birdbee-spam

[dykedivorce]

dreamt about reuniting with my friend on the 5th anniversary of the last time we talked. hm. not a big dream interpreter but I feel like it might mean something

[evilgwrl]

ExHusband!Simon x Reader

You Want a Divorce? (One)

Note: I'm having the WORST writer's block now so pls excuse my lack of proper writing... I'm currently sitting in front of a beach writing in hopes that ill gain inspo

CW: Angst, mentions of sex, jealous/possessive Simon, PLS DONT LEAVE YOUR KIDS IN THE CAR !!! Or break into someone’s house

Inspired by: Ex!Husband Simon

PART TWO

Simon stared at you. The shades of his eyes simmering into endless voids of obsidian, blonde lashes moulded against his greased lids, the residue of the perpetual torture his body had succumbed to during deployment.

“You want a divorce?” He spoke, voice deep as he flickered between your shaking heads, sweat soiling into the papers gripped firmly and your swollen face, cheeks feverish with a red hue, eyes even more so.

You held back a rough sob, throat stripped of all moisture evident in your hoarse voice as you spoke, “Yes, Simon. I think it would be best for our family… for us.”

He scoffed. “You think the best thing for our family is to separate?”

“We already pretty much are. You’re away for days, weeks, months at a time. We’re hardly a family and it’s difficult to explain to the children why I’m crying.”

“Ok then.”

That was it. You would admit, it stung. His lacklustre tone felt like a stab in the gut, the blade drenched with anthrax as it reared blistering sores internally, the effects having shown through your putrid complexion. Your skin was dull, practically lifeless, the only living form of you grew day by day through the darkening of eyebags that almost made you look apocalyptic.

It had been 12 months of separation, officially 8 being legally divorced. You kept his last name, the permanent burn of hearing Mrs Riley still searing through you with every syllable, yet you feel it would only hurt you more if they said Ms.

Simon was often away now, and the minimal family time he used to get felt pointless as the shabby apartment he moved into after the sudden interference of your mind-boggling news barely fit the two kids you shared. His body felt more relentless on him, the taunting of his mind fulgurated the inoperative reality that he would come home to you, to his family.

His voice, almost like it dropped an octave had grown richer in aggression, tormenting those he deemed suitable, both with his tongue and with his bruised knuckles, an oil painting of blue and purple hues radiating across the pale flesh as he shrugged it off to his team as “pushing himself and others to do better”.

Couldn’t you realise your mistake? Wouldn’t you prefer crying in his arms about his absence than never having it fulfilled again?

As he looked around the bleak environment, tan stained walls revolting the creaking mattress he had brought someone home to, someone who wasn’t you. It made him feel sick like a viral infection had slunk its way into his bloodstream as he laid next to a woman that failed to make his cock throb, endless images of you sprawled out under him flickering. No wonder he called out your name instead.

You felt the familiar shake of your hands every time your phone dinged; Simon’s dreary tone was evident through his dry “On the way” text. You ushered a day of your children’s life into their cartoon-themed backpacks, innocent smiles adorning their skin, doe-like eyes of brown, far too familiar to Simon’s staring up at you.

The sound of his car scraping into your paved driveway almost made you feel like throwing up, the nerves of seeing him combined with the already present pit of anxiety due to your date later turning you into one big shaky mess as you brushed it off as “too much caffeine”.

The echo of his car door slamming shut rung through your ears, staining you with the reiteration that your ex-husband was now at your door, heavy fists knocking upon the wood. The image you saw of him in your mind morphed back to reality as you stared at him, a blank expression on your face.

“Hi, love.”

“Hi, Simon.”

Your frown was clear, the pet name you were so used to becoming a distant memory in the past few months. It was a hole you were attempting to fill, to clear yourself away from his teasing tongue and faux impression of a healthy relationship. You were divorced for a reason, you knew that, but as you gazed upon the lack of life in his skin, it was almost like he was holding a mirror up to you.

“Daddy!” You watched as your 5-year-old, Ella, practically leapt into his hefty frame, his hands coiling around her like second nature. You could feel his warmth, the heat that would build in your stomach when you felt those same digits touch you.

“Hi sweetheart,” his voice gruff, yet tone lighter as he placed a delicate kiss on the skin of her forehead, “You miss me?”

She nodded, her face buried in the hem of his neck as your other child cooed from the bouncy chair, tubby legs attempting to wheel himself to the door.

“There’s my boy,” Simon practically cooed as he placed Ella down, bounding inside as he lifted the toddler out, grabby arms reaching out to pull at Simon’s locks, gentle tugs causing you to laugh.

Your voice cut through the scene like glass. Why would you want to destroy such a happy moment? Weren’t you supposed to be reuniting? Just say it, tell Simon you want him to come home, that you need him.

“This is Ella’s bag,” you speak, holding up the pink Minnie Mouse bag, “And this is Toby’s.” Your son giggled as he muffled out the words, “Transformers”.

Simon nodded, “Are you doing anything tonight?”

Ella practically screeched, “Mummy’s going on a date!” The thrill of her laughter that followed only seemed to make the situation more awkward.

“A date?” Simon’s voice was deadly, the hair raising on your arms as you shook your head, a tight smile on your suddenly dry lips.

“No, no, nothing like that. Just catching up with an old colleague of mine.”

“But he’s a boy, Mummy,” Ella giggled. Who was raising your daughter to be such a big mouth? Your face formed an annoyed look, eyebrows raising as a line of wrinkles crinkled against your forehead, your pointer fingers massaging your temples.

“An old colleague?” Simon practically gasped. Had he met him at your old work Xmas parties?

“Let’s get you guys in the car.” You fumbled with Toby’s car seat as you strapped him in, your nimble fingers shaking with anxiety before you shut the door, pressing a kiss against the window before wiping away the minimal residue of dirt. Gross.

“Who is he?” His tone was acerbic like he was looking for an argument. How dare you try and replace him? He was your husband, the father of your two kids? Have you seen this random man before? Had he fucked you?

“God, Simon-“

“Who is he?” Simon was relentless, bullying his way into getting the answers as his arms folded across his chest, tattoos practically screaming at you too.

“His name’s Andrew. I ran into him at a coffee shop a few weeks back and he just wanted to catch up. That’s it.”

A loud scoff sounded in the air. “You mean that geezer from that corporate job you hated? The one who didn’t know it was weird to blatantly stare down your dress when you were standing next to your fucking husband?”

“He didn’t stare down my dress! You’re not my husband anymore, Simon. I can see who I want.”

“I don’t want our children to grow up thinking they have multiple dads.”

You’ll admit, that stung.

“Multiple dads? You’re out of your mind. The only reason they would ever believe they have multiple dads is if their real one stopped showing up. And where have you been, Simon? When have you shown up?”

Simon held his tongue, the warmth of the metallic taste gashing through his teeth as he practically snarled past you. “I’ll bring them back tomorrow.”

The dress you wore was practically suffocating you as you tucked your stomach in. Simon never minded the change in your figure after motherhood, he found himself liking it even more. He loved knowing that his seed put you through that, that he made you swell with his children, and he brought out the glow in your cheeks and the delicate stretch marks that laced your hips.

Andrew was nice. His tone was comforting as he walked to your door, ushering you to his car as he insisted you could order whatever you wanted. He was handsome, the salt and pepper hues of his hair settling your insecurity.

“We’ll take the Pinot Noir,” he spoke, looking at you with an almost arrogant sheer in his blue eyes. You only liked white. Simon knew that just like he knew everything about y-

You’re not with Simon anymore. You had to realise that. Maybe that’s why you brought Andrew home, let him shove his cock (that was a lot smaller than what you were used to) inside your heat, as you let out moans you had mimicked from the porn you watched with the actor that resembled far too much of your ex-husband.

Simon's fingers gripped the steering wheel early the next morning, your two children snuggled up in the backseat as he drove back to his old house, your old home. He wasn’t a man who gave up easy, he would show you, prove to you that you made a mistake. You needed each other.

Hold on. You don’t drive a red car?

His car lurched into the entrance of your home, nearly ramming into the garage as he shoved it in park, rolling down the two back windows slightly for air as he dug around in the small side compartment of his car.

The familiar gold key he had stolen from you the night he packed up all his stuff stared back at him, practically egging him on. Go on Simon, march in there. So he did. His hand rattled against the door knob, glancing back to peak into the car for a second before he slammed the door shut.

Your body froze. Were you being robbed? No. It was only Simon. A very angry-looking Simon. You stood, the white sheet barely shielding your naked body as he took in the sight of the man next to you, his hands wrapping around his shoulders as he practically ripped him out of bed, flinging him onto the floor as he grunted, eyes reared with hatred.

“Simon, what the fuck are you doing? WHERE ARE THE KIDS?”

Andrew groaned, on the floor, covering his groin as Simon chucked the masculine clothes at his head, the thin boxers soiled across the man’s scalp as he trembled.

“Our kids are asleep in the car, waiting for their Mummy to come to the zoo with them.” Simon’s words were despicable, laced with an acrimonious tone, small particles of spit seething through his lips as stared at you.

He turned to the man, a giant frame staggering over the top of him. “Get the fuck out, and if you wake up our kids when you go past, I will personally put a bullet straight in the middle of your skull,” he said, pushing a thick digit against his forehead as Andrew rushed out, clothes barely on before you felt the front door shut, a cry of apologises leaving your lips as you tried to assist him but Simon only held you back, a tight grip coiling around your arm.

“What the fuck was that? How’d you get in?” You couldn’t even place the words to say, humiliation roaring through you as you snuggled the sheet closer to you, away from his peering eyes.

“It’s time to be a family again, don’t you think love?”

[hoseoksluna]

A CELEBRATION OF 2K FOLLOWERS — PLEASANT, GOOD AND MERCIFUL | jjk

pairing: non-idol!boyfriend!jungkook x f. reader 

genre: smut, angst, fluff — the whole package

word count: 8.9k

summary: jungkook wanted to make the night better for you—but what he didn't expect is that he would come across his true, unabashed self while doing so.

taglist: join | cp: wattpad, ao3

warnings: jungkook, physical violence, jungkook is wearing that mesh top and that exact outfit (god, help me) and he's horny (god, help me again), abandonment issues, dissociation, panic mode, fear, swear words, dom/sub dynamics, protected sex, oral sex (f. & m. receiving), deepthroat:), teasing, pda, jungkook smokes and jungkook uses his busan accent (you have been warned), religion, praying, anxiety, hyper-independence, trust issues, begging, a little bit of a praise kink — barely, cowgirl:).

note: because we hit 2k incredible followers, i prepared this for you, my babies. a full fucking package of drama, smut, angst and fluff—all from jungkook's own pov!!!!! this is all for you bc i love you sm. thank you, guys, so much for being here with me, sticking around and reading my stupid fics. enjoy this one shot and let me know what you think. i'm sending you so many kisses until you get sick of me. seriously. i won't stop. i love you. MWAHMWAHMWAHMWAHMHWA.

It is a lucid dream, really, the way the lustrous colors of the fireworks bloom across the charcoal sky. They intertwine with the darkened clouds, like vines of wild flowers, that try and fail to remain hidden and Jungkook thinks you burst with even richer, emotive colors. 

With your kaleidoscopic glitter on the high points of your cheeks, and the tiny stars that you stuck on each arch of your brow. 

He can feel the vibration of the deep bass, belonging to the music, coursing down your chest as he stands behind you, drifting his hands down the upper half of your body while the rest of the strangers are hypnotized by the rapper on stage that he has very little knowledge of. The reason why he paid for the tickets, pumped a full tank of gas, drove you all the way to the countryside outside of the normality of your daily life and never let go of your hand—despite the fact they grew uncomfortably clammy due to the stifling heat—was because you loved the man. The vulgar headliner, whose lyrics nearly made his eyes fall out of his sockets once he fully and consciously listened to the songs that you always sing when you do your makeup or hum at random times when you’re doing your own thing. 

And what’s worse, it made his dick hard when he heard you scream out the swear words and the filthy imagery painted in the vivaciousness of the songs.

You, who scarcely cursed. 

Who omitted the vulgarity when rapping along. 

He doesn’t think he ever caught those words coming out of your mouth. Not even when he was balls-deep in you. 

Multiple times. 

It had only been four months ago when he found you and his long silent heart gained your voice. It was the sweetest, most languid sound that ever graced his ears and in an instant, you became a fleshly sanctuary of serenity. One he would find himself needing more often than he liked because the truth is—Jungkook doesn’t date. 

He considers relationships an unnecessary house of pain. If he spends a long time there, he forgets what the outside world looks like. Forgets how to get home. Forgets the roads and the rules and moralities of life and society because, deep down, he lets go of himself for the girl. 

He would kill a soul if she found herself needing it. Or at least destroy one so she would have a peace of mind. 

Break hands and break noses of people who looked at her wrong. 

That’s who he is and as much as he tried to change it, he failed every time. Failed like the clouds up above. His effort to stay hidden from you vanished into thin air because you would invariably find him and his heart would start praying with your voice. The pathetic thing would beg for mercy from the world. His knees would wobble and he’d let them sink right in front of you—all because of your deeply inert calmness and briskness that would, strangely, pour the nectar of mollification over his bloodstream. 

And he gave in to you because you didn’t ask, nor expect, anything from him. 

You didn’t do what the others did. 

You were independent and so full of life, of a different world, one he wanted to take a peek inside. 

And what he didn’t predict was that the road would be molded for his feet. And once he kissed you and learned the ins and outs of your intellect and the chambers of your heart, he still remembered the streets that line the outside world—its names, even. He remembered the address of his own apartment building, the number to his door and to the pass code. 

And so did you. 

You didn’t ask him to kill for you. And you didn’t ask him for tickets to see your favorite artists. 

He did it because he unreservedly loved you. 

And here you are, giggling, rubbing your little ass up against his groin and he detects happiness prickling his nerve endings. His hands are enveloped, snugly, as if no one was around and the artists traveled across the country for you, around your waist while your hands are up in the air, pointed fingers erect, dipping up and down to the rhythm of the music. 

And what he could never predict, not even in a million years—he’s enjoying himself. Feels the traces of the same vibrations ricocheting off your back into his chest, where the song enlivens him. 

He’s enjoying himself because you are enjoying yourself, brimming with elation and the radiance of your smile as you laugh, dance and scream out curse words that he’s equally enjoying hearing. 

Jungkook makes a mental note to pull those sounds out of you later in the early hours. 

And then you turn around, surprising him. You cup the side of his neck while you point that index finger in his face, screaming out the lyrics. And Jungkook regards it so overwhelming that he can only stare. Doesn’t know the lyrics to scream them back at you and make your experience better, but he’s learning them as he’s consuming them from you, his eyes tracing over each movement of your mouth that engraves them in his brain. He feels your hips moving under his palm at the bottom of your spine and when you roll your body forward, colliding into his like a star that meets its lover once only to never see it again, and brush your lips against his—he’s so horny and so in love with you that his eyes wet, his emotions rushing in and clouding his sight. 

The background fades out, fully, into the charcoal of the night, the colored lights softening and it’s just you that is the distribution of incandescence for the people present—and for him. And then you go down, dragging your hands down his stomach and his thighs, only to spring right up, grab his hips and make that collision happen—against the laws of the universe. 

A different star. A special one. 

Out of his darkened peripheral view, he can sense the audience having a way better time than they did before you turned around to face him. But Jungkook doesn’t give a fuck. 

Not when his cock is so tight in his pants. 

Thankfully, you’re obscuring it with the shape of your delightful body. He thinks he’s going to run with you to his car, pump more adrenaline into your body, so you can refresh the drowsy grass with a pristine layer of dew through the sound of your laughter. He also wonders if you’re wet yourself underneath that gray dress of yours and just as he’s about to lean over and yell that question into your ear, you turn around and get ready for the next song. 

And catch the glance of some guy to your right as you do. Jungkook grits his jaw because you linger for a second longer that he doesn’t particularly like.

A certain fever poisons his veins, but at the same time he feels the pinpricks of a cold sweat at the top of his spine. Who the fuck does he think he is, staring at his girl like that? 

But when he follows that line of the half broken gaze, he finds the guy’s slender face scrunched up in disgust. 

Oh, Jungkook might be ready to throw some hands and get him kicked out of this place, tell the cops it was all him so you can continue enjoying yourself in his arms. He’s seen some people sticking their tongues down their partner’s throat and he’s giving you a dirty look for dancing? 

This can easily be his very last night alive. 

Instinctively, Jungkook bunches up his fists and he’s ready to go after him, but you scream out and emit out your excitement, taking a deep breath to go absolutely mad as the rapper begins to perform the song that he’s heard you jamming out to the most. You take his hands, beaming at him from behind, and uncurl them on your tummy. Your glance was too brief and there’s still a furrow to his brows and now he worries you think he’s being a buzzkill. He doesn’t want to ruin the night for you, so he draws in closer to the crook of your neck and begins to dance, softly, with you. Your hands intertwine with his and you bang them in the air, jumping up and down at the bridge of the song that the headliner hypes up. 

And then you’re singing in a different language and he’s done for, his heart tightening in his chest. The one he’s heard your mother talk in over the phone while you replied in English. Jungkook squeezes you so hard and you let him, your smile growing. Your voice is more throatier and low-pitched and Jungkook senses your foreignness swathing his cock and he knows there’s a bigger tent in his pants. He presses it against you, makes you feel it and you throw your delicious ass. 

His eyes nearly go cross-eyed as he rolls them back, tilting his head. The wind sweeps across the sweat of his exposed forehead, sifting through his hair and he can’t wait any longer. Desire has overpowered the poison in his veins in such a mighty way and he begins to stand in the middle of a crossroad. 

Wait forty five minutes until the rapper finishes the show and then get stuck in the crowd as everyone tries to leave at once. 

Or wait two more minutes and then bolt to the car to fuck your brains out. There’s a higher chance you and him won’t be caught sinning in the backseat. It’s midnight and the villagers are asleep. And in the forty minutes, while everyone enjoys the last show, he can make you come so many times and ascertain that your experience will be heightened and ultimately better. 

He’s also sure you’ll be able to hear him—if he leaves the window open a little bit. 

He’s ready to turn you around, the decision throbbing in his sternum, but you make the move first. Swiveling on your feet, your body faces him, though your head doesn’t. Once again, he follows your gaze. You scowl at the guy, your brows knitting and your glossy mouth rounding before moving into the shape of the lyrics. You throw a dirty look his way one last time and Jungkook laughs in pride, his heart constricting in the love he bears for you, and he pulls you in, disposed to kiss you. You wrap your arms around his neck and open your mouth just as he kisses you—and it’s you who darts out their tongue, rolling it against his. Jungkook squeezes your bum, slapping it gently—and it’s simultaneous the way you and him both peek at the guy’s reaction. 

