration. "people don't know resilience is the bane of even your own existence. a little meat puppet made to take push pins". 

he scoffs. "this doesn't feel like a compliment if it is". 

you finish off the suture. a hesitant but delicate maneuvering off his thigh to rid of the medical supplies. the heat of you gone in an instant. "its an observation". the uncorking pop of that half drunken wine bottle. a generous crimson pour that you sip at. 

"on what basis exactly?" 

a whipping swing of kitchen cabinet doors. a bottle of brandy and a short glass. for him it seems. and the pained parts of him grow excited at the possibility of a simple taste. anything for a temporary fix. something to numb the burn in his bones. 

"very close encounters".

and no you don't dip into the leather to sit beside him when you return. you assume a much more compromising position. a full straddle of his legs as you gift him his little amber colored remedy. and if at any moment he ever thought he needed it and actually didn't, let this be the moment where that edgy spike to his tongue becomes essential. something to help him as he searches for a secure hold at control. and of course he drinks it all. an easy burning slip against the back of his throat as he feels the heat of you settling back into him. once dormant urges awakening in his fingers. supple thighs lined up over his kevlar woven dress pants. the baggy button up you'd decided was good enough for his visit thin and something like revealing. the other details left to his imagination. and God was that prone to running at any moment. tripping and falling away from him well enough till his crotch became to uncomfortable to bare the perfect fit of his pants. your empty hand returning to where it'd been. roaming tenderly against slow but steady bruising skin. his nose picking up the sweet wine on your breath. the glaze about your eyes. thighs over him, clenching slightly. 

"you were always a little too indulgent with the wine", cody gives. 

your eyes flitting to his crotch again. bulge more prominent. the teasing of your nails inching over past his navel. your throat humming. "and you with me". 

"don't think much of it". an attempt made in vain he thinks. feeling the hard throb of himself as soon as the words leave him. "it tends to happen. adrenaline from almost dying multiple times", his thigh knocking up into yours to grab at your attention. tipsy eyes drifting to the cold blue of his. "now spill. why am i still breathing?"

"because the number isn't high enough yet". another sip of wine before turning to rest it at the table. your hands free to run over the muscle of him. about his shoulders till your thumbs are caressing at his nape and the hard cut of his jaw. and that nearly drives him to insanity. the weight of you resting right where he pulses with life. "i take your head now, i'd be settling. and the game of it all ain't that fun right now anyways. its too amateur hour-ish for me. i wanna battle it out with the adults". 

"im flattered", cody deadpans. 

you smile. thumb soothing over his lip. "as you should be". 

"why else", the pulse about his blood wild. an unadulterated beating that coaxes to life the run off of his imagination. his touch a staggering grip at your jaw. pulling your eyes to him. lowly sat pretty brown eyes with a penchant for doing him inexplicably dirty. but they draw him in all the same. his stomach empty. filled with nothing but the slosh of brandy. cody feeds into the daze of it. the possibility of a buzz. your lips a breath from his. desire on your tongue by way of the sweet smell of wine. "talk".

your hips shift over him. a rut into the fabric. friction to appease the ache, he's sure of it. thin panties and the desperate curl in of your nails. running into his scalp. trying to persuade him with tender touches and the charm of such wanton need. and its working. fuck, itsworking well. had worked some time ago and doing well now just the same. because cody, despite such deadly skill, was not immune to this type of torture. could not battle it with stalwart patience or dapper precision. and as you rut against him again, mind clouded by wine and your own intent, his fingers burn to touch you more. not so simple and plain but disgustingly greedy. his lips smooth against the seam of yours. amber brandy and red wine a near perfect melding together. 

"fuck", you relent. your nose knocking soft into his. laughing with a wry sort of amusement. "it would stroke your ego to a nice little finish if i did say it wouldn't it?"

cody hums. slips his hold till its anchored about your neck. measured in its pressure. his tongue licking to wet his lips. the slight of it forcing a tremble into your body. 

maybe his suffering isn't a lonely one after all. 

you whimper. taking a hard swallow. 

"vindicate me", cody rasps. 

your struggle is apparent. surfaces with a tear that stains your cheek. body undone by the defeat of such an intimate admission. 

"i miss you", fragile and nearly unclear. 

he smiles mirthless against the soft ways of your skin. his nose buried into the dip of your neck. "i don't trust your sentiment".

"it's true cody". 

"she says, after admitting she wants to kill me".

"better me than someone else". your fingers abandoning him to grip into the leather of the couch. a tight take to it that fastens your body into him. your mouth lax as your lips slip over his. the tease of a kiss filled with too much tension to bare. "touch me", you give. a plea and a command all the same. 

his fingers working in swiftly, a firm obedience, cupping your cheeks to steady the wild go of your tongue as it snakes to slip at his. a frail whimper singing from your chest and the return of your sharp nails. digging against his scalp to bring him impossibly closer. nearly suckling his tongue whole as your hips rut at him again. a less cautious shifting as you look for harsher friction. the pain of a murderous sort of labor and the pleasure of touching you again warring over the tenderness of his skin. coaxing him to groan and wince. strong, tired fingers forcing your hips to rock over him. an easy, stable grind along the hard bulge of his cock that leaves you living without the proper brilliance of words. reduced to the struggle of too pleasured moans. 

your teeth prickling and sharp as they snag against his lip. fingers deft, undoing his zipper. the heat of him hard and throbbing dangerous. his headache out done by more pressing matters, hazy and his senses going numb with lust. palms persistent, sinking into supple flesh. and fuck does it feel good. even better when his patience thins. fingers stretching the fabric of your panties till they tear. the slick way of your arousal making for an easier pace. a sweet teasing slip through your slit. his imagination wild and unfettered. even the thought of slipping in to have his full way with you enough to twist the base of his belly. groaning into your mouth.  

fire in his fingers as they pull against the fat of your ass. sweltered skin sweet in his palms. forming with every push and spread and pry that he gives. 

your mouths depart. a hesitant slipping away. breaths heavy. your face hiding in the dip of his neck. your pussy messy. bewitching even as you grind mindless into him. an undulating heat over his skin. "cody", a mantra as it travels to slight the beating of his pulse. 

the tell tale trembling in your body. a breath away from bliss. and he can feel the build in his bones. the return of an ache thats been transformed. throbbing and restless. an urgency he works to relieve. and with it so does your mouth. less desperate to consume him. melting to linger at his lips. breathy and stuttered. 