The fucker is grinning. 

You give him a vulgar gesture, the moonless blue light enveloping around your middle finger. 

Jungkook laughs so hard that heads turn in his direction and he’s fucking delighted. You devour it with your mouth, sucking his lips so intensely that he stops breathing. He senses you sealing it in him and he can’t wait any longer. 

He needs you and he tells you. 

Breaking the lip lock, he peppers kisses on the sensitive spot behind your ear, wafting his hot breath there. He feels the gooseflesh on your arm right upon his ear, too, and electricity courses down his stomach. Fuck, he loves it so much. Thinks you’re so incredible and he wants to fuck that fact into your guts. 

“Let’s get out of here. I want you,” he rasps, drifting his hand up your bum to the ends of your hair, bunching them in his fist. “I want to give you this dick. You deserve it.” 

You suck in a harsh breath and withdraw to look at him. He bites his lip at the way his words painted a palette of such flushed beauty on your face, using colors this festival has never fucking seen. And his mouth ends rise in a prideful smile, not for his ability, but for your body. For the way it’s able to react to him so wonderfully. 

And he blushes when you begin to mouth the lyrics again while dipping to the seat of the amphitheater and sliding his blazer over his shoulders. 

He knows why you did that. 

And you validate his knowledge when you take his hand and lead him away from the concert, keeping close to him just to be cautious. 

You did it to camouflage the evidence of his arousal for you. 

And when you walk by the guy, you let go of his hand. Throw both middle fingers in his face. “You wish you had someone to leave with, huh?” 

The fucker puts his dirty hand on you, stopping you from walking away, and Jungkook doesn’t fucking hesitate. Like a bolt of lightning, he grabs his collar and fumes in his face. 

“What makes you fucking think you can touch my girl, huh? Juk go sip na?” he snarls, shaking him, his Busan dialect impulsively spilling out, darkening his voice and the latter question—‘Do you want to die?’ He watches a tendril of challenge line his eyes with murkiness and what happens next is too fast. 

Too fast for his liking. 

Knuckles collide with his cheek and at the rapid, unexpected and jarring contact, his lip ring cuts his gums. Jungkook grunts at the twinge that overpowers the throbbing on the side of his face, metal percolating through the aftertaste in his mouth, but he doesn’t let go of the guy’s shirt. In fact, he tightens his hold. Seethes. Is about to push him off and leave before things get even uglier, but then he feels your hands on his back and his heart stops, your voice mute, despite the fact your whole face twists in fear and is smeared with harrowing emotions that he’s never seen on you. Shrinks at the sight of your wet, bulging eyes. Of one singular tear grazing your lower lashes in a caress before plopping onto the wildflower meadow of the glitter on your cheek. 

“Get back,” he tells you, despite the swelling of his own emotions at your state of mind. But you don’t comply in time, unclench your fist and step back because far too soon, in the middle of the distraction, another collision bursts in this impenetrable darkness. 

Falling into you or falling for you even deeper, he can’t tell the difference within the numbing pain and his temper coaxes his exceedingly too easy tears to blur his vision. You don’t topple back on your hands, for Jungkook catches you in time with a strength that you somehow help him remember that he possesses. From the force of the guy’s jab, he was only pushed into you, but it doesn’t diminish the grave mistake he made. 

One he will pay for. 

Straightening you, Jungkook guides you towards the edge of the amphitheater and you step back, at last, startled. Turning around, he swings his fist into the guy’s face and he whimpers like a little bitch. 

One hit for your dignity. 

A second one for your tears. 

And the guy would’ve received a third and a fourth one had he not been held back by different pairs of arms all of a sudden. But he shakes them off. Pushes the guy back to his seat. He lands awkwardly on his tailbone with a hard thud and moans in pain. Suits him right for thinking he’s allowed to touch you, make you cry and remain unharmed. 

Jungkook shakes his head, his chest rising with heavy breaths and numbing, adrenaline-infused fury. “Sit here and keep your fucking hands to yourself, gaesaekki. Who the fuck do you think you are, making my girl cry by hitting me?” 

The music cuts out and the rapper hollers. Jungkook turns around and finds all of the attention of the audience and the headliner on him. Doesn’t want to put you on the spot like that, so he rolls his eyes in annoyance, finds your rounded ones and tips his chin further towards the exit, signaling to you to walk that way, so no one gets to look at you. You’re still standing by the edge of the amphitheater with your tear-stained cheeks and his heart aches, though once he sees that you’re covered by the shadows, he lifts a palm towards the stage and strides off, placing a hand on the small of your back and leading you towards the grassy hill. 

People are fucking testing him and he’s not in the mood. Not in the slightest. 

He’d go with his original plan—take your hand and run with you to his car, but he needs to cool off. His anger is sapping all the delight he gained from your microcosm of joy and he doesn’t want to ruin the night more than he already has. Jungkook curls an arm around your neck, tugging you flush to his side as you strut together with no one around. Lifts your chin so he can inspect how you’re feeling on your face. 

Your cheeks are glimmering, damply, carmine in the yellow light, accompanied by the faint burn of the stars up above, but your eyes have lost their great spark and you’re no longer beaming. They trace over his deadened cheek and mouth and you whimper, stopping dead in your tracks and burying your face in his chest. You wrap your arms around his middle, a hand stroking his back—and Jungkook feels himself drifting to a state of coma. The rapper’s lines decline the harder you nuzzle your face in his mesh-clad pecs and he can’t move his own hands, can’t hug you back, his panic cascading down his sternum, which he senses your warm weight upon. A ringing noise fills his ears, but he can’t wilt. He has to put you first and make things right. 

But his body doesn’t listen. 

He wills strength into his muscles, lifting his head towards the unmerciful heavens and letting your voice sound out his prayer. You evidently need physical support and emotional reassurement and he can’t give that to you out of his own weakened will. Not when he needs it so despairingly and eminently because he’s hollowed out on the inside. Not when he can’t hear a damn thing owing to the ringing in his ears. 

He can’t ask you for help, so he lets you pray through his heart to his father’s God. 

But nothing happens.

Radio silence. 

White noise. 

A feeble, miniature whine loosens from him. He’s not sure if you heard it and he hopes you didn’t, and for that sole reason—he does the unthinkable. 

He begins to pray with his own voice. 

Because there’s nothing else to do. 

Give me strength. To be there for her and not mess this up more than I already have. Fix me for her and help me make this night better for her. 

The tiniest of lights against your face unbolts ajar in him, vines of the flowers of mitigation blooming from that sliver of open space—right into his arms that abruptly lift and wrap around your shoulders, pulling you as close as humanly possible. 

The ringing lessens. 

And then his lips move. 

He kisses your forehead, dwelling there for a moment, basking in the fact that his prayer worked, and mentally, he ejects the trepidation and agitation away and out of his system, though the fear loiters in his ribcage. The fear that the mistake he made is unfixable. And there’s no thrumming of the bass to distract it. 

What’s worse, his lower regions still ask for a release. He might not be as hard as he was, but the pressure of an ungratified arousal still palpitates in his groin. The unlit disorder of his feelings encourages the blood to pump his cock erect, slowly, and his breath quivers—as well as his body. 

The shakes are back. He knows them, intimately, from his past relationships. Feels the long-gone ghost of abandonment catching up to him—and he fears, terribly, that you’ve somehow learned its ways and you’re about to use them on him because of the way he ruined your night. Cover him from head to toe until his mind numbs and he forgets, foolishly, the direction to his home. 

To solitude. 

He lets go of you and nudges you towards his car. Lets you walk the rest of the short way. But he notices that your forehead, the place he poured his frail love upon, is smudged with blots of blood, the little stars on the arches of your brows crooked and devalued. He’s barely able to get out a cigarette out of his pack and place it in the center of his parted lips, his heart cracking and turning painfully. Though, somehow he does it—he gnites it to life, takes a big drag and hides his hands behind his back. Hides his shakes away from you. Because it’s easier to ruin yourself than it is to give. 

You don’t know about them. And in the four months he’s been dating you, he didn’t have a reason to tell you about them. Thought they were lost for all eternity, the tables turned—them forgetting about him. 

But now he realizes how naive he was. Begs his shoulder to stop trembling from the impact of his deeply-embossed issues. Wishes they were as beautiful as you when you gaze back at him with the weight of your love and he feels it, swiveling to lean against the side of his car. 

It’s a life jacket that straps him down. Abates his shakes. And he’s able to take another drag, pursing his lips in a small ‘O’ when he exhales the smoke, so it doesn’t get near you. 

Your hands are behind your back, too. They support your tailbone against the solidness of the vehicle. It reminds him that he’s glad he hurt the guy, but now he wishes that you weren’t such a delicious brat because he could’ve made you happier and pinker with the amount of orgasms he would’ve given you. Would’ve driven you home and washed you clean. Would’ve made you a late night snack to bed and held you while you replayed the songs in your head. 

Nevertheless, it’s him who needs to be held. 

Foolish, his sensitivity. Another thing you don’t know about. And he’s not too sure, at this very moment, if he’s able to let you in this closely. Let you hold him and stop, ultimately, his shakes. The fear of possibly letting that happen, only to get left behind after, paralyzes him on the spot and even though he can’t breathe, he still manages to flick the ash off his cigarette and puff on it, desperately. Needs the smoke to hold him down, mollify the raging disorder in him—the macrocosm that is too gritty and stony for your delicate feet. 

He allows a full, audible sigh to leave him and he hangs his head, but he shouldn’t have done that. 

Because he divulged to you how fucked up he is. 

You lift a hand to him. “Come here, Oppa.” 

But he can’t. He can’t get close. His legs are numb and the thick-soled boots his feet are shod in are too heavy. His fear keeps them planted that safe distance apart. And Jungkook plays it cool. Licks his lips, lifts his head and sucks on his cigarette. Feels something dripping down his jaw and he wipes his hand on the bone. His cheeks hollow out and the smoke gets in his eyes, stinging them, blurring the spots of blood on his fingers

A different type of wetness coats them now. 

“You wanna go home?” he asks, then cringes at his stupid words. The smoke makes zig zag patterns in the air as his hands shake harder. And then the breath he takes is too difficult. His chin wobbles, the tears rush in and he can’t stop it. “They’re still—” A soft sigh, a whimper. His breathing speeds up because it seems as though his lungs ask for too much air and he can’t inhale enough of it. The tears threaten to pour out and crown his fear. Ruin his life. But he keeps going as if nothing is happening. “Making hot dogs in that food stand over there. The night’s not over.”

And then he’s sobbing, sinking to his knees as his legs give out under all that weight of his issues compressing him. The cigarette burns on the concrete, as abandoned as he soon will be. And his hands feel the rough material of his jeans, needing something to bring him back to a painless reality. He’s tasting blood and the fumes of the smoke and then he sees your sneakers in front of his knees, the pink Calvin Klein shoes that he bought you last week, and he sits back, feels his head being lifted, feels himself being pushed to a point of absolute submission. 

And that’s not something he’s able to stop either. 

You sit down on his thighs, sinking your fingers behind his ears and into his hair, forcing him to look at you and he has to blink multiple times in order for his sight to clear up. Sees, while he whimpers pathetically, his bloodstained, fearful girl seeing him. The real him. The flawed, broken him. 

“Gguk, Ggukie, what’s happening? Talk to me, baby, please.” 

He only sobs. Can’t get a word out. Because you’re here and you’re going to leave him—now that you’ve seen that he’s not a half of the man you pertain him to be. That he’s weak, pathetic and emotional. That he has problems that he doesn’t like to talk about. Unresolved issues that will affect you and guide you out of his life. 

You press him to your neck, holding him to you, and you shush him, gently, rocking him from side to side. Run your wet hand up his hair on the back of his head while the other one rubs large circles on his back. The light opens wider in him—and as he listens to the lullaby of your voice, it distracts him from the fear. It stills the ringing in his ears and blesses his arms with strength that he uses, without thinking, to wrap around you. 

Something lukewarm plops onto the side of his aching cheek as he, little by little, calms down, and he realizes it’s your precious tears. The salt to his wound. 

You’ve cried too much when you should’ve been laughing so hard that you’d be sick from it. 

“What happened? Tell me.” 

Your hand caresses his bad cheek, careful around the bump that your feather-light touch traces, and it’s how he finds out it’s even there. He finds out his bleeding is from his mouth because you wipe at it and clean your fingers on your dress. And then you’re back to stroking his hair, your long fingernails scratching, tenderly, his scalp, spreading alleviation down his body. 

You’re patient and gentle, tolerant and kind, despite the fact you deserve an explanation and he’s unable to give it to you. 

It’s what makes his rationality snap back to normalcy and he tugs your dress down, withdrawing from you and helping you stand to your feet. He’s here to make your night better, not unleash his problems at you. He takes your purse dangling from your hand, replacing it with his palm, and hauls you towards his car. 

But you stay put and he bounces back to you as if he were on a leash. 

And maybe he is—because you stayed at the horrendous scene of his worst. Bound to you in a way that he’s too drowsy to comprehend. Even his fear is tired, scurrying away to some shadowed corner of his soul, instead of attacking him and remaking the scene. 

“Give me my purse back and let me buy you that hot dog,” you say, with a hint of a remarkable harshness that makes him submit to you on a higher level. Something positive that he can’t pinpoint breezes through his clavicles and he wipes his knuckles across his eyes, shyness encasing him like steel—like a shield, giving him the hope that maybe, just maybe, he can overcome this with you. 

You didn’t leave. You didn’t disappear. You didn’t wrinkle your nose. 

You held him. Cleaned the blood off his mouth. Put him, somehow, back together like a puzzle piece. Knew how to do it without needing to look at the full picture. 

He hands you the chain strap of your purse—and it’s more of a symbol of his submission to you. Of the acquiescence and the meekness that you seeped into his pores by your touch. And, oddly, he feels whole. 

His walls are broken down, but he feels whole. Confident, soft, and manly. 

Because he has you and you’re here to take care of him. 

You’re quick on your feet as you yank him by the two of his fingers. He follows behind you, but all he can look at is your pendulous, brown, leather purse, suspended from your small hand, and how that shift of the dynamic in yours and his relationship occurred by that exchange. How it’s felicitous, pretty and sturdy. How he can come back to it and remember it—if he ever wavers. Remember that it’s the cure to his shakes. 

Letting himself be taken care of by you. 

The festival has ended and the ladies at the food stand are packing up to leave. It overwhelms him how much time his issues have stolen, but when he watches you go from nice to bratty in a millisecond, convincing them to make that last hot dog from him because he feels faint and needs some greasy food in order to get home and they comply, his love for you rises sky-high. Your own expression of love for him tidies up the debris from his broken walls and he’s so warm all over that he feels as though he’ll explode. 

You pay for the hot dog and leave a huge tip, thanking them with a smile that makes his heart quiver in a way that is pleasant, good and merciful. You hand it to him and it’s another exchange that wets his eyes, that makes him dip to your mouth and give you a chaste kiss that you more than deserve. You coo, deeply, into the kiss, and it’s a sound that he’s never heard from you. A dominant, prideful sound that stirs the butterflies in his stomach that carry your name on their wings to beat so ferociously that he can’t breathe. 

In a different way now. Pleasant, good and merciful. 

You walk away from the stand and sit with him on the sidewalk. Jungkook lets you have the first bite, sliding your leg over his as he holds the hot dog to your mouth. People are exiting the amphitheater in hefty crowds, but he doesn’t care. Can’t peel his eyes off of you as you open your mouth as wide as you can and take a big bite, whining and fanning your mouth due to how boiling hot it is. He can see the half chewed up sausage on your tongue and if he didn’t love you, he’d look away now, but he can’t because he does love you and your secret, indecent ways enthrall him enough that he can’t help but to kiss you again. Kiss the ketchup and mustard off of your upper lip. Clean you up like you cleaned up his debris. Blow on the sausage in your mouth a little to make you laugh and you do more than that. You chortle so hard that you nearly choke on it and he laughs, too, strangely. 

Thinks the hot dog is the best one he has had in a long time solely because you had that first bite. 

It fuels him with energy, yet he feels lightweight. Feels as though everything’s going to be okay, despite the fact those issues in him are a persisting threat and they can be triggered anytime. But something tells him you can handle it. 

You weren’t afraid to throw your middle fingers in a guy’s face because he had a problem with your public display of affection. Weren’t afraid of Jungkook’s ugliness. Weren’t afraid to fight the ladies so you could fill up his stomach with his favorite food. 

You can handle it. 

It’s all he thinks about as he drives you to his apartment with his hand on your thigh. 

And it’s all he thinks about when he kneels before you while he takes off your sneakers and lingers there, scattering kisses just below the hem of your dress. And you know where this is going because you pull him back by his hair and as he looks up at you like this, a peasant to a queen, his heart hammers so intensively that all he wants to do is cry while he makes love to you. 

He came across his salvation—in the worst of it all. 

“Let me clean you up,” you hush out, and Jungkook doesn’t understand because you already have. Internally. And outwardly all the same. He can’t postpone this any longer. He has to give back to you, give you his gratitude on a silver platter. He needs to do it because if he doesn’t, he’ll crumble. 

“No,” he rasps in a whisper, closing his mouth over the inner of your thigh, placing a singular kiss there before he returns his gaze back to you. “Let me, please.” 

Maybe you can see his desperation in the glossiness of his eyes and it awakens your pity for him, for in a blink you nod, and for the second time today—he doesn’t hesitate to do the next thing. He fists the fabric of your dress and yanks it up over your tummy, nuzzling his nose into your clothed mound. Pink, like your sneakers. 

He inhales you. Inhales the beginning of your arousal—and the beginning of a brand new scene that will color his life in a soft manner. 

Dragging the waistband of your panties down your legs, he tosses them on top of your shoes. Yearns for your legs to part your royalty for him and in order for that to happen, he carries you, bridal-style, over to the white of his bedding. Pretends it’s clouds that he’s laying you down upon because he’s about to make sure he’ll bring heaven down to you. 

The heaven that helped him give back to you earlier in his worst. 

He hooks his fingers under your socks and slides them off, one by one. Makes you sit up to rid you of your dress. Ruins your ponytail in the process, but he quickly fixes it by lugging your hair tie down your length, rubbing his blood away on your forehead with his saliva-coated thumb once he places you back down. 

And it’s not an expression of his dominance, the way he disburdened you from the daytime. That has long ceased to exist in him since that exchange. 

It’s an expression of his servitude to you. 

Of his lessening and your heightening. 

And it’s pleasant, good and merciful. It doesn’t feel as though he’s giving all of himself. On the contrary, it feels as though he has just discovered his true self. 

He won’t forget the address of his home because he’s not staying over anywhere. 

He is at home. 

And your folds revealing your royalty as he spreads your legs is the feeling of homeliness. His mouth on your warm, swollen clit is the epitome of all domesticity and the only thing he can fear at this very moment is his future homesickness if he rips his mouth off your cunt. 

And you getting wet so easily just from being taken care of like a queen confirms and validates all that he’s feeling. 

And he lets you know. 

Peasants are savages and he eats your pussy like it. Sucks on your clit with a verve that surprises him and makes his cock tight uncomfortably in his pants, especially when you make those deep, guttural noises of yours. You’re not the soft girl he knew that omitted swear words in her favorite filthy songs. You’re a vulgar woman, rolling her hips into his mouth as he lets you use his tongue. 

And he stops—just to beg for those words. 

“Let me hear you swear for me, please.” 

You whimper, flopping into the mattress, only to raise your torso using your elbows. You grip the hair on the back of his neck and hump his mouth, but then you suck in a breath and draw back, sobered up all of a sudden. 

“Does your lip hurt?” you ask, rounding your brows in pity and Jungkook’s heart quickens at the portrayal of your care towards him. His senses flick to that faint throbbing on the side of his pierced lip and he perceives that he forgot about his physical pain. His cheek throbs as well, but it’s all bearable. 

You help him remember. 

“It doesn’t hurt, baby.” 

But the hand that gripped his hair slides over to his lip, caressing it with a thumb. “But it’s swollen. I don’t want to hurt you.” 

He also remembers that he was bleeding from the same place and he checks your folds if he spattered them. With the same digit, he runs it over them, finding no taints of it. Sends a quick, internal thank you to God. 

You’re pure—he doesn’t want to mar you. 

“You’re not hurting me. You’re saving me,” he utters without a breath, the words more raw than anything he’s ever said to you, alongside his first, secretly sensitive I love you. And while he doesn’t let his lungs lift, you inhale all of the air for him, wafting it over him as you pout ever so slightly. And then you caress him—the good side of his face and he does something he’s never expected to do. 

He invites you in. 

Rests his head on the apex of your thigh while you continue to brush your hand in circles. Over his cheekbone, his temple, long strands of hair and ear. An ouroboros of love so unsullied and intact that the world’s upcoming destruction could never afflict it, never even come near it. Jungkook pushes your leg back and darts out his tongue. Mirrors your circles over your clit and the gentleness he uses to do it with pull such alluring moans from the bottom of your throat that he’s nearly at the peak of his own orgasm. 

And it just makes him hungrier. 

He turns you over to your side and closes that leg of yours over his head. Flattens his tongue over your clit and eats it like his life depends on it, one hand holding yours while the other slips to your heat, rubbing the hole until you go mad. And he’s not holding your hand to keep you bound. He’s holding your hand to keep his sanity and not come in his pants like a boy. 

You move your hips so his fingers enter you and you scream out at the sudden fullness. Jungkook drips in sweat, your walls slowly stretching around him sending tingles down his spine, and he’s moaning when you fuck yourself on his digits. 

It doesn’t take long for you to come. 

It is the final piece to your own puzzle and your orgasm thunders through you, the swear words tumbling out of your mouth like refreshing raindrops. You interweave them into his name, adorning it, making it prettier, and Jungkook is so overwhelmed with pleasure that all he can do is suck on your clit until you convulse so hard that you can’t take it anymore.

You may have lost your spark earlier, but now that you’ve come so magnificently, you’ve become it. The star of light isn’t something that gets attached to your eyes whenever you’re happy anymore. 

You’re the queen of all firelights and constellations. 

He lets you lie on your side as he hauls himself up to face you. He touches your skin besprinkled with the beads of perspiration, kneading the fleshy parts and ending up at your neck. Your eyes are closed when he reposes his head on his pillow besides yours and he detects his pleasure creating a new kind of joy within him, one that etches a lopsided smile on his face. 

You said the words for him while your orgasm coursed through your body. He wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“Thank you,” he whispers against your lips, kissing you with a certain roughness that makes you whine and withdraw. You give him a playful dirty look, fragrant with your love, and Jungkook’s smile deepens. 

“Gentle,” you reprimand, fluttering your eyes back shut. “Don’t be a masochist.” 

He laughs through his nose, his heart constricting, and he kisses you with the gentleness you spoke of just to show you he can do it. 

You hum in appreciation and Jungkook thinks this must be the best day of his life, despite all. 

“There we go,” you praise, sleepily. “Gentle, so your boo-boo doesn’t hurt.” 

He caresses your face in circles in your fashion, watches you visibly relax and your eyes close all the way, your eyelashes brushing against him. His sleep-kissed queen. 

“You wanna sleep?” he asks, fondling the shell of your ear. He doesn’t mind if you’re too tired to take him; he’s willing to study the way your mouth parts and lets out long, restful breaths as you drift off to dreamland. 

He thinks it would be an honor. 

Everything had changed. The way he sees you, the way he loves you, the way he senses yours and his connection. The pupils of his eyes have been purified and he’s acknowledging himself with the ins and outs of his own relationship. 

Everything is new. 

You shake your head, humming out a sound of disagreement. “No, give me a second. You made me come really hard.” 

He nods, even though you can’t see him, and he sifts his fingers through your hair. Trails his kisses from your cheek to your neck and shoulder, dwelling there as you recuperate from your intense orgasm.

And then you’re swinging your leg over and straddling him. Your lids are so heavy from your little eye-shut that he silently coos at you, but your tiredness doesn’t stop you from mouthing kisses down his mesh-clad chest. From unbuckling his belt and freeing him from his pants. The mesh shirt is the only thing you keep on him. You bunch up its hem in your fist, stabilize his cock with your other and you swallow him. 

Not all the way, though. 

You rid him of his sanity because you pop your mouth, over and over, on the tip of his manhood. He feels the sound deep in his groin, right beneath your hand, and his chest can’t help but to shudder with each suction, his face scrunching. He unabashedly whimpers for you and you like his noises so much that you give him what he never asked you for. 

You do take him all the way. 

And your throat is your scent floating through the air of yours and his home. 

Heady, oriental and feminine. 

You slobber all over him, running your tongue sideways upon the veins along his length and Jungkook slinks in and out of his conscience. The pleasure you’re blessing him with brings him to a rose garden when you gag around him. The pink petals tickle his stomach, encouraging his shudders, and all he sees is you in the middle of that garden. A mighty statue of its queen—with a mouthful of cock. 

And then he has to physically pull you away from him because if he felt the tightness of your throat one more time, he’d be spurting ropes of cum down your esophagus. 

You’re feral, staring him down with a maddened smile, returning to your original position on his hips. And as delighted as he is to have you be in charge, he remembers something. 

He hasn’t put a condom on. 

“Wait.” 

Jungkook holds your waist as he rummages in his bedside table and once he finds the package he was looking for and rattles it, he finds it empty. Cold sweat trickles down the back of his neck, but he remembers something else as well. 

“Did you not put it in your purse?” he asks, the scene where he hands you the last square of the rubber for you to keep in your purse in case you get in the mood during the festival shooting out before his eyes. 

You nod. “Yeah, I think so. Can you go get it?” 

He sits up with you and kisses you, gently, prolonging the kiss until you whine and he thinks twice before provoking you. He can’t help it—you just keep saving him. 

Walking through your corridor, he sees your pink sneakers first, embellished with your panties of the same color. A smile tugs at the aching corner of his mouth, but he doesn’t mind. Thinks it heightens the experience. Bending to pick up your brown purse that he set beside your shoes, the time seems to slow down as he’s reminded of the exchange out there in the countryside. The shift of dynamics that liberated him. Jungkook grows emotional, his feelings liquifying and prickling his eyes. 

And it’s automatic and absolutely instinctual—the way he dips his mouth and kisses the leather material. 

Gently. 

Opening it, he fishes out the white square and hangs your purse on the hook among his jackets. Gives it a long, meaningful look before he returns to you. 

And you’re the one who wants to put it on him. You’re so diligent, tugging the peak of the rubber multiple times so you’re unequivocally certain that you did it right. And when you tug him, he whimpers so inferiorly that you emulate his hunger. 

You depict it so eloquently when you fight through your residual overstimulation and sink down on him, little by little. And the more inches your walls squeeze around, the more his new role settles within him. 

Peasant with his queen. 

You ride him like it. 

You bounce on him with such hard thuds that it provokes the pressure in his groin. His balls tighten so rapidly and the cinematic view of your breasts slapping against each other doesn’t really help slow down the incoming explosion of his orgasm. A glistening ring forms around his cock from your slick—and Jungkook genuinely considers, right here, right now, buying you a promise ring that will be an eternal reminder of this sublime salvation. 

And you’re as aware of the shift as he is because once you reposition your weight onto your feet, you pin his hands back and use them as leverage. Intertwine your fingers with his. His vision gets filled with spots of white. You clamp down on him with each stroke and even though he can’t move, he feels unshackled. There’s no ending to his moans. He’s so close, the pressure deepens in his groin, and he needs one more thing. 

One more thing and he’s done. 

“Kiss me,” he rasps, and you slow down, crying out, your orgasm catching up to you just the same, but he needs your attention, so he begs. “Please, baby. Kiss me.” 

Lowering yourself onto your knees, you lean forward. “Fuck, I love it when you beg. I’d give you anything you ever wanted.” 

His stomach spasms. Your nipples sail over his chest and you shudder, the mesh fabric stimulating you, and then you’re swirling your tongue around the arc of his open mouth. 

Teasing him, like the vulgar, bratty woman you are. 

Extra careful around the lip ring and his swollen flesh, healing it in a way. 

Jungkook whines your name. “Please.” 

You kiss him just once, but he needs more. Lifts his head off the pillow, chasing your mouth. You begin to swirl your hips in circles on the tip of his cock, just like your tongue, and the intense pleasure he gets from it forces him to bang his head back. 

You go for his neck. His collarbone. His nipple. 

And Jungkook can’t hold back anymore. 

His orgasm bursts in his groin and all the roses in the garden swell with freshness. He imagines he’s filling you up, instead of the condom and it elevates the momentous shocks of the explosion descending down all of his nerve endings. He hiccups and that’s it for you. You let go of his hands to massage your clit and you follow him out into that garden, his name and curse words trickling out of your mouth that lowers to his in a final, years-long kiss. 

His last rope oozes out of him at the feeling of your soft, wary tongue and he wants to weep due to the density of your care. More shrubs of roses bloom around your statue in that garden—and once again, he can’t peel his eyes off of you. 

Can’t stop brushing your hair back to see more of you. More of your rose-flushed complexion. More of the spark of your being that irradiates you from within. More of your care and love. 

And you give it to him. 

You wash out the dried blood on his face in the shower. Brush his teeth with extra care, which makes it more than difficult for him to stifle his tears. He lets you be a witness to his sensitivity and you welcome it, cradle it, hold him while the toothpaste foam numbs his achy lip. And it scares his fear away, most peculiarly. 

You hold him in bed, too, amidst the crisp, flower-scented linen of his fresh bed sheets, and you apologize. 

“I’m sorry for what happened tonight. If I hadn’t said a thing, you wouldn’t have ended up bruised and swollen,” you croak out, shifting the cold compress lower on his face, and you break into tears that trigger his. He had wished you weren’t a brat, but for a far different reason, and he tells you. 

“It’s an honor to get punched in the face for you.” He smiles through his tears and you sigh, removing the cold compress. “But I did wish things ended differently. I wanted to fuck you in my car. Keep the window open so you would hear your favorite rapper. But if things went according to my plan, you wouldn’t have healed me.” 

You sniffle, your eyes rounding at the onrush of your tender emotions, and Jungkook watches the waterfall of your tears. His own flows and mingles with yours, joining in unity. 

“What happened to you when we left?” you ask and Jungkook knows he wouldn’t avoid this question for long. Deems you deserve to know because of all what you’ve done for him. And he readies himself, pausing before he bares himself, fully, to you. 

“I got into panic mode because I blamed myself for ruining your night and…” he trails off, aware of the fact he needs to be more specific, and he takes a deep breath, wiping his tears with one hand before slapping it back on the duvet. “I have a constant fear that the people I care for will eventually leave me,” he explains and a wisp of pride envelops his bones for managing to get those words out for the first time in his life. You snuggle closer to his side, placing your head on his shoulder, and he gazes down at you. His fingers find your ear on their own and it comforts him enough, to touch you like that, that he’s able to continue. “I got left behind a lot of times in my past, which is why I swore off love. It just hurt too much and I stopped having the capacity for it. And when we left the concert, I thought you’d leave me, too, after what I’d done.” 

You press the cold compress back to his cheek. “I could never leave you, you’re mine,” you whisper, and another stream of tears soaks through the dish towel wrapped around frozen vegetables. Jungkook doesn’t take your words for granted. He puts great meaning to them and hides them, safely, in his sternum. “And you didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t ruin my night. It was all me and for that I’m sorry.” 

He squeezes your arm. “Don’t be sorry,” he says and means it. Lifts his head and plants a cold kiss to your lips. 

Gentle. 

“I love you, Ggukie. It’s me who should be fighting for you now.” 

Jungkook laughs through his nose. “No, I’ll keep protecting my queen.” One more kiss, gentler. “I love you,” he adds and means it. 

And he falls asleep like this. With you clinging to the side of his body while keeping the cold compress intact and unmoving with your forehead. One that he removes in the middle of the night and warms up the iciness of your skin by smothering it with his body heat. 

Returns to the rose garden and gapes at the statue of you, hand in hand with you—as a changed person, a sensitive, flawed and submissive person that is loved and accepted. 

Finds it hard to believe even in his dream. 

And you’re there when he wakes up. 

Drooling, indecent and vulgar as you are. And he wouldn’t want anyone else.

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan, @euphoricmyth, @jungkoock, @cinmmongirl, @hobiberrystuff, @kam9404.

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

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[poppy-metal]

baby daddy older art…. after his divorce he went on a wild night out, and slept with thing young hot thing he picked up at a bar. it was supposed to be a one night stand, but you get PREGNANT, and now sexy man has to be in your life FOREVER. begs you to keep it even though you’re young and have your life ahead of you, and if you do he will make sure you live in luxury for the rest of your life. you were going to keep it anyway, but his promise makes it so much easier. hes coming to every doctors appointment, he makes you put his number on speed dial, he brings you anything you ask, because you’re carrying his child. decided it’s easier if he lives with you, because he’s seen your apartment and he doesn’t want you or his kid living in such a place, and then he can be available at all hours of the day. he’s so good to you, so kind and sweet and good and he doesn’t have to do this at all, you can help but fall in love with him. but he doesn’t feel the same. it’s a strictly mother of his child relationship. he is very blatant about that. no blurring of boundaries, you are the mother of his child and that’s all. it’s purely practical why he lives with you, because if you’re both ok with it it’s best for the baby to have both parents. that’s all you think it is. you keep your love inside, because he’s such a good man, and to even be around him is a gift. he’s given you more than you could ever hope for, it would be selfish to demand feelings too. that’s what makes him so wonderful, he’s doing this all for a girl he doesn’t even love. and his child, yes, but richer men have done less for their children and the mothers of their children. little do you know, he has to prevent himself from touching you constantly, because you’re a young girl he’s gotten in trouble and he would be the worst man in the world if he also made you think you had to put out to stay with him. no, he had done enough. all he could do now was to provide for you and your child. until………

save me responsible art who accidentally knocked me up save me,,,,,, okay but imagine you're a few months into the pregnancy - you have a prominent bump now and parts of you are getting more and more tender and achey. your breasts for one, have gotten alot more sensitive. 

you're in a mood over it - not snappy but just noticeably uncomfortable. when art comes over to stock your fridge like he's been doing, you're in nothing but an oversized shirt and some tiny sleep shorts. art already has his heart beating fast, pumping in his chest. he tries to stay respectful, notices how you're nit wearing a bra and feels his cock twitch. he thinks to ask you about what's got you looking so blue as a way to distract him from your body but it ends up doing the opposite.

“my chest.” you tell him, frowning. his eyes are drawn down despite himself. “pregnancy body I guess, they're just really tender and like… stiff.” 

your nipples are certainly stiff, art thinks. swallows. concern nips at him. he knows it's unavoidable, but he doesn't want you in pain. 

“are they hurting you?” 

you nod, reaching up to cup them yourself and art tries not to choke on air. you wince. 

“its like a sore muscle or something. squeezing them feels good but I feel like I don't have a good enough grip.” you flush when you realize you're essentially fondling yourself in front of him and drop your hands. “sorry. it's not your problem. I'll live!” 

you usually love having him around for as long as he'll stay, but you're in such pain you just wanna take an advil and take a nap. he doesn't deserve to hear your bitching. 

art feels bad. this is half his responsibility and he has to deal with 0 of the aches and pains. hed siphon it from you if he could. he works his bottom lip between his teeth, face already turning pink before he even says the words. 

“I could help.” 

you blink at him, confused at first. “help?”

arts ears are red now. his fingers flex at his sides. he imagines them on your tits and has to inhale. 

“I mean - my hands might. they might feel better. if you want, obviously. I just hate to see you in pain.” 

so that's how you end up with your back to his broad chest. leaned back as his hands hover at your waist over the shirt. you're all flushed, both of you, but you reckon his hands really will help. they're so sturdy looking. and you remember how they felt on your bare skin. those slender fingers, those palms. with that in mind you place your hands over his and slip them under your shirt - “direct contact will probably help more.” you explain, half because it'd true and also because it's an opportunity to feel his hands again - and you won't waste it. 

arts whole body is burning. hot. he says, “right.” because his brain is rather fucking blank the second his hands make contact with your skin. you're so warm and soft. just like that night. except his baby is inside you now.

he cant help it. he has to feel over your bump. skims his palm over the taut muscle of your belly where it extends out. he's kind of awestruck. 

“have they kicked?” he thinks he'll pass out if he feels it. 

you shake your head. “I'd tell you if they did. I know you'd want to feel.”

his heart warms. he caresses your belly. “I would.” he confirms gently. “I want to be there for everything.” 

you bite your lip. sigh when his hands start trailing up your body. you dont know if he's purposely being sensual about it, or if he's just being respectful about the way he handles your body. it feels so good. it feels natural. his palms cup the side of your tits first, and you gasp. 

“sorry.” he says - starting to pull away and you quickly shake your head.

“no.” you tell him. “no it feels good - dont worry about being too gentle. it's alot of pressure …. “ 

he breathes out and touches you again. grips you'd breasts in his hand and tries not to lose his mind. he's doing this to help you. you're in pain. this isn't about him.

but god, you're so fucking soft. he can feel your flesh squeeze between his fingers. feel the stiff peaks of your nipples. he massages your tits like that for a second, just cupping and pressing against your tits with slight pressure, steadily building the more you sigh in approval. 

he's so big behind you. big chest at your back big hands groping and gripping your fat and heavy tits. 