"right there angel", he gives. a whisper against your lips. corralling the last bits of resolve to break. your hips stuttering but caressing faithful still. coming undone. rutting greedily to grasp at the last bits of pleasure.

and here he finds that charming sort of relief. an unfurling warmth about his skin. snatching your body into him as he strokes against you and throbs, coming undone. release pooling and spurting against the baggy button up you'd worn to tease him with. 

your lips finding his again. needy still. and he accepts without wait. ready and willing. your moaning along his tongue delicate and wispy. reminiscent of a memory once forgotten. new york. september 2019. cody cups your face again. thumbs dusting over the apple of your cheeks. on a mission to stain himself with this moment. sweet red wine mixed with aged brandy. 

she was getting to be a lil too long so i had to break her up! but how do we feel about our little hitman?

[asordinaryppl]

A3! Main Story: Part 4 - Act 14: DREAM CATCHER - Episode 6: Researching As We Take A Breather

Kazunari: Yes, yes… Ah, I see~ Got it. I’ll make the approps changes and send it again~...

Kazunari: Yes, thank you for your time.

[Kazunari hangs up]

Kazunari: *exhales*...

Kazunari: (Another flop~... This is the 5th time.)

Kazunari: (I get that it’s different from when I was a student, but if this keeps going, my self-confidence is gonna take a nose dive~)

Kazunari: (I did go to an art uni, but I majored in Japanese painting, so all my design knowledge is self-taught.)

Kazunari: (I’m starting to feel like my lack of basic knowledge is the problem here.)

Kazunari: (I’ve been pulling through till now because my acquaintances have been asking for things I’m good at…)

Kazunari: (But my old way of doing things probably won’t help me with the wide range of demands from my current clientele.)

Kazunari: (Maybe I should study the basics of designing again~)

Kazunari: Design… course… with experience…

Kazunari: (“Online course”, “Study design abroad”... There’s a lot of stuff here~)

[Door opens]

Muku: I’m back.

Kazunari: Welcome baack~

Muku: Ah, sorry, are you working?

Kazunari: It’s okie. You’re back early today, Mukkun.

Muku: I was thinking of going for a walk through Veludo Way.

Muku: A lot of theater companies have been doing Street ACTS lately, so I thought seeing a few might help me out.

Kazunari: I see~ Maybe I should come along and take a breather!

-

Muku: There’s a lot of new and different theater companies. But they’ve all chosen different approaches.

Muku: There’s those that specialize in theatrical performances, and those that specialize in dancing and facial expressions. And also those that specialize in musicals…

Muku: And there are also the stranger ones. Like the one that mixes acting with cooking, or the other one that mixes acting with muscle training…

Kazunari: They may just be trying to make their companies stand out, but all these new things are super exciting~

Kasumi: Oh? Muku-kun and Kazunari-kun?

Muku: Hello!

Kazunari: Kasumi~nu, you’re out shopping?

Kasumi: Yeah.. I went to the bookstore. “The Saint is Omitted” was released today. Do you read it too, Muku-kun?

Muku:  Ah! It slipped my mind! Of course, I read it!

Muku: While it seems like your typical saint story, there are some interesting plot twists.

Muku: I’ve been loving it so far because the heroine is charming like a hero!

Muku: I can’t believe I forgot its release day… I wonder why…

Muku:  My memory is like the dust an eraser leaves behind…

Kazunari: A lot has been happening lately~ Don’t sweat it.

Kasumi: How’s everyone in the company doing? You must be having it rough with the New Fleur Award going on.

Kazunari: We’re all working hard and coming up with fighting strategies~ The Spring Troupe’s performance was well-received, and our ranking went up.

Muku: We’re a bit anxious, but the Summer Troupe is also going to give it our all!

Kasumi: I see. I’m sure if it’s you guys, all will be fine.

Kasumi: Oh, right. There’s something I wanted to give you, Muku-kun.

Muku: ?

Kasumi: This. It’s a flyer for an upcoming play. The protagonist is a prince, so I thought of you.

Kasumi: It’s a play with a lot of history, and it’s performed with a different cast each year at the National Theater.

Kasumi: I might be jumping the gun here, but I thought it’d be wonderful to see you play a prince on such a big stage.

Muku: N-No, I still have a long way to go before I can perform such an important role…!

Kasumi: That’s not true. I believe you’ve got what it takes to perform there.

Kazunari: You’re saying this cause you know how much experience Muku-kun has gained up till now, right, Kasumi~nu~?

Muku: T-Thank you very much. When you put it like that, it makes me feel a little more confident in myself.

Muku: I’ll check the play out.

Kasumi: Okay. Well then, see you.

[Kasumi walks away]

Muku: …

Muku: (“Audition notice”... I wonder if I’ll also get to perform on such a big stage one day.)

Muku: (But, right now, I’m…)

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