“that feels so good.” you tell him, and if you have a whine in your voice well it's his fault for having such good hands. 

“im glad.” he chokes out. fuck. he's throbbing in his jeans. hard and thick and he's remembering how your tits felt pressed against his bare chest when he'd been inside you- deep in your tight wet little cunt - you'd been so vocal under him, sweet and cloying and he vividly remembers how the nipples he's currently pinching, felt in his mouth, under his tongue. remembers them bouncing in his face when he'd had you a second time, on his lap, riding his cock so fucking eagerly. 

his brain is all fuzzy with the memories of that night. the message becomes less about relieving you of any pain and just about feeling your body in his hands. you can feel his pecs move against your back as he breathes in and out - his touches becoming less hesitant and more demanding - he squeezes getting more aggressive and dominant. sexual. 

your cunt throbs, your little clit having a heartbeat. you've become so fucking - horny lately. you have to touch yourself everyday - your hormones all over the fucking place. being touched like this isn't helping. you feel soaked and wet between your thighs. downright sticky with it.

you want to reach down and rub yourself. the pounding of your pussy has become even more painful than the throb in your breasts earlier. 

“im so horny.” you say - the confession ripped from your chest. said kinda desperately, hopelessly. arts hands pause on your tits and you lean back against him, pushing it, testing. “it hurts so bad, art. all these pregnancy hormones - no matter how much I touch myself it's never enough. I need to be filled.” 

“jesus.” he leans his forehead against your shoulder. he tries to find that thin thread of control, but he can't. it's gone. probably broke the second he felt you in his hands again. “you can't say things like that….” 

“but it hurts.” you whine. shift around. “hurts right now.” 

you sound near tears and fuck, he fucking hurts too. he's been holding himself back for so long, ignoring his needs - resiting you. he can't even remember why. 

“c’mere.” he tells you, and then he's turning you around in his lap, nd you're straddling his lap, feeling the hard length of him through your clothes and he kisses the gasp right out of your mouth. you moan into each other. his hands grip your ass, rock your tender little pussy against his cock and the friction makes your eyes roll back. 

“please.” you gasp against his mouth, your belly just big enough to put and inch of space between you. your hand tugs at his jeans - “please make it better - I need your cock -”

“the baby -” he pants but doesn't stop you from yanking his jeans down, lifting his ass to help you, even. 

you shake your head, “that's not a thing.” you giggle - “and it helps with - with all the pain I'm feeling - promise -” 

all he has to do is slip your sleep shorts to the side like panties - because you're not wearing any - and sink you down onto his cock - his head falls back when he feels that melting pot of a pussy around him. sucking, tender, soft, tight - squeezing him so fucking good. 

he grips your ass even harder - “your pussy is so good, baby - “ he plants his feet, braces to bounce you on his dick- “im gonna make you fucking cum.” 

[fattystoriez]

Daddy is Different

Content Warning: Incest, Weight gain

Trent was an only child raised by just his father. His mother had left his father for a richer man when Trent was only 8 years old. Trent and his father were very close before Trent left for college right out of high school on a basketball scholarship. Trent hadn’t visited for the holidays, which made Trent feel guilt for leaving his father all alone, with only a little communication back and forth. So Trent decided to go back home for Spring break, his father had presumably found a partner who really wanted to meet Trent, he was excited to see his father was doing well.

Trent arrived home and walked right in, announcing himself. “Hello? Dad?? Anybody home?!” As Trent walked in the house was a mess, junk food trash everywhere. Trent’s father was usually healthy… Trent couldn’t imagine his dad ever touching any junk food. There was a smell of musk and piss, stained jockstraps all over the place.

Trent makes it to he living room which was a major source of the smell, his dad was sitting in a chair in the living room. He looked wildly different, his healthy average hairless body seemed to have ballooned into a fat guy topped by a set of tits. He was bald now, a spotted a heady beard. He has a cigar in his mouth, one that seemed to have just been lit.

“Welcome home Piggy, I’ve missed you so much.” Trent’s dad opened his arms stretched out for a hug.

Trent was taken a back… how could this be his father? This man was a fat disgusting slob, the complete opposite of his dad. “Dad? What happened to you?”

“So this is the Piggy I’ve heard so much about!” A giant fat man walked in, wearing only his camouflage underwear. He was graying, definitely older than Trent’s father. His bulge was massive, the tip soaked in pre-cum. He walked right up to Trent and put his hand on his arm “You’re quite the skinny guy, not nearly plump enough to be a pig.”

Trent pushed away “What the fuck? Dad what’s going on here… who is this disgusting man?!” Trent’s head started to feel light, he was starting to get dizzy.

“It’s daddy for now on pig, and this is your paw. I met him at the bar a couple months ago” Hiw could these changes happen in a just a few months? “He told me he could make my life better and help me get you back home.” Trent’s father blew out a plume of smoke into his son’s face.”

Paw got behind Trent and pulled his shirt off “this will give you some room piggy” Trent was so confused, but oddly getting very horny. Paw got Trent in his knees, whipped out his fat cock and huge balls. “I’m so full piggy, time to fattened up this hog!” Paw forced his cock into Trent’s mouth.

After not a few pumps down Trent’s throat Paw was ready to bust his load into Trent’s mouth. It was like his balls has gallons of cum, causing Trent to feel full.

Trent’s body filled out with lard covering his once slender, lean body. His stomach pushed out and jiggled with soft fat, starting to form rolls on his body. “Ughnnnn” Trent moaned as he groped his fat body. “What’s are you doing to me?!” Trent was starting to get hard. Trent was trying to fight away, stop this from happening, but he was beginning to give in.

Paw and Daddy began to play with Piggy’s fattening body, they start to push into his soft rolls. Daddy began to shove junk food like pizza, doughnuts and shakes into Piggy’s mouth.

Piggy’s underwear started morphing into a black jockstrap, his blubbery body hanging over his waist. Piggy grew a full beard that showcased the milkshake staying around his mouth. Piggy’s body had become so huge, so far from the lean body he had moments prior.

What was once a college basketball player, is now a Piggy for his fat slobbish daddies to force to grow fatten and fatter. Trent sometimes makes it to the surface, his horror of being so huge and disgusting later turned into a grotesque horniness. There was no more Trent, only Piggy.

[cvpidzcvrse]

Nah, I'm Better.

divider by @cafekitsune

✦A/N: OK! this took longer than expected but LISTEN! I'm here now and probably will be dropping more frequently (hopefully). Reader is also a slut I mean she could talk me through it and I'd let her. But I tried to eat down as much as possible for this fic so the girlies and the gays wouldn't starve. Gojo is driving my dream car, a girl can only imagine.

⋆.ೃ࿔*･Synopsis: You and Satoru have been best friends since elementary school. By the time you both made it to college he’s hated every single partner you’ve ever had. Your recent ex isn’t any different, but he’s doing something about it this time.

⋆.ೃ࿔*･wc: 2,887

⋆.ೃ࿔*Warnings: best friends to lovers, praise, car sex, arguments (ish), cowgirl, choking, handjob, p in v, no protection, finishing inside (practice safe sex)

(the reader is black)

If you had a dollar for every time you and Satoru got mistaken for a couple you’d be rich, not richer than him. He loves it when people mistake him for your boyfriend. It’s the ego boost he doesn’t need. He’s liked you for a while but you always shut him down. Either for another guy or because you see him as just a “friend”. You knew that was a lie, you didn’t want to ruin the friendship between you guys. So to buried your feelings for Satoru and used other men as a distraction. Fuck buddies, friends with benefits, sugar daddies, you name it. Nothing was ever successful; it always ended in heartbreak or fights. Satoru hated that you went for men who were lower than your standard.

He hated that you didn’t go for him. That’s part of the reason why he’s parked outside a fancy restaurant waiting for you to walk out.  

You thought this guy was the one, you’d been talking for a couple weeks, going on dates, even fucked a few times. But no people always have to ruin it, it was fun while it lasted. Mahito was a guy you met off of Tinder. He was nice, sweet, and probably the realest guy you’ve ever met. That was until date number four when he brought up his love for podcasts. Specifically a podcast by the name ‘Fresh and Fit’, you know the podcast that goes around and hates on women for a check. 

What a loser…

After learning that information you left the date immediately. Leaving him with a “Get a life, nigga.” before quickly walking out of the restaurant. The cold drizzle of rain calms your nerves as you heave out a soft sigh. Your eyes meet a familiar and sleek all-black Ford Bronco. An air of comfort travels throughout your body. You haven’t been this excited to see Satoru since…ever. He’s already looking in your direction with his cheeky smile, flashing you his pearly white teeth. He’s always been handsome, your whole life was spent watching girls and even guys swoon over him. You can’t even remember if he accepted any of the advances, you don’t even think he’s had a girlfriend that you know of.

His jagged blue eyes met your dark brown ones and it’s like a firework went off in front of you. Your waist-length knotless braids, glossy plump lips, and warm brown skin have him in a chokehold. The way your honey-glazed skin complimented your outfit made him want to rip it off right there. Luckily his windows are tinted enough to hide his very noticeable lustful gaze, but you felt his eyes burning holes into your head. With a visible frown on your face, you swiftly open the car door. You come face to face with Satoru’s fuck boy grin, you almost melt on the spot.

“When I said ‘call me for emergencies.’ It didn’t include shitty dates.”

You roll your eyes before playfully punching his arm. Satoru speeds out of the parking lot before you can even put your seatbelt on. Your back hits the seat roughly before you send a glare Satoru’s way.

“Chill out, nigga damn. You didn’t even hear how the date went and you’re already mad.”

“I’m mad because you didn’t listen to me. I told you not to trust that fucking loser, now look at where we are.”

You could hear his eyes rolling before you saw it. He’s the leader of the sassy man apocalypse and he never denies it. You grimaced at the undeniable truth that he was right, and you knew it. You cross your arms over your chest and gaze out at the widow districting yourself with the scenery. 

“Hey…look at me.”

His light-hearted voice quickly melted in your ears like honey. He softly gripped your chin and turned your face to his. He analyzed your expression for a moment. Admiring your features, planning your future, imagining his cock inside of you. He’s quickly brought out of his thoughts when you playfully push his hand away. 

“Hands off, this makeup took time.”

He scuffs at your statement before looking back at the busy road. You analyze him for a while, taking in his features. Your thoughts are more innocent than his, and you hope it stays that way. 

“Listen…I’m sorry I didn’t listen. But, niggas man you don’t understand. They’re all so annoying.”

The more you think about your past rendezvous the more it turned into torture. Satoru knew about every failed date. He was always there to be a shoulder to cry on and a dick to ride if you asked him. He knows very well about your tragic love life, he doesn’t remember a successful relationship you’ve been in. He lectured you every time he picked you up from a bad date or situationship ending in ‘So, what are we?’. He wasn’t upset with you, he was more upset that you refused to see his obvious feelings for you. 

“This is just starting to get repetitive. (✧), This is just...nevermind”

He smacked his lips at the end of his statement. A habit he picked up from you after all of the years you two have spent together. His mouth opens to say something else but nothing comes out. He huffs and runs his hand through his hair, he’s frustrated by the current events.

“Don’t get an attitude with me. You think I want to date guys like this?”

Your accusatory tone makes his attention shift slightly from the road. He scans his brain for what to say. He doesn’t want to upset you anymore but he also didn’t want to sugarcoat anything. As a wannabe lover, he wants nothing but the best for you even if it means telling you a harsh reality. 

Your taste in men is shit. 

He doesn’t have enough fingers or toes to list off the amount of guys that hurt you in the past. Nanami was too formal for you, Toji was a bum that leeched off of you, Sukuna was an asshole, and Satoru would’ve killed Suguru if he even attempted to flirt with you. 

“No, you know what I mean. You deserve better than these dumbasses you go after.”

The venom in his voice is very noticeable. Satoru’s carefree nature is cracking under the stress of your love life. Your stubborn nature refuses to let you back down to him, especially when he’s like this. 

“Toru’ I can date and fuck who I want! I don’t need to be lectured by you. I understand that you care, but let me live my life.”

Your response almost sent Satoru out of the car. His eyes twitched in annoyance and his knuckles turned white from gripping the steering wheel. You watch the way his jaw tightened and his muscles flexed. It turned you on, a lot. As much as you hate to admit it, you looove making him mad. It was just the way his relaxed facade melted away when you threw careless sentences at him. His foot softly pressed on the brake when coming to a red light. He slowly shifted his body to face you, if looks could fuck he’d be fucking you right now. Just the thought of him bending you over the center console had your clit aching. 

“Do not say that, I will crash this car right now and kill us both.”

He glanced at you with a smirk trying to lighten the melancholy-stricken mood. You scuff at his childish antics.

“Oh my god, be for real-”

Ring…

Your phone buzzed in your purse, and your soon-to-be lecture got cut short. Your eyes widened when you saw the caller I.D. read ‘Mahito’. You let it ring for a few seconds before finally answering it. 

“Why are you calling me? I told you we were over.”

Satoru's ears perked when he heard the hostility in your voice. There was a snarky voice on the other end and they were loudly throwing a fit. His eyes analyzed your expression and the way your calmness was replaced with annoyance. 

“You don’t think I can do better than you?…You’re one goofy ass nigga, you know that?…Whatever, fuck you!”

You harshly shoved your phone into your purse and groaned. The awkward silence was almost tangible; you would have to cut it with a chainsaw. Mahito’s words circled in your head and it pissed you off more and more. Who does he think he is? You hum slightly when a very filthy idea comes to your mind. 

“Satoru, I need you to take me somewhere.”

｡.｡:∞♡*

“Why the fuck are we here? Please don’t tell me you’re about to do something stupid.”

Satoru’s tone is laced with worry and confusion. He has no clue why he was parked outside of Mahito’s house right now and he didn’t know why you wanted to come here. You give him a cheeky smile before unbuckling your seatbelt and slowly leaning over the center console. You’re incredibly close to Satoru’s face, your nose practically touching his. All you can do is stare sensually into his ice-blue eyes, but the sense of longing is undeniably visible. 

“What are you doing?”

His voice spills out lowly like silk touching your ears. You take in a breath before crashing your lips into his. He’s caught by surprise but that’s quickly replaced with lust. His veiny hands quickly trace every curve on your body and tangle his fingers in your braids. You pull away taking in the wonderful scenery that Satoru was turned into. His cheeks are flushed and his hair is messy. You both stare at each other in awe and affection. It’s like something was unlocked in the middle of this little plan of revenge. 

“Get in the back.”

You nod before watching him walk out and around as you climb in the back. He opens the back door and stares at you for a moment, taking in the way your skirt is hiked up and your shirt tousled around. He quickly gets in and closes the door, basically pouncing on you. His mouth attacks your neck quickly, leaving several bite marks and hickeys. Without breaking the kiss you roughly pushed him onto the car door behind him. He lets out a low groan and rests his hands on your waist. You reach down and fumble with his belt buckle before finally breaking the kiss and using your hands. 

“If you need help you could’ve just asked.”

“Shut up.”

He chokes out a gasp when you take his cock out of his boxers. You wrap your manicured hand around his big cock and slowly massage the length. You trace circles around his tip with your thumb. A low groan settles at the bottom of his throat as silence sighs escape his lips. He unscrewed his eyes to meet the brazen expression on your face. His chuckles and mixed moans are sending you over the edge. You reach down and caress your clit through your panties. Satoru doesn’t fall ignorant of this and quickly grabs your hand to stop the satisfying motion.

“Suck it, I want your mouth.”

He let out a low chuckle as you took his full length into your mouth. You let out a whine as the tip of his cock touched the back of your throat. Satoru’s head flew back in pleasure as his hand rested comfortably on top of your head. He can sense your greed from the way your tongue moves along his tip. He sighed out a moan and softly pushed your head down further. 

“F-fuck…you’re doing so well.”

He stifles a throaty moan with his free hand and laces his hands in your hair. You were quick to grab his wrist and yank his hand away. You trailed soft kisses up the length of his cock, from base to tip. 

“I wanna hear you, pretty boy. Let me hear you.”

Your voice was soothing and soft it probably could’ve put him to sleep if it weren’t for the current circumstances. He melted at your command and quickly left his hand to the side. You tease his leaking tip with your tongue before putting it all in your mouth again. His mouth goes agape as slutty moans spill out and his hands grip your hair tightly. The way your head is bobbing up and down on his cock has his mind going blank. His cock twitches in your mouth before he quickly shoves your head away.

“I don’t want to cum yet. C’mon get on top, ride what’s yours.”

You swiftly straddle his lap and he pushes your panties to the side. You wrap your arms around him as he slowly pushes you on his hard cock. You let a soft moan and tug at Satoru’s hair. He moans in response and pushes you down deeper.

“Shit…fuck me, c’mon.”

His mouth is hovering over your ear and his voice is low and seductive. You slowly start to rock your hips and grind on his cock. After adjusting to his size you messily start bouncing on his cock. Strings of curses spew out of his mouth and his grip on your waist gets tighter. 

“Like this baby? Mmph…you’re so big.”

The constant praise is making the blood rush to his face. He hides his blushing face in your shoulder and leaves several bite marks. The car windows turn foggy and the only thing illuminating the car is the moonlight. Satoru’s moans can probably be heard from blocks away. His hands are under your sweater groping and squeezing your plush breast. His fingers pull and twist at your nipples as your pace gets messy. 

“Give me your hand…”

His voice is carnal and vibrating in your ear. It makes your clit twitch and your tempo stagger. You untangle your hand from his hair and place your hand in his. He takes two of your fingers and places them in his mouth. He doesn’t break eye contact, he’s just looking at you like a meal waiting to be devoured. He slowly sucks them and swirls his tongue around them. The scene in front of you is so sensual and slow, you’ve never experienced something so intimate before. He slowly pulls your fingers out of his as a saliva trail is the only thing left behind.

“Play with your clit for me. I wanna watch while you bounce on my cock.”

His voice moves like velvet through your body. It’s like he’s talking right to your pussy and she’s answering very loudly. The moment your hand reaches your clit Satoru plunges his cock into you. His thrust gets more violent and his large cock attacks your cervix. Your head dips back in pleasure in the constant assault on your insides. 

He’s starting to unravel like a present. His strokes get messier, sweet liquid spilling everywhere, his moans getting louder and more frequent. His nail prints are embedded on your love handles and your thighs are a wet mess. 

“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. C’mon baby you can do it.”

His pleading sends shivers down your spine. You’ve never seen him so desperate before, it was empowering that your pussy brought him down a few notches. His pussy drunk stare is intoxicating to look at. The way he’s looking at you with his eyes half-lidded with nothing but lust in them. There was something about the way he looked at you; it wasn't just lust. It was like you were a necessity to him, he needed you.

“Mmph…baby I’m ‘bouta cum!”

“Cum for me, you’d make me so proud. Cum on my cock princess.”

Satoru replaced your hand with his and traced circles on your clit. With his hand working its magic and his cock peppering kisses on your cervix sends you crazy. The car is rocking very noticeably but you could care less. Your climax crashes onto you like a ton of bricks. Your juices spill all over his thick cock and coat his length in a slippery mess. His warm and sticky ropes decorate your insides, leaving his pants soaked and a wet ring around the base of his cock.

“That’s it, I’m so proud of you baby.”

 He tenderly pulls out and holds you tight to him, taking in the moment. You rest your forehead on his shoulder, you both desperately trying to catch whatever air is left in your lungs. You hear Satoru chuckle slowly while tracing kisses on your neck. 

“What’s so funny? Did my pussy make you delirious or what?” 

He shakes his head and lifts your head softly and turns it towards the window. While swallowed by lust you didn’t notice Satoru rolled the window down. Mahito is staring in awe and anger; he looks like he is about to explode. Satoru’s chuckle turns into a full-blown cackle as he glances at Mahito, sending him that cheeky smile that you love so much. You join Satoru in his joyous laughter before reaching over and rolling up the window.

“At least my plan worked. Let’s do it again but this time with handcuffs.” 

[major-trouble]

There's this book I want to talk about. About a Perfectly Normal Spaceship (lol) and the adventures of its crew.

So, I know I keep harping on about this, but I finished my reread this evening and I have to say - it's better the second time through.

There were a lot of things I missed on the first round, mainly because I was devouring it as fast as I could in a wide-eyed rampage of unbelievably hyper-focused attentiveness that nearly made me mess up the start of the academic year for a major post-secondary institution.

But anyway.

Taking a much calmer, more measured approach, I still found myself drawn deeply into the story and anticipating the next plot point with glee and amxiety. I could clearly see the foreshadowing now. And it made the experience richer.

For the record, I fucking hate reading first person narratives. They drive me up the wall for personal reasons. And first person present tense?? Fucking hell. This story blows my mind with how well the author takes these elements and makes them work. I want to hug Aspen and kick them in the ribs. I want to listen to Tal talk about shit forever. I want to understand Celti's motives and give Hive the opportunity to see butterflies.

The characters are real and grow in ways I was expecting.

Anyway, please go read this story. It's not going to change your life, but it will definitely cause a time dilation effect and make you late for something. Also go check out the rest of the @derinthescarletpescatarian stuff. You won't regret it.

[beggars-opera]

Hey, so we don't talk enough about A Christmas Carol as being at least a little bit about not continuing a cycle of abuse and neglect, both against others and yourself.

In the book little Scrooge is left languishing over the holidays in a boarding school for some never-explained reason, but it is made very clear that this is miserable and unfair, and that his father is doing this on purpose. His sister specifically comes to tell him that "father is so much kinder now than he used to be, that home's like heaven." This also reflects a bit of Dickens's own childhood when his father went into debtor's prison and little Charlie was forced to support his family working full time in a shoe-blacking factory at the age of 12 (which is also why so many of his books seem to have a moral of "hey, kids are people too and maybe we shouldn't make them work in the mines.")

Whatever family reunion happened after didn't work out, because Scrooge continues believing that no one is coming to save him and pulling himself up by his bootstraps at the detriment of all other social relationships is the only way forward. And the more he lives by that philosophy, the more miserable he gets, because obviously he pushes away anyone who has that hope that he lost. They threaten to break down the walls he's built and teach him that a big pile of money doesn't have to be the only thing that he can rely on, if he'd just let himself be vulnerable and have a relationship with people who care about him, because they're out there even if he's ignoring them.

There is a certain type of person still very much out there who thinks this way. "I've never been happy in my life, so no one else has a right to be either. I was abused in my childhood so it's only fair that everyone else suffer as well." We see this in parents who still try to use corporal punishment, and in wealthy people who ignore the social factors keeping others down and scream that everyone else is just entitled, that only those who suffer and scrape deserve happiness. And they especially hate the people like Fred who represent the past that could have been, who have maintained hope for the future, and seem to be rubbing their optimism in your face, when in reality they're just maintaining hope because it's the only way you can survive.

It's so important for Scrooge to actually see the impact this thinking has on both himself and multiple generations. Rich people have this weird hangup about this story because they think Scrooge is bad because he's rich. He's not, he's bad because he's a horrible person and a miser - he doesn't use his money to better anything, including himself. Salting the earth, everyone suffers here, including him. And he learns that he's going to die old and alone without ever having spent or enjoyed his money, and that his family feels sorry for him, and that the nameless masses of poor people out there that he decries so much are in fact living, breathing people, including tiny disabled kids who don't deserve to suffer just because you decided life isn't fair.

In the end he takes responsibility for actually uplifting the people in the next generation who are trying to make the world a better place and no longer punching down, because it doesn't have to be this way. So many people out there just give up hope because things are hard and they think trying to improve things is a pointless exercise that makes them look dumb. How dare you grow a year older and not an hour richer! How dare you marry for love! That's the only thing more ridiculous than a Merry Christmas! When in reality, there are plenty of people who would love to see them happy if they just had a chance.

It's really sad that, while the language used to describe it has changed, these problems still persist. That people feel so wronged and isolated that they spend their days ensuring everyone else will be as well. That they fail to see their fellow humans as fellow humans who are just as deserving of love and kindness and a roof over their heads. I don't care what time of year it is, we should all be lifting each other up rather than tearing each other down.

[cherry-pop-elf]

Flowers For You

‘Poof’ Periwinkle Fairywinkle-Cosma x Reader

Authors note: @clownsgirlghost You asked, Gimmie yo life force/jk

Sum: You’ve always been utterly obsessed with folklore. Fae, Crypteds, what have you. You respected them, the traditions, even when people made fun of you for it. You didn’t care. You loved them, and it seem’s like the gesture has been returned.

Warnings: Bullying, religious metaphor’s, paganism, assholes to witches, my attempt at accurate folk lore, and a shitty attempt because I only know so much from a show I don’t have access to

“There goes that weirdo again. Stay away, might get cursed.” You would listen to them gossip. Never seeming to actually try and keep it subtle. You didn’t care, you were living your life. Well, trying to. It eats at you after a while. No matter how strong you were.

You would just sigh, as you just wanted to return home already. Had been such a long day. Shopping was a pain, and you just wanted to go to bed. Buying dumb adult things like food and toiletries. Also some things to leave as offerings. You saw a beautiful bundle of periwinkle flowers.

A fairy circle had appeared in your backyard, and you wanted to show your respect to the Fae that use them. You kept your distance, and respected the ring of mushrooms. Even put rocks around it, to try and help protect it. It’s a small gesture, but you hope they know your intent. They should, unlike your neighbors.

Swore they could hear the jingling of your keys, as they were quick to look over their fences to face you. Trying hard to not be seen, as they knew what they were doing was wrong. Actually it was because they genuinely thought you were a weirdo that might throw mud at them.

“Just ignore them. Just ignore them. The richer the man, the dumber the man.” You would plead to yourself, wishing you never inherited this old house. Right in a Richie rich neighborhood. Hey, a free house is a free house. Especially in his economy. Not like you’ll ever be in a position to move.

You would sort out your groceries, and be back in your zen. Feeling calm with yourself. Taking out the flowers, gently trimming off the dead parts, just fluffing it up really. Wanting it to look its best, as if offering it to a physical person. Gave you calm, and comfort.

With the flowers made you would go out to your backyard. Right to the fairy ring. Rocks all around it, as to try and keep it safe when you mowed the lawn. To give it respect, and honor, with letting it have its own space. Even as far as to gently toss the flowers into the middle, as to not break its barrier.

“Witchcraft I tell you. Keep your animals inside. Might be used for some kind of satanic sacrifice.” You would over hear, as the rattle of collars echoed from behind the fence. Made your heart ache. You weren’t doing anything wrong, this was your practice. What makes it different from what they do?

You tried to fight your tears, as you turned your back to the ring. Just as you did, however, you heard a strange noise. You swore it sounded as if a rattle of chimes went off, while hitting a pillow case. It was such an other worldly sound, you just had to turn to look at it.

“Really? You really jumped into the nearest fairy circle you could?” “I WANTED TO GO TO FAIRY WORLD-!” “YOU COULD HAVE ENDED UP AT THE BOTTOM OF A LAKE!” “I CAN SWIM-!” On and on the shouting went between your neighbor Dev Dimmadome, and a strange floating man. Left you in shock, as they argued. Not quite aware of your existence. Left you to study them.

“And further more-! Hey! Move your sneakers-!” The bright, purply man, shouted. Fluttering wings were quick to zoom down, and scoop up the flowers. Dusting them off from the trampling, and seeming to make them bloom back to life. As if they were never harmed.

“Look at that! Periwinkles! I love these flowers! Yes I’m bias, because they are my colors, but still! I remember back when I was just a little basketball. Back when me and Timmy…..” The man seemed to trail off, as those glittering eyes seemed to sparkle for other reasons.

“Uh, Peri…..You can cry about your brother later, we got company-“ Dev would tug at the floating man’s pant leg, drawing his attention to you. Those pure eyes just seeming to stare through your soul, and through your heart. Taking in every mortal detail you offered, and seeming to be taken aback. As if watching a sunset for the first time.

Didn’t last long, before he seemed to panic. The flowers tossed high in the air, leaving Dev to try and catch them off. Seemed like Dev can care for other living creatures. Who knew! As if you could focus on that, as a massive purple book appeared. With the worlds ‘Da Rulz’ on the cover.

“WHAT DO I DO?! FAIRES CANT BE SEEN LIKE THIS! OH NO OH NO OH NO OH NO-“ The poor, floating, man was in a panic. Not knowing what to do, while Dev would just casually walk up to you. Bundle of flowers still in hand, as he lower his shades a bit. Not all the way, but enough for you two to share eye contact.

You were one of the few people that ever gave a shit about him, and actually had human interaction with him. Not just his robot baby sitters, or just smoozed on him for his money. You didn’t have much, but you gave him something no one else did. Time. Time for him.

“Hey Witchy-“ A nickname he gave you, but like many friends it was a term of endearment and mockery at everyone else compared to actually an insult to you. Just a kid being a kid, and it was nice to have. Someone to just talk to you.

“So ya know how you always talked about fairies and folk lore and like Bigfoot and stuff? Yeah. That’s a fairy. Neat, huh?” He seemed to try and brag to you, as the poor fairy in question was still a panic mess. Just wanting to try and find an answer to his worries.

“Promise not to tell anyone?” He asked, as you slowly nodded. “Peri! Chill! Witchy is cool! Probs left the flowers even. You left the flowers, right? Course you did.” He more so said to himself.

That seemed to calm the fairy down, and make the book vanish. Ever so gently he would flutter over to you, as Dev returned the flowers to him. The bundle brought to his pointed nose, as he inhaled them. Lost in a memory, from childhood days. Days when he was with him.

“For me? Really? Like really really?” He asked, as his face was a brilliant pink. Was accompanied by intense fluttering of his wings. Much like how a person would wave their hands around when over stimulated, but in the positive way.

“I mean….Yeah. Yeah actually.” You nodded, as that was the intent. Never in your wildest dreams did you think something like this would happen. To very literally give flowers to a fairy, and to have the gesture enjoyed. Must be some kind of divine intervention.

“….Guess you would follow under a magical being identification, so I don’t need to worry…” Sounded more like he was trying to convince himself more than anything, but at least he was calming down.

“Um….Do you two want to come inside?” You offered. Probably a bad idea to invite a fae inside, and definitely a good idea that Dev used your nickname then your real name. The number one rule is to never offer a fae your real name. But…..Never have you seen a fae design like him in stories. Maybe things were a little different. Especially since he seemed to be in some kind of connection with Dev.

“Hell yeah. I do NOT want to be around my old man right now. Come on Peri-!” And Dev ran inside, leaving you two alone. For him to keep fluttering those pale purple lashes, as he was just adoring the flowers you had bought. Just stuffing his face in them. Lost in the textures and smells.

“Thank you…..I….They remind me of my childhood. Miss those days…So I uh. Thanks, Witchy.” He smiled to you, as you blushed all the same. Not as intense as him, because you were a human, but it was returned.

“You don’t have anything good in here! Peri! I wish that Witchy’s house was full of food! The good kind! You know what I’m talking about!” You heard Dev shout. Ever the blunt one.

Before you could make a remark, you saw Peri raise the strange cane of his. That same magical sound went off, and it seemed to blow out of your open door way. This bloom of smoke, that vanished as quickly as it arrived.

You would hurry inside, more so to see if Dev was ok, to be met with your home filled with food. Cabinets full and organized. Fridge open with sodas and juices. Pantry with chips and canned goods. It was like you suddenly were a grocery store with the levels of goods.

“There we go-!” Dev said, as he sat on the counter. Just munching away on a bag of cookies. Just left you speechless. What do you even say to something like this? Such pure, literal, magic.

“Guess that’s one way to say thanks for the flowers.” Peri would snort, as he giggled into his flowers. As if just a bashful school girl. Left Dev eye rolling, but was contented to be anywhere but his place. A mansion doesn’t bring the warmth your home did.

“Told you Witchy was cool. Didn’t do that weird back breaking dance, no screaming, no kidnapping. Witchy is so mellow. That’s what I like.” Dev would use you to brag to this fairy companion. Had you worry a moment.

“Are you like, owned by Dev? Did he kidnap YOU? Are you trapped?” You worried, given what Dev said. Along with just how true the statements are. To steal them for power, and wishes. Which was just what Dev did.

“Yeah. I mean-! Not like that-! Like-Oh uh. I’ll start from the top-“ He was blushing even more now, somehow. Suppose your genuine worry touched him. Along with the fact that even though he literally stuffed your home with food you were worried about him. Not a single drop of green in your tongue.

“I’m a Fairy God Parent. We are, basically, step in parents for kids who are….Well….” He gave a nudge at you, as Dev didn’t seem to be paying attention much. Messing with his phone. Most likely to plan some kind of tech aligned experiment for his future mischief.

“I get it-“ You nodded, as it was clear now. A parental figure, that can help kids be kids. With wishes to their hearts, and rules in place to keep both parties safe. Made you understand the situation alot more. You were wondering why Dev seemed alot happier lately. And a lot less of an asshole. Something you marked up as out bursts from his troubled home, which you couldn’t blame him for lashing out about.

“Guess since you are definitely classified as a magical being, I’ll be seeing you a lot more now. Dev hates being at home. Yeah it’s got all the things money can buy, but if it filled the damn void I wouldn’t be here. Huh?” He snorted, as you nodded as well. Along with a laugh, as it was certainly an experience to hear a fairy swear.

“Will you two stop flirting and get over here? Hazel sent me a text. Something about burritos? Violent mood swings?” Dev more so muttered, as Peri seemed red alert now.

“WE CAN NO HAVE ANOTHER BABY! I swear if Dad is pregnant, again-“ That had you both staring at him, before Dev’s phone dinged. “Never mind, it was just gas.”

Peri gave a sigh of relief, but you both were gawking at him still. That’s when he snapped his fingers, before trying to fix his hair. Get himself back in fairy order, instead of being a blushing mess of anxiety and nerves.

“It’s….Oh it’s a long story-“ Peri huffed, as his cane seemed to turn into a hand mirror of sorts. Floating in the air, so he could properly fix his large curl. Along with sneak a few flowers into it.

“I’ve got time…..” You offered, as you grabbed a drink from the fridge. Just finally able to enjoy some time now. Just chilling with people, and not so worried about food right now. Able to actually savor it all.

“Well….It all started with a wish. Before you ask, that’s gonna be a massive staple to most of my insane stories I have-“ Peri warned, as even Dev seemed interested now. Chaos from wishes? Don’t mind if he do! Even held the carton of cookies to you, as you were both ready for the gossip now.

It honestly seemed to make Peri happy, and do that flutter of his eyelashes again. Those flowers back to being snuggled into his face, and his cane turning into a photograph. A picture with a green haired fairy, a pinker haired one, a bundle of purple cloth in their hands, and a little kid. With buck teeth, and a pink hat.

“It all started, with an average kid, who made a wish for my parents to have a baby…”

[maddyjones2]

On not idolising creative people

In the wake of the various recent allegations involving Neil Gaiman, people have been both very sad that someone who they looked up to as an inspiration has, allegedly, turned out to be something less than entirely admirable, and are now looking to see who is now left that they can rotate into the spot of “the good dude,” i.e., that one successful creative guy who they think or at least hope isn’t hiding a cellar full of awful actions. One name I see brought up is mine, in ways ranging from “Well, at least we still have Scalzi,” to “Oh, God, please don’t let Scalzi be a fucking creep too.” Which, uhhhh, yeah? Thanks?

I have many thoughts about this and I’m going to try to make sense of them here, as much for myself as anyone else, so this may be messy and discursive and long (seriously, 3600 words, y’all), but, well, welcome to me. So, ordered by how these things come out of my head:

1. Stop Idolizing Creative People. Creative people are easy to idolize because they create the art you love, and that gives you permission to feel things, and to see yourself and your desires reflected in that art. That is a powerful thing, and from the outside, it can feel like magic, and that the people who do it are tapped into something otherworldly and admirable. Plus, they often get to have cool lives and get to know other cool creative people. They do things that are removed from the day-to-day aspect of a “normal” life, and they’ll even post about them on social media where you can see them. Sometimes, independent of their art directly, they’ll speak about their life, or life in general, and they’ll seem wise and considered and kind. I mean, what’s not to like?

But please consider that this is all an extremely mediated experience of this person. The art is the edited and massaged result of hours and days and weeks and months of work, into which the work of many others is also added. My novels originate from me, but it’s not just me in there, nor is the final form of the novel an accurate statement of who I am as a person, not least of all for the simple reason that I am not trying to tell my story in my novels. I’m creating fictional characters, and the world in which they make sense, for the purpose of the story.

Despite how it might look from the outside, this is not sorcery. It’s years of experience at a craft. It’s not magic, just work. A completed novel (or any other piece of art) won’t tell you much about the specific, day-to-day life and inclinations of the individual who made it, other than a general nod toward their competence, and the competence of their collaborators. Likewise what you see of their lives, even from the illusorily close vantage of social media, is deeply mediated. Lives always look admirable at a distance, when you can only see the lofty peaks and not the rubble at the base — especially when your attention by design is pointed at those lofty peaks. There’s much you don’t see and that you’re not meant to see. The vast majority of what you’re not meant to see isn’t nefarious. It’s just not your business.

Now, before I was a professional creative person, I was an entertainment journalist who spent years interviewing writers, directors, movie stars, musicians, authors and other creative folks. Since I’ve been on the other side of the rope, I’ve likewise met a huge range of creative people from all walks of life. Please believe me when I assure you that creative people are just people. Richer and/or more famous? Sometimes (less often than you might think, though). Prettier and/or more charismatic? Especially if they’re actors or pop stars, often yes! But at the end of the day they are just folks, and they run the whole range of how people are. By and large, the day-to-day experience of getting through their life is the same as yours. Outside of their own specific field of work, they don’t know any more about life, have no more facility for dealing with the world, and have just as few clues about what’s going on in their own head, as anyone else.

They’re just people. Whose work is making the stuff you like! And that’s great, but that’s not a substantive basis for idolizing them. It makes no more sense to idolize them than to idolize a baker who makes cookies you like, or the guy who comes and trims your hedges the way you want them to be trimmed, or the plumber who fixes your clogged drain. You can appreciate what they do, and even admire they skill they have. But holding them up as a life model might be a bit much. Which is the point! If you’re not willing to idolize a plumber, then you shouldn’t idolize a creative person.

(“But a plumber doesn’t make me feel like a creative person does,” you say, to which I say, are you sure about that? Because I will tell you what, when my sump pump stopped working and the plumber got in there, replaced the pump and started draining out my basement which had an inch of standing water in it, that man was the focus of all my emotions and was my goddamned hero that day. My plumber that day did more for me than easily 90% of the great art I’ve ever experienced.)

Enjoy the art creative people do. Enjoy the experience of them in the mediated version of them you get online and elsewhere, if such is your joy. But remember that the art is from the artist, not the artist themselves, and the version of their life you see is usually just the version they choose to show. There is so much you don’t see, and so much you’re not meant to see. At the end of the day, you don’t have all the information about who they are that you would need to make them your idol, or someone you might choose to, in some significant way, pattern some fraction of your life on. And anyway creative people aren’t any better at life than anyone else.

Which brings up the next point:

2. Fuck idols anyway! People are complicated and contradictory and you don’t know everything about them! You don’t know everything even about your parents or siblings or best friends or your partner! People are hypocrites and liars and fail to live up to their own standards for themselves, much less yours! Your version of them in your head will always be different than the version that actually exists in the world! Because you’re not them! Stop pretending people won’t be fuck ups! They will! Always!

This sounds more pessimistic about humans than perhaps it should be. When I say, for example, that people are hypocrites and liars, I don’t mean that people take every single opportunity to be hypocrites and liars. Most people are decent in the moment. But none of us — not one! — has always lived up to our own standard of behavior, and all of us have had the moment where, when confronted with a situation that would become an immense pain in the ass if we stuck to our guns, or demanded the inconvenient truth, decided to just bail instead, because the situation wasn’t worth the drama, or we had somewhere else to be, or whatever. We all choose battles and we all make the call in the moment, and sometimes the call is, fuck this, I’m out.

Every person you’ve ever admired has fucked up, sometimes really badly. Everyone you’ve ever looked up to has secrets, and it’s possible some of those secrets would materially change how you think about them, not always for the better. Everyone you’ve ever known has things about them you don’t know, many of which aren’t even secrets, they’re just things you don’t engage with in your day-to-day experience of them. Nevertheless it’s possible if you were aware of them, it would change how you feel about them, for better or for worse. And now let’s flip that around! You have things about you that even your best friends don’t know, and might be surprised to learn! You have secrets you don’t wish to share with the class! You have fucked up, and lied, and have been a hypocrite too!

You are, in short, a human, as is everyone you know and every one you will know (pets and gregarious wild animals excepted). And all humans are, charitably, a mess. This doesn’t mean there aren’t good people or even exemplary people out there, since there are, along with the ones that are, charitably, a real shit show. What I am saying is that even the good or exemplary people out there are a mess, have been morally compromised at some point in their lives, and have not lived up to their own standards for themselves, independent of anyone else’s standard for them.

One of the aspects of being an “idol,” I think, is that higher standard that other people expect of you — that in every situation where the aspect they idolize you for is in play, you will act in a manner that is right and correct by their standard, which of course you will likely not know about because you don’t actually know them (or often know that they exist). This is, by definition, an impossible standard to be held to — you didn’t agree to it, or to engage with it — and an impossible standard to hold other people to without their direct consultation. Every human made to be an idol is destined to fail at the job. You don’t even have to have feet of clay! You just didn’t know you were on a pedestal to begin with.

(This does not excuse shitty action. The fact people should not be idols in the first place is not exculpatory for the choices one makes on one’s own. If you’re sexually assaulting people, or being a racist or sexist or homophobe or other flavor of bigot, or using your situational power coercively (as just a few examples), then hell yes you are going to be called out on it. And to be clear, it is not unreasonable, to put it mildly, to expect people not to sexually assault other people, or not to denigrate other humans for being who they are, etc. But this only adds to the point about idols, now, doesn’t it. You don’t know what you don’t see, and you don’t know what you’re not seeing, until it is hauled out into the light one way or the other. If it is hauled out into the light at all.)

I don’t think anyone should idolize anyone, ever. It’s not great for them, and it’s not great for you, they probably didn’t ask to be idolized (and if they did, holy shit, fucking run), and in the end unless you’re so completely wrapped up in their lives that they have no secrets from you — which is never — you don’t know enough to make that call. People do it anyway, and then disappointment happens, but they shouldn’t have done it in the first place. Stop idolizing people. It’s not fair for anyone.

What to do instead? Enjoy their work, if they’re a creative person. Appreciate the kind and good aspects of their life that you can see, and the decent actions they undertake in public, with the knowledge that what you see of them is a mediated and elided version. Understand that we all have a different version of ourself for every person we meet, and that every person we meet has a different vision of ourselves in their head, and very often, those two versions are not the same. Like them, based on what you know of them! Love them, if it comes to that. And when and if you learn something new about them that you didn’t know before, let empathy guide you to a new understanding of them and what they mean to you.

And now, taking all of the above into consideration:

3. Absolutely 100% do not idolize me. I don’t deserve to be idolized because no one deserves to be idolized, but also, holy fuck, I do know me and I’m a mess. There have been lots of things in my life that I’ve done that have not been admirable or kind. I can be petty and shitty and competitive and cruel. I am lazy and inattentive and when I let things slide (which is often), I end up jammed up on my responsibilities, which makes me irritable and no fun to be around. I have a temper which goes from zero to sixty almost instantaneously; if I’m not actively paying attention to it, I can become a sudden, unreasonable rage monster, which is a burden to people I love, and I hate that fact about myself (pro tip: don’t travel with me, the rage monster comes out a lot then).

I can be controlling and demanding but I want other people to handle the details, i.e., executive asshole. I am strategic in a way that can be bloodless. When I’m insecure I brag a lot, which is unflattering. If you cross me, I won’t go out of my way to make your life miserable (that would require effort on my part), but I will absolutely enjoy when you take a literal or metaphorical tumble down the stairs. God knows I’ve enjoyed the failures of the people who have spoken ill of me, almost as much as I’ve enjoyed the fuming, spittling rage they’ve felt when I’ve succeeded. I spent years cultivating a snarky persona online and while that was fun (for me), I’m increasingly aware that when the tally is added up for Who Ruined the Internet, I’m not necessarily going to be where I want to be on that particular ledger.

And these are only the bad qualities of mine I wish to admit to you at the moment. There are others, I assure you.

So, yes: Who wants to idolize me now?

“But you seemed so nice when I chatted with you online/met you at the convention/saw you at that one place that one time.” Well, thank you, I’ve been in the public eye in one manner or another for three and a half decades now and I understand my assignment; my public persona is friendly and engaging and sociable and mostly fun to be with. It’s not a fake version of me — I am all those things! Honest! — but, again, it’s a mediated version of me designed not only to be a positive experience for the people who meet me but also to get my actually introverted ass through a whole day of events at a convention/festival/book tour/whatever. When I’m done I collapse into an introverted hole. When I came back from Worldcon this week, I slept for 15 hours the first day I was home. It wasn’t just because of jet lag or con crud.

I rather famously call my public face “performance monkey mode,” and likewise what I say about my (current) online mode is that I’m cosplaying as a better version of myself, one that is kinder than I used to be online, and more patient than I am in the real world. If you meet me when I am “off” then you will find that, again, these versions of me are me, just with some things dialed up and other things dialed down. But even that is still a different version of me than, say, the version of me which is at home (which is in fact extremely boring; that version of me doesn’t talk much and mostly stays in my office).

Many of you who have followed me over the years are familiar with me saying things like this, of course, and are likewise familiar with me pointing out that there are a number of things about my life that I don’t mention in public, for whatever reasons I choose. But it’s also true that I’ve been actively online for 30+ years now, and people feel reasonably confident that they have a good bead on me and that there’s not much about me that will surprise them or change their understanding of me. So to bring home the point there are indeed things you don’t know, allow me to surface just one previously unaired fun fact:

I have a concealed carry license.

(Or did; it expired this year and I didn’t renew it, because Ohio changed its laws so that you no longer need a permit to conceal carry in the state. These days in Ohio you can just wander about with a handgun stuffed down your trousers without training or licensing because that’s a real good idea, now, isn’t it. Nevertheless, the license is not necessary anymore so there was not much point in renewing it, although if the law had not changed, I probably would have renewed.)

Why did I have a concealed carry license? Well, ultimately that’s not important. The point is I had one. I didn’t talk about it before because, among other things, the point of a concealed carry license (to me, anyway) is that its existence is not meant to be known by anyone other than that great state of Ohio itself. I am aware, and this is a dramatic understatement, that I am not a person most people would expect to have had such a thing. That the fact I had one will cause a number of people to reconsider what they know about me, for better or for worse. Which is also my point. All y’all have just learned this thing about me! Think about all the other things you don’t know!

Oh, God, this is where Scalzi starts admitting to terrible, terrible things. No. I feel pretty confident I live a tolerably ethical life. Part of the reason for this is that I have what I think is a decent operating principle, which is: If I’m thinking of doing something, and Krissy called me right then and asked “what are you doing?” and I would be tempted to lie to her about it, then I don’t do that thing. Because Krissy is the most important person in my life, and I don’t want to lie to her about what I’m doing (I have lied to her exactly once. She knew instantly. I haven’t bothered lying to her since). This is not replacing Krissy’s ethics with my own; it’s me knowing whether by my own ethics, I would be ashamed to tell to her what I am up to. It works very well. As such, the Krissy Test is an operating principle I highly suggest to others, although I’d suggest replacing Krissy with whomever your life is most important to you.

Be that as it may, my ethics are not universal and some others might not find them sufficient, for whatever reason. I am well aware I still disappoint many people, and that there are people who find my life choices, known positions or public statements (or lack of them, as the case may be) problematic, or who simply wish I would be other than what I am. I can’t help them with this, but again, this is the point. Given the fact that I am a fallible human who has an entire stratum of his life not visible to the world — and the strata of his life that are visible cause significant numbers of people to be irritated and exasperated — is it not better just to not hold me up as an ideal person, or the “good dude,” much less an idol of any sort?

I mean, shit. What Would John Scalzi Do? Solidly half the time, I have no fucking idea. I have to think about it, whatever it is. I have to think about whether I know enough to do or say something about it. I have to decide whether it’s something I want to engage with at all, and whether my engagement with it is something that would be of value to anyone, me included. I have to decide whether engaging with it is worth the shit I will get for it. And then I have to figure out what it means that I am engaging with it, since like it or not I’m a Dude of Reasonable Significance in My Field. I try to be a decent human, when people are looking at me and especially when they are not. But I also know me, and all my flaws and weaknesses and compromises.

What Would John Scalzi Do? The best he can, in the moment. Is that sufficient? For me, yes, most of the time. Is that sufficient for you? That’s up to you.

The point to this all is that people are just a big fucking mess, including the ones you might for whatever reason find admirable. I am no different than anyone else, and you should not be under the illusion that I am anything other than a shambling collection of flaws embedded inside a human form, which also, in its defense, has some pretty excellent qualities as well. We’re all this way! You too!

And while I want you to like my work, and to enjoy the version of me that you see here and elsewhere, don’t put me, or any other person, on a pedestal. Pedestals are wobbly and and don’t give actual humans a lot of room to move. We will inevitably fall off. Keep us with our feet on the ground. That way, when we stumble, there’s a chance we can get back up, and keep going.

— JS

[writing-the-stars]

Echoes of Love

Pairing: Klaus Mikaelson x Fem!Reader, Unnamed OC x Fem!Reader

Summary: It had been years since you last heard from Klaus Mikaelson, and just as you were finally ready to move on, he decided to remind you of the love you once shared.

Warnings: Angst (As Always) and Emotional Cheating. Let Me Know If I Forgot Something

Word Count: 1.4k

A/N: Hey guys! I'm baaaaaaaaaaack. Did you miss me? It's been far too long. I'm alive and I have been slowly ramping up to my return. Starting with this story! The title, to be frank, is not greatest, but I think this is a nice little story to raise me from the dead. I hope you enjoy and thank you all so much for reading!!! Have a wonderful day!

Masterlist | TVDU Masterlist

You perfect the practiced smile you’ve been working on for weeks. It should be easy for you by now– it should come naturally. Everything about this day shouldn’t feel as forced as it does, and yet, on what was meant to be the happiest day of your life, you could only feel the apprehensive dread pooling in your gut. 

The heirloom gown from your soon to be mother-in-law feels heavier than it should, almost suffocating, magnifying the doubts consuming your mind. This was supposed to be the genesis of your new life, the start of your would-be happily ever after. Yet, that menacing fear of regret whittles away at any persuasion you used to get yourself to this moment. You were so sure this is what you wanted. The venue, the menu, the flowers, the seating– all meticulously chosen for this day. But with the weight of vows looming in the horizon, the word “mistake” seems to have made a home in your mind. Were you really prepared to commit yourself to a lifetime with this man?

He was good and pure-hearted– kind, caring, and devoted. He treasured you, loving you in a way that you could never fully reciprocate. You do have an affinity for the man waiting for you at the end of the aisle and you know he could give you a stable and contented life. Yet, the allure of the security his last name would bring pales when you reflect on the life you are now trying to shed. 

Memories intricately woven with passion and adventure. Each day an unpredictable surprise filled with experiences that reshaped the person you once were. The encompassing romance that breathed new meaning to your life, sparking a deeper fulfillment as you were pushed beyond your familiar boundaries. A chapter of your life where your heart had found its rhythm. And despite the inevitable challenges, especially given his past, you were unwavering in facing them with him, and your life was richer for it. 

That danger of living on the edge wasn’t something you realized you craved until it was suddenly taken away. But that was not a sustainable life, you remind yourself as you latch on to a new flaw in your appearance to occupy your mind. 

Your groom is safe— a predictable and reliable anchor in life. A mundane routine you can easily fall into. He promises stability and security, granting you a solid foundation for your future. Which is why you convinced yourself to marry him. It wouldn’t be the life of fantasy that you longed for, but you would be content. 

“Hello, love.”  

Everything within you stills at the sound of the ghost of your past. Your eyes travel the expanse of the mirror, landing on the reflection of his figure propped against the doorframe of your bridal suite– emulating the way he used to watch you get ready. 

“Your beauty is nothing short of breathtaking.” 

“What are you doing here?” the words a mere whisper as they are pushed through your constricted throat. You force yourself to stare fixedly through the mirror, resisting the urge to turn around. Because if you do, if you physically lay your eyes on him, it would shatter all the progress you have made the past three years. And you're determined not to grant him the satisfaction and reward of rejoicing his return as if his actions did not hurt you.

“I’ve heard about your impending nuptials. I couldn’t possibly miss your big day.” 

You laugh, a hollow sound. After all this time, the man you spent years waiting by the door for has finally returned, just as you've made the decision to move on. Bitterness saturates you at the audacity of this man to appear today of all days, wearing that brazen grin. Did he truly believe he could waltz back into your life after everything?

“Why? So you can stop me from ridding myself of you. Starting over and actually having a shot at happiness.” 

Your voice is sharp– venom drips from every word, aiming to puncture another layer deeper into his calloused over heart. His jaw ticks, the only indication you hit your target. 

“I like to think you were quite happy with me, love.”

You scoff, a pathetic attempt to dismiss the validity of his words. Your gaze returns to your own reflection, beginning to readjust the lacey veil pinned to your head, needing a distraction from the man who has an incomprehensible hold on you. 

“Why are you really here, Klaus?” his name falling from your lips as if your tongue had been molded to say it, “You didn’t come back to town just to watch me get married.” 

He steps into the room– reflection growing as he steps closer to you. 

“I’ve come to wish you luck,” you watch as his turquoise eyes trail your frame before returning to your gaze in the mirror, “Though I can’t help but wish you were wearing that dress for me.” 

Something inside you breaks, setting free a torrent of long-suppressed emotions that had been brewing beneath the surface.

“You threw that away 7 years ago when you left me. I waited for you. For 4 years, I waited for you to come back like an idiot because you promised your heart to me and I was dumb enough to fall for it. And now, once I’ve finally picked up the pieces and I’m ready to start again, you want to come back and take that away from me!”

“I left to protect you!”

“No, Klaus! You left because you were afraid. Because for once somebody actually meant something to you and you couldn’t handle the responsibility of that reality. Because, in spite of all my best efforts, you have it solidified in that warped brain of yours that you are incapable of being loved. That no one could ever truly want to be with you. So what do you do? You run. You push people away to avoid your biggest fear and end up becoming your own self-fulfilling prophecy. Well guess what, Klaus? It worked. You’re alone now.”

You turn your back on the Mikaelson, finally ready to give yourself over to your groom. You open your mouth to dismiss the hybrid, but the words die on your tongue as your eyes meet his. His reflection reveals the glistening of tears brimming in his eyes, on the verge of spilling over, but you know Klaus Mikaelson is too prideful to ever let you see him cry. Yet, the thought of it stills you. You take in the sight of him—his clenched fists, his labored breathing—and for the first time, you truly see him. You see the vulnerability beneath the facade, the depth of his struggle, and it stops you in your tracks. 

The wounded boy who only sought his father's approval and his mother's affection. The scars etched deep into his soul, born from the torment of being a bastard cruelly shunned. The millennia of isolating loneliness that followed—an inhumane punishment for another's sin. Beyond that, you witness the fresh wounds your words have inflicted, reopening the scars you had fought so hard to help him heal. Your vengeful words have confirmed his lifelong fear. Here stands a man who has finally gained everything he ever desired, only to realize he is on the brink of losing it all. It moves you, the sight of his insecurities laid bare just for you

"Say it. Tell me you no longer love me, and I will walk away. I will leave you to marry this man, and you will never hear from me again. I will do that for you. But if there is any part of you that still cares, leave with me. Give me another chance."

You stare at the hybrid, conflict brewing within you. You desperately want to believe him—God knows you do—but if he walks away from you again, your heart couldn't endure another shattering. You glance at your reflection in the mirror, adorned in the gown of a woman whose son you could only truly tolerate.  

Is that really the life you want to live? 

You return your gaze to the Mikaelson, stunned by the single tear rolling down his cheek—his ultimate vulnerability. This simple, profound act compels you to accept what you've always known deep down. You can never truly walk away from this man. You love him too much.

Taglist: @catmikaelson20, @gamarancianne, @hazgold, @devotedlycrookeddonut

If you want to be added to my taglist, let me know!

[apostaterevolutionary]

I am so sorry, apparently it’s 2024 and I’m arguing about dragon age again lmao. How did I get here! Why is this happening!! Time is a flat circle!!!

Anyway. People can feel how they want about the past games not mattering in this game. If you’re cool with it, I’m happy for you. But there’s one particular argument in defence of this choice that is really, really bothering me and I have to rant

The thing I keep seeing is “well all this other stuff has nothing to do with the main plot or Rook, so it should be cut” and that’s. Not a good way to tell stories in my opinion. Because here’s the thing: it’s not about the Big Overall Plot. It’s about the characters that live in this world, big and small

I’m going to use the example of Varric and Hawke cause I think it’s the easiest to explain quickly. Varric is a storyteller. That’s the defining trait of his character. He tells stories, and sometimes they’re true and sometimes they’re not and sometimes it’s something in between. In DA2 he tells you about his brother. In inquisition, he talks about hawke and there’s banter about several of the companions. Most of these are just little one liners that don’t “serve the overall plot” but they serve Varric’s character

And that matters

So if we take this character known for telling stories about people that have been in his life, well, he largely can’t do that now. How can he talk about Hawke, someone who can be a very close friend of his, without even their gender being a choice you can select? Or whether Varric should be saying ‘is’ or ‘was’ about them? How can he talk about the companions in DA2 or inquisition when a lot of them don’t have to be recruited or can die? Will he limit himself to only characters that are guaranteed to be a part of it and alive? Or is it that he and Rook will have such a shallow relationship that Varric, of all characters, never talks about his life and past exploits?

Or has Varric as a character changed so much that he doesn’t even want to tell stories anymore? That Hawke living or dying means nothing to him? That the friendships he built with people in 2 games mean nothing to him? That he’s become literally unrecognizable?

This is where the problem is. Sure, Rook maybe doesn’t care about these people they’ve never met. But do they care about Varric? What about if a companion mentions an old friend of theirs, talks about an experience they had that made them who they are - is that only okay if that experience isn’t from a previous game? Or are all the characters so flat that we never learn anything about their connections to others outside of Rook? Is this story SO focused on this player character and this plot that NOTHING else matters, even within the world, and there’s no depth to be found in any of the characters that feature in it?

Writing characters so that they only ever talk about things that “directly serve the plot” is how you get flat, unremarkable, boring, forgettable characters. And that’s not something I would have accused bioware of doing even if some instalments are stronger in this area than others. But it sounds like that’s what they’re doing here, at least with the past characters. Cause sure, maybe Morrigan is so closed off she’ll never mention her son and partner. That’s believable, even if iffy given that they’ve said she’s going to be more involved than we think. But Varric? VARRIC??? Never mentioning ANY of the people he used to spend time with and care about except Solas and maybe some of the inquisition characters that can’t die or not be recruited but also carefully skirting around what happened to them in the game? That’s literally not the same character

And I would expand this to like. A letter mentioning this or a codex mentioning that, or ambient dialogue about so and so - that makes the world feel deep and those random, unimportant NPCs feel richer by connecting them to the larger world. It’s not about “serving the plot”, it’s about making your world and characters deep enough that they feel real, lived in, and like something we can actually care about

[heliads]

'homesick, but not for home' - kaz brekker

Based on this request: "y/n finally gets to visit their home country after years away in ketterdam with the crows. a sweet little slice of life with kaz finally getting to be kaz rietveld"

masterlist

merry christmas everyone! my present to you is kaz

Receiving a summons from Kaz Brekker usually means one of two things:  either you are about to be murdered, or he is going to ask you to do something before he murders you. Usually, that task involves the distribution of funds from your ledgers to his. However, as one of the bare few who has the privilege of making it to his inner circle, you would wager that there’s a third possible outcome from hearing from him:  he still wants you to do something, but you’ll be killing someone else.

Nonetheless, judging by the expression of the courier who tells you that Kaz is expecting you in his office, even being spared an imminent death doesn’t mean that this meeting will go pleasantly. Dirtyhands has a reputation around here, one just as dark and choking as those black gloves he so loves to wear. No one here knows Kaz as anything more than a shadow of a man, a killer, a convict. To learn that he wishes to speak to you is akin to hearing that Death itself is knocking on your door.

You, however, just smile and turn your feet towards the stairs leading to Kaz’s office instead. The Slat, home of the Dregs, is a rickety ramshackle of a building. Kaz has been doing his part to fix it up as he can, but the floorboards are still masterfully creaky and the oil lamps flicker ominously from their resting places beside each looming door. The stairwell is worst of all, a towering, beckoning talon that delivers you to your fate at the very top. 

Sometimes, you swear Kaz put his office on the top floor just because it would give his victims more time to contemplate their quickly approaching demise when they had to climb all the way up. Other days, you just assume that he was sick of the noise and wanted to find a place where nobody would bother him unless absolutely necessary. Knowing Kaz, both rationales are probably sound.

You knock once on the door to his office and, upon hearing your name called to come in, twist the doorknob and let yourself inside. Gathered in a loose semicircle on the few available pieces of furniture as well as leaning against the wall are Inej, Jesper, Wylan, Matthias, and Nina. Kaz sits, as usual, ramrod straight in a chair behind his desk, and gestures for you to take the final open seat.

“Looks like everyone’s here,” you note. “Should I be worried about missing anything?”

“Not in the slightest,” Jesper chirps. “Only that Kaz has been saving that chair for you this whole time. He keeps glaring at us whenever we so much as look towards it.”

Jesper looks as if he’d like to gossip about this a little more, but Wylan digs a sharp elbow into his side, causing the other boy to complain heartily. 

You just grin, sliding into your seat. “Good. I deserve luxury. I was never made to sit on the ground.”

Kaz coughs pointedly to disguise what you’re sure is a smile. “Now that we’re all in attendance, we can get started. I’ve heard news of a prospective business deal happening off the coast of the Southern Colonies. Expensive materials are being exchanged. Jewelry, artwork, the like. It’s all being conducted by Kerch merchers, but they took everything offshore to avoid the chance of getting caught. If we swoop in the night before and take all their bargaining tools, we’ll be richer and they’ll have to cave to our demands.”

“Of course, our demands,” Nina says, nodding. “What are we demanding, again?”

Inej smiles. “For them to stop breathing down our backs, for one thing. Also, they keep trying to cut into business. They needed this deal for an alliance between some of the wealthier merchers, but if each party thinks the other stole their riches before the swap, they’ll be so busy with infighting that they won’t bother us for some time.”

Kaz inclines his head gravely. “Precisely.”

Inej taps her fingers silently against her leg. “My question is when we’re going to stage the attack. We can attempt to hijack the ships before they leave the harbor, but I have no doubt that they’ll be crawling with stadwatch.”

“That’s why we’ll be sailing along with them,” Kaz clarifies. “The heist won’t happen until we’re on the shores of the Southern Colonies. That way, they’ll have let down their guard.”

Immediately, everyone reacts. Leaving the Barrel is an invitation for everything to go wrong. If rival gangs like the Dime Lions or the Razorgulls find out that Kaz’s inner circle isn’t in town, they’ll hasten to loot the place or kill your foot soldiers before anyone gets back.

“We have to leave the country?” Inej asks doubtfully. “That’s a tremendous risk.”

Kaz’s expression doesn’t shift a second, but you can still sense him tensing somehow, all too aware of the extra burden on his staff to maintain decorum and avoid attracting threats from his many enemies. “Think of it as a vacation. You’ll be able to get out of the city and go somewhere nice. Maybe even get some seaside air.”

Jesper snorts. “Kaz, your idea of a vacation is locking the door of your office and not running your numbers for five minutes. I didn’t think seaside air existed in your vocabulary except as a potential source of weakness.”

Kaz frowns. “Of course seaside air exists in my vocabulary. How else would I know to say it?”

Jesper rolls his eyes and looks as if he’d like to counter that with an equally terrible argument, but you cut him off. “I’d like to go,” you say suddenly.

All eyes turn to you. “Why?” Wylan asks.

A faint smile plays upon your lips. It’s easier to look at the ground than face all of their inquisitive stares, so you do just that. “I’m from the Southern Colonies. Used to be, at least. I’d always planned on going back at some point, but never got the chance until now.”

Truth be told, you were assuming that you would never get that chance. Your parents moved your whole family down to Ketterdam when you were about ten years old, drawn by the call of a quick profit. They were able to eke out a few tentative years, but the city swallowed them like it does everyone else. It’s just you now, you and the Crows and the dream that at one point, you might be able to revisit the place you once called home.

Even connecting ‘home’ and the Southern Colonies in the same sentence seems like something out of a dream. You’ve lived in Kerch for so long now that you can hardly imagine being anywhere else. The Crows are your family, the Barrel your home. It’s a strange life, certainly, but it’s yours.

Kaz’s face closes down. “I’ll go with you. Inej, you and the rest will maintain the Crow Club and its affiliates until we return. I don’t want to risk all of us on one endeavor.”

Matthias arches a brow. “You are willing to brave the risk of splitting up, though?”

Kaz turns a bemused expression his way. “Are you worried about me, drüskelle? And here I thought we’d never see eye to eye.”

Matthias snorts. “Don’t go that far, demjin.”

“I won’t if you won’t,” Kaz muses. “The plan is set, then. We’ll have three weeks to plan, and then Y/N and I will set off.”

He allows the rest of the Crows to leave, but gestures for you to stay. You pull your chair closer to his desk, sensing that the discussion will shift into more details of the mission at hand.

Once the last of your friends have gone, Kaz turns his gaze to you. His eyes seem to stare straight through your skull, and you get the strange feeling that he could read every thought created inside your mind if he just bothered to listen a little closer. 

“You said you were born in the Southern Colonies. I need to be certain that there will be no distractions for a job like this. Can you swear to me that you’ll be focused?” He asks you.

“It won’t be an issue,” you assure him. “I’ll see the countryside and then move on. Honest.”

“Well, I should hope you won’t be completely honest,” Kaz murmurs, the corners of his lips pricking up into a slight shade of a smile. “We are still robbing people, of course.”

“Of course,” you laugh. His eyes jerk up when you do, his gaze hungry for the sight of it.

And– see, this is where you start to get into trouble. You are a criminal, a member of a gang. Every day is a fight. You know that survival is the thing that matters most in the Barrel, survival and how much money you can make off of delaying your last breath. You need to have single-minded focus totally centered around how you are going to make it through each day, but instead, your brain has started drifting to unreasonable topics like the precise shade of Kaz’s eyes or all the techniques he uses to hide his smiles.

It won’t serve you well, this feeling like a slow burn in your chest. Kaz would be the very first to tell you that weakness will only get you killed. People are a weakness. Is Kaz, though? Sometimes, in vague moments in between the times when reality comes firmly back to ground you, you can almost imagine that he might feel the same way. Would he really entertain this idea if he didn’t feel something for you? Would he leave the Barrel to go all the way to the Southern Colonies with you if he could easily send Jesper or someone else?

In the end, all you can ever do is push the thoughts from your mind. The scheming and planning period has got to be your least favorite part of a heist, but unfortunately, it’s also the segment that takes the longest. Every detail has to be perfect or all involved will be caught in the act.

Eventually, though, you find yourself shipping out on a fine sea morning, headed towards the country that hasn’t been yours since you were a child. You and Kaz are pretending to be business partners, which is true enough. His cabin is next to yours. You’re fairly sure he already knows the identity of every other traveler on the ship, just in case.

Standing on the deck and watching Ketterdam retreat into a nameless speck on the dark, vast ocean, you can’t help but wonder what the Southern Colonies will bring your way. Your heart is surprisingly light in your chest at the thought of it. You have dim recollections of the rolling hills and drifting tides, although even these memories have grown hazy with time. You can’t wait to see it again.

By contrast, Kaz, standing by your side, seems far less thrilled about the whole idea. His black gloves are clenched tightly around the railing, his grip hardening whenever the ship tilts too much. You glance around to make sure no other travelers are within earshot, then ask him with a questioning glance, “Why would you make this trip if you don’t like the ocean?”

Kaz shoots you a wary look. “I’m perfectly fine with it.”

You scoff. “Nonsense. You look as if you’d like nothing more than to drain the entire True Sea and simply walk to the Southern Colonies on foot. You could have sent Inej or Jesper in your place, you know. Why’d you want to go?”

“I have to make sure the job goes smoothly,” Kaz informs you. “Business is best handled by myself.”

You arch a brow. “Lovely. Good to know that you’ll never let something pesky like sea travel stand between you and your ambitions.”

Kaz snorts. “I should hope you’d already know that. And to answer your unspoken question, you’re here too because it’s foolish to take international jobs without someone at your back just in case of trouble. I trust you to not let homesickness for the Southern Colonies get in the way. I would advise you to stick to that.”

You smile. “Goodness, Kaz, you trust me? No wonder you didn’t want anyone else with us, if the rest knew you were shelling out compliments this easily they would have teased you for years.”

In the corners of your peripheral vision, you swear you can see a matching smile slide onto Kaz’s lips, but it’s gone the second you turn to look at him. “Precisely my thinking.”

The journey takes shorter than expected, or maybe that’s just your restless thinking. In no time at all, your ship is docking at a port of the Southern Colonies, and you’re turning in a slow circle on the coast, taking in every single sight you can.

“Careful,” Kaz tells you, “You don’t want to come across as too strong of a pigeon. We don’t want to attract any new friends who anticipate stealing something off of us.”

He’s smiling, though, and you swear there’s something a little lighter in his expression than you usually see. Maybe it really is the sea air getting to him, or maybe the fact that he’s out of Ketterdam’s grimy clutches lets Kaz relax even a fraction.

Regardless, you’re happy for it. “Ridiculous,” you say, laughing slightly. “Not all the world is like the Barrel, you know. We don’t do that sort of thing in the Southern Colonies.”

“We?” Kaz asks doubtfully. “Three steps you’ve taken off the ship and you’re already a proper citizen again, are you?”

You just grin. “What, are you jealous? Scared I’ll leave the Barrel?”

He doesn’t answer, but quickly changes the topic towards finding accommodations for the night and planning out an intelligence trip near the location where the jewels are being held. Even walking through the portside town and crossing the streets feels like magic, in a way. You lived not far from here, and everything from the curve of the avenues to the bright sun in the sky feels like coming home.

As it turns out, you and Kaz aren’t the only ones affected by the easy way of life in the Colonies. The two merchers you’ve been tracking are discussing business in broad daylight, obviously not anticipating anyone to have followed them. The job will be easy, and the few days you gave yourselves for extra planning are largely useless since no more details are relevant.

Instead, you take it upon yourself to explore the surrounding countryside. You tell Kaz that he doesn’t have to accompany you every time, of course, he can stay back in the portside town if he pleases, but he still goes with you. It’s funny, the more time you spend away from the city, the more you watch the burdens slowly lift from his shoulders, the light return to his eyes.

One time, while walking through a wooded path, Kaz tells you it’s because this reminds him of his home, as well. He grew up on a farm, once, under a different last name and in a different life. He’ll never have that time of his life back again, nor, you think privately, will you have yours, but it’s still lovely to wander around here and pretend that you could.

The job goes off without a hitch. Soon enough, you find yourselves sitting pleased with jewels and artwork hidden away in your luggage, all items recovered without their owners batting so much as an eye. You’ll leave early in the morning before they can notice you. You feel a pang in your heart at the thought of leaving already, but you hadn’t realized you weren’t the only one thinking about it until Kaz visits your room at the inn late that final night.

You had known it was him at your door from the moment you heard his crisp knock against the wooden paneling. No one else moves or lives like Kaz, with so much precision. When you let him in, though, he looks more wild than you’ve ever seen him. His hair, for once, has lost its impeccable style and gone wild and unkempt. His shirt is wrinkled and rolled up to the elbows. It would still be a good look on him were it not for the fact that you’ve never seen him so little put together in the entire time you’ve known him.

Kaz doesn’t say a word until he is certain that the door is shut and bolted behind him. Then, all of a sudden, the words burst out of his throat, so beseeching that you have to wonder how in Ghezen’s name he managed to keep them from you for so long. “Don’t stay here,” he says. “Come back with me.”

You frown. “Who said I was staying? We’ve both got tickets on the ship departing next morning, Kaz.”

He waves a hand frustratedly to signal his disbelief in this statement. “Tickets don’t mean a thing. I need you to say it.”

“I did,” you frown. “Where else would I go?”

“Here,” Kaz says heatedly. “I’ve seen the way you look at the buildings, this place. You want to say here. Don’t you do it, Y/N.”

You shake your head softly. “I love it here, yes, but it’s not my home anymore than Ravka across the sea. I’m going back to the Barrel, Kaz.”

“With me,” he says uncertainly.

“With you,” you confirm. “Goodness, Kaz, did you really think I would stay? How could I do such a thing?”

“It’s very easy for people to leave,” he tells you. There’s a heaviness in his eyes that reminds you of brothers that have been buried, of farms that have long been sold to undeserving families that were not his.

“Not me,” you whisper. “Not if it was you I was leaving.”

His eyes, which have been sweeping your figure this entire time, looking for some twitch of a finger or jump of a pulse to betray you for lying, leap up to yours again. “Okay,” he says at last. “Okay.”

He leans back slightly, wavering on his heels. “I– I’ll go back to my room, then.”

Kaz doesn’t look as if he much savors the idea, and you decide to spare him from his thoughts, just in case. “You can stay here, you know.”

A soft breath is released. “That would– I could do that.”

He does. And, as your candles burn closer to the quick, as the night settles over this city, you cannot help but be glad for the time when you’ll find yourself in a different one. It has been nice to be here, but you would like to go home. And, most importantly of all, you are glad that Kaz will be there with you.

grishaverse tags: @rogueanschel, @deadreaderssociety, @cameronsails, @mxltifxnd0m, @story-scribbler, @retvenkos, @mayfieldss, @eclliipsed, @gods-fools-heroes, @bl606dy, @auggie2000, @baju69, @crazyhearttragedy, @aoi-targaryen, @budugu

all tags list: @wordsarelife

[shirefantasies]

hello there!! i've been reading your works for a while and they're adorable, i love them so much ;A;

it's actually my birthday today! if it's not too much trouble, could you write the Fellowship (plus Arwen and Eowyn if you'd like <3) and how each of them would spend reader's birthday with them?

if not, then that's okay! hope you have a great day and once again i love your writing :D

Happy belated birthday anon! This is a cute idea 😄

REQUESTS ARE STILL CLOSED! This is a very old request I’m just getting around to posting.

Warnings: a bit suggestive at times

How LoTR Characters Spend Your Birthday With You

Aragorn

He is not exactly the biggest party person, so unless you are your celebration will be smaller, more intimate. You’ll be woken with the gentlest kiss and a whispered blessing. Whatever you command, Aragorn teases, he is yours…. Beyond that, he is his typical attentive self, cooking your favorite meal for you and laying it out beautifully as he can. Candles, flowers, you name it and he has found it. All day the words pass his lips that the world is all the richer for your entry into it, that he considers you a blessing every day of his life. So much so, in fact, he’ll even tolerate you smashing some cake on him if you feel a bit giddy that night! Shaking his head, he just smiles and laughs it off. It is your birthday, after all, and he is plenty used to the old antics of his friends!

Legolas

You expect a surprise, ironically, knowing Legolas’s air of teasing mystery, and sure enough he whisks you away nearly as soon as he can. Any questioning fails utterly, but at least you get to see Legolas’s dark eyes glitter with mischief as he tells you you’ll see. In the end you’re taken to a little paradise all your own, a treetop canopy with a scenic view. “And of course you have your cake,” he teases, remembering how important it was to you. You’re still in awe of the view, jaw slack at the horizon of endless green blending into the blue sky with its sparse puffs of cloud. It’s amazing, utterly so and you tell him, but the woodland prince insists that the most amazing part of this all is you. Your birth, your entry into the world those years ago, means more to him than he can ever truly convey.

Boromir

Such ambition! Boromir asks you to describe your dream day and vows to give it to you. Taking a boat ride? He’ll find a way. Having a joust? He would be honored to be your partner. A party with your friends? Simply give him the notice and he will invite them all to a grand event! He understands that cake is traditional so he commissions the best of his father’s bakers for yours. All the while of the merriment Boromir’s arm is slung about your waist, his eyes and grin loving as they fix firmly upon you. You may have to restrain him, for he’ll want to hoist your arm up and call out your praises in front of everybody! He definitely tries to be understanding if these ideas make you anxious, however, toning down the party in his mind to a candlelit dinner for two. Hm, yes, perhaps some romance would be a good way to spend your birthday after all….

Gimli

Pretends he forgot. His jaw drops, lips widening into an o shape as he asks oh, was that today? Today of all days? …Followed immediately by mischievous he-he-hes of laughter as he reaches into some pocket or another and pulls out a box. “I jest, of course? You think I would forget the most important of days, the birth of my fairest One? Not in the slightest! Go on, open it up!” Inside is none other than a piece of your favorite type of jewelry, clearly handmade and beautifully custom crafted. Gimli made it himself of course, not a single other dwarf laying a hand on it. “Just like you,” he jokes as you embrace and pull his lips into yours. As far as any other celebration of course he wants to scream it from the hills and drink and dance the night away with you, but if you want no fanfare Gimli will simply walk with you anywhere you go, still telling everyone it’s your birthday, before taking you home for a more private celebration. Hopefully still some drinks and dancing, even if it’s just you two. And something else? Well, he would give you everything you want on your special day, just ask and he is yours…

Frodo

You’ll awake to a pair of the most loving blue eyes you’ve ever seen upon you. Soon as he knows you’ve risen, Frodo reaches over to caress your face, a smile creeping onto his lips before he kisses your forehead. “Good morning, my love. How would you like to spend your day?” Anything you request within reason will be yours. The weather cooperates, luckily, so if you wish to take a walk on the edges of the Shire or take to the market opportunity is availed to you. Frodo will organize a party if you wish it, inviting only your closest friends and family and hoping he’ll be your only dance partner for the evening! Encourages you to be the one to cut your cake, nodding eagerly towards it with a big smile. He spent ages on your gift, a hand-illustrated and bound volume of your favorite story he made with his uncle Bilbo.

Sam

Spends a whole day making your cake himself. It has to be perfect, your favorite flavor and lots of edible flowers to make it pretty! Sam is very sweet with you, absolutely doting on you all day and insisting you don’t lift a finger. Even going so far as to romantically carry you over thresholds if he can. The most loving eyes fall onto you as he asks what you want to do, flushing if you make any more scandalous suggestions and agreeing eagerly, readying himself to pull off the bed and onto your next adventure. It’s the end of the night, naturally, when he insists on cutting you a big slice of your cake and showering you with gifts ranging from flowers to a new one of your favorite comfort items to a special piece of craftsmanship from his elven friends! Party or no, Sam will share a lantern-lit dance with you that night and will be telling you how much he loves you and is grateful you were born all day!

Merry

The type to suggest celebrating on your birthday, if you catch his drift. Loves your eager reaction or if you smack him and tease back, both is good. Morning or evening, he won’t be picky! But in all seriousness, this calls for a celebration and by the stars you are getting one! Merry will have the whole of the Green Dragon singing your praises and wishing you well that night, not to mention being ready with a cake and a hearty meal! All day he’s walking around with the proudest smile and a hand around your waist. His gift to you is the perfect mix of pretty and practical, a gorgeously embroidered coat with bejeweled buttons that had to have cost a lot, but he assures you it’s worth it with a kiss to your forehead and another happy birthday.

Pippin

Writes it down so he doesn’t forget what day it is, then sets himself to work planning you a party! If you don’t like large events then instead of a massive Shire celebration he’ll throw something in your yard or the Tooks will rent out the Green Dragon for a night with all your friends. During the day, though? Pippin refuses to share you, no sir. All his attention is on you from the moment he surprises you with a big breakfast to when he sets aside the dishes. Even getting ready for the day he’ll pamper you, running you a bath and jumping in with you too of course! A picnic lunch in a field of waving wildflowers, lots of shared kisses beneath the sun, and a bouquet hand-picked just for you await! Tells anyone who runs across you that it’s his beloved’s birthday, you know. Your favorite gift this year is a scarf, one quite similar to Pippin’s but in your favorite color instead, the one you wear most. He had his mother make it for you just like the cake! Warning: Pippin will want to hand-feed you some cake and may see about smashing just a teensy bit up by your nose. If you really hate that he won’t, but if you retaliate? Well, your cake fight may turn into another bath for you two and then who knows from there…

Faramir

His brother was always the better one at this, an internal voice tells Faramir, but that makes it all the more exciting, especially because Boromir is happy to help him execute his plan! You are completely unsuspecting of the brothers’s scheme as you pry open the doors to the chamber Faramir asked you to meet him in, lops parting widely in shock at the crowd awaiting you. They all wish you a happy birthday as one, just as your family did for you in your youth. Tears fill your eyes at the sight of the gathering, but you are quickly swept into Faramir’s loving arms. He doesn’t let go of your hand for the entire night, either.

Eomer

Good luck getting out of bed that morning! Eomer will be upon you from the moment you arise, showering you with affection and ministrations of your every need and desire. He insists he can even do the cooking, which he does not usually undertake, but when you finally do arise for a meal you find quite a hearty selection awaiting you. From there Eomer takes you out for a ride, insisting you share a horse so he can hold you close and keep you blindfolded- no need to ruin the surprise so early, hm? You feel the incline before you see it, obviously, but after your mount slows Eomer lifts you up and sets you down to restore your sight. The fabric drops to reveal a flowered hill and a gorgeous view of the blue sky, both of which pale in comparison to the sight of Eomer knelt before you, telling you your birthday is a day of new beginnings. Asking then if you’ll grant him the new beginning of a married life with him?

Eowyn

Bless her soul, she makes you a cake. You can imagine how that goes. Looking at it with trepidation, you eagerly pull her to your day’s activities, saving that for the end of the night anyway. Rather, your focus is on the freedom you have to celebrate, taking a ride just to feel the wind in your hair and laugh with abandon at Eowyn’s side. Nearing your ride’s end she lays down a blanket and carries you down upon it, unpacking a meal for you to share as you watch the sunset. You will celebrate with friends and family, certainly, but this day is for you two. Laughter ensues further as you both choke on the cake, agreeing it’s no good but you assure her you love that she made it nonetheless, tackling her down upon the spread fabric with teasing, affectionate kisses. Giggling, she practically peels you off to give you your gift: a sword emblazoned with the Riddermark’s most gorgeous flowers.

Haldir

Haldir was never one to celebrate birthdays. It just never occurred to him to do anything beyond well wishes. So imagine his surprise when you began pondering what kind of cake you’ll make, if your elven neighbors would come for a party. Party? Of course, you say? Raucous celebrations were more characteristic of those in Mirkwood, but for you, Haldir realized with a smile the next time you were in his arms, he would lace up his dancing shoes. Insisting on handling the cake, he enlists Lothlórien’s finest baker, the one who crafts for Galadriel herself, to make you a gorgeous dessert that sits at your celebration’s center. He lets you teach him a dance or two and performs one you both know, letting loose and even just laughing in simple joy. Your gift is his favorite part of the evening, a mantle crafted of the strongest material that will keep you safe and looking beautiful as you always do in his eyes.

Galadriel

Oh, you are going to be pampered. The most beautiful sunlight kissing your skin as Galadriel whispers good morning, caressing your cheek and pulling you into her lips. Spending the morning exactly how she knows you like before treating you to a day of luxury. Healing massages for you both, a ride upon Lothlórien’s boats until you moor at the base of a great waterfall, the power of your love’s ring parting the waterfall as she beckons you into a wonderfully dry and decorated hollow. Therein you share a meal and each other’s company, whispered words of how much you mean to each other and all your desires shared before you are gifted a necklace bearing the great works and designs of Lórien- but most importantly engravings of Galadriel’s love for you hidden beneath the metal swirling around its white stone.

Elrond

Having a complicated family history himself, Elrond takes the task upon his own shoulders to show others compassion, comfort, and most of all senses of belonging and being loved. Of course this extends to your birthday! He wishes you well from the first and tells you what a blessing you are, how you surprise him with your strength and warm him with your smile every day. And do not doubt that you’ll be treated to the most luxurious of baths and Elrond washing and styling your hair for you. Following that is an afternoon lavished with gifts, jewelry and art and all you could ask for. That night, Elrond brings you up to the highest point in all of Rivendell to stargaze and so he can hold you and sway with you beneath the lights that looked down upon and symbolized his ancestors.

Arwen

Unless you specifically request the opposite, she’ll steal you away completely. Gone are you from the many eyes which could fall upon you, gone far off hand in hand with your beloved. Riding away to a secluded hollow where you and Arwen can be free, be yourselves. Lay in each other’s arms, weave flowers in each other’s hair, and flush joyfully and bashfully when she reaches up to feed you by hand, her own face a playful grin. Each kiss she gives you is deep, languid, intent, her hands falling to you as if to hold you there forever, but you mind not being bewitched so by her. Whispers of how grateful she is for your birth shared between your lips until they are joined again. Arwen’s gift to you is a ring, one that bears words of her own writing within its band. My love for all time.

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[slu7formen]

hey bby! I wanted to request cedric x slytherin!reader. she is known as an ice princess, very elegant and intelligent but has no friends. she falls for THE cedric but has no hopes to even be with him. how would their story end? it would bring me so much closure 💕 thank you so much in advance

hi sweetie! thanks for requesting 🥹 and i love this story! hope you enjoy 🫶🏻 also, sorry for the wait.

melting heart | cedric diggory x f.r

cedric diggory x fem!reader

you were known for being an ice princess. being a slytherin, coming from a rich family, one of the smartest in your class; the whole package. but then you accidentally drank verisaterum, and the person you bumped with… had to be Cedric Diggory, the boy you liked for years.

warnings: language, the twins doing something illegal, emotional reader, little use of yn

reminder: english’s not my first language, so I apologize do any spelling mistakes.

slu7formen’s masterlist | cedric diggory’s masterlist

“Morning, (yln)”

“Malfoy”

Of course, he didn’t say anything as you walked out of the Slytherin common room on your way to have breakfast. but you felt his blue eyed intense stare in your back. Unfortunately, you lived in a world where even Draco Malfoy thought that hanging out with you was… not good, but since his parents knew yours, saying hi to you was the least thing he had to do, mainly because it was his parents request.

You decided to go alone this morning. Well, you were always alone, but when you do have company, it’s your cat; Hara. She looked very pleased with her sleeping position, so bothering her was not an option.

You could say she was your only friend, the only one you had ever since your first year at Hogwarts and now, on your sixth year, everything was the same. Did you hate it? Not at all. You got used to being alone, even though you hated it at first.

Your family has a reputation, therefore, you do too. People say you’re an ice princess, they say that if looks could kill, many students would be dead by now and you’d easily be responsible for it. Despite your very low desire of having friends or even sharing your life with wizards and witches, they said many other things about you too that could have easily be something that describes the sweetest girl in the world.

The way you walk, as smooth as if you could float, small but decided and confident steps. Always smelling fresh, like just showered; whoever sat next to you could sense it so strong that some even said that your perfume is made with amortentia.

Besides, you were also your house Prefect.

Truth was, you were an easy center of attention, even when you didn’t want it. A Slytherin girl who’s family is rumored to be richer than the Malfoy’s, her best friend is her black cat, always wearing the most expensive jewelry, spending as much time in the library as possible to study and also someone who’s extremely intelligent that shows its passion for Defense Against the Dark Arts, being at the top of her class? How could you not be someone that people talked about?

You were a whole mystery. But they were too afraid to even try to discover you.

You didn’t know who even started to say that you were not someone good to be with, so you couldn’t understand anything at your first year and cried yourself to sleep every night because no one wanted to be around you. With time, it got better, maybe it’s better to be alone than being sorrunded by bad people, you thought, and it always made you feel better when your stone cold heart was about to melt when you felt too vulnerable.

But no one, definitely no one… makes you feel as vulnerable as Cedric Diggory.

Of course you knew who he was, who didn’t? He was a revolutionary insanely attractive guy that caught every girl’s attention even in his first year. For your first year in Valentine’s day, he received at least twelve letters and a massive box of chocolates gifted by an anonymous girl at your grade, and he didn’t hesitate on sharing it with his friends. On second grade, he gained even more popularity after becoming a part of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, and by fifth grade already, many girls were desperate to ask him on a date and fantasize about what being their girlfriend was like.

You couldn’t deny that you were one of those girls… not the girlfriend part, but the one that could easily fall for him if your heart gave the chance.

You liked him in first grade, secretly, but as the months went by, the colder you became, the more you avoided him, and the more you forgot about his existence, just being another person you know that would not be relevant in your life.

At least, not until he bumped into you just when the year started, three months ago.

You were walking with your hands full of books, almost covering your view as you tried to find your way to your dorm again. Hara was next to you, as always, and you secretly wished she was a human the whole time so she could transform back into her original shape and carry some books for you.

That didn’t happen.

What did happen, is that you gasped as your books bumped into someone’s body; for the second time. The first one ran away when she offered to help you and you yelled at her to leave you alone, because you were too angry to even let her help you.

But how could you yell at his face?

“Oh, Merlin” he had said before quickly getting on one knee, and his big hands already started to pick up three books. You just stood there… silent. “I’m so sorry, I was coming around the corner and-…”

Your tired and big sigh interrupted his words. “It’s fine.” your voice said as you got on both of your knees as you fixed a piece of tour hair behind your ear. “It’s the second time today.”

“I’m sorry” he said again, much sadder this time, and you noticed. You thought you maybe were too hard on your words, or your tone, or the way your face was clenched, but why would you care? Weren’t you always like that?

You didn’t answer though, just silently picking up your heavy and boring looking books from the floor.

Cedric had looked up at you twice while picking up the books. He recognized you from the hallways and his classes, but didn’t find the need to introduce himself; he thought you wouldn’t care a bit. Of course, he had to think just the same way as everyone else.

You secretly wished he didn’t, but you also thought that this was going to be the only time that you saw him and actually talked.

“Are you going to your dorm?”

You frowned your eyebrows at him as you lifted your head. His brown were hidden behind some hair that fell on his forehead as his lips were parted, waiting for your answer. You nodded your head, suddenly remembering that you were actually talking to him, not staring at a fucking statue. You slapped yourself internally, feeling stupid.

“Yeah” your answer was short.

“Let me help you then, it’s the least I can do”

God, could he be more perfect?

But your hard ass had to complain.

“No, it’s okay. I know my way”

You heard his laugh when you picked up the last book from the floor.

“I know you do, but I want to help you. They’re too heavy for you”

You sighed loudly again, and with an annoyed expression on your hardly visible face, you said; “Look, I don’t need help, okay? Just-…” you stopped when you looked to your left. Hara was always there, but not this time. “Where’s Hara?” the fear in your voice alerted Cedric’s ears.

“Who’s Hara?”

“My cat!” you almost yelled, letting your books fall again as you quickly got up, already disappearing into the corner in which the brunette guy came from. “Hara?”

He was quick to follow behind you. “It’s a black cat, right?”

“What?” you asked, turning your head as you found him standing next to your body, looking down at you. “No! I’m not letting you help me find my cat”

“Well, too bad” he muttered before walking past you and brushing your shoulder. You scoffed, surprised with wide eyes as you heard how he called your cat’s name and made those same little noises that everyone does when they are trying to find a cat.

He did not fall for your complaining. Why did you like it so much?

“Ugh!” you shouted towards the ceiling while letting your arms rise up and then fall heavily to your sides. “Hara!” you screamed, knowing damn well that that would not make her come to you again, but being the only thing that came out of your mouth.

You could still hear Cedric’s voice as you silently looked for Hara in the cold hallways, books long forgotten, probably getting stepped on by many students.

For what felt like ten minutes, you were already convinced that Cedric was long gone and had stopped looking for your cat. Your thought got you relaxed, but also worried, were you too harsh on him? Too rude? You didn’t want to be rude with him, or with anyone but it was just what came out of you.

Cedric didn’t run away though. No, he stayed, he insisted. He had to be one of the few if not the only person that ever did that to you, at least for the past three years…

“yn!”

And then he called your name.

A single name falling from his rosy and pumped lips, letting it fall like thick and sweet honey that tasted as magnificent as the sweetest chocolate or cherry. You liked how it sounded, coming from him.

You turned your back, and he almost smiled when he noticed what he had in his arms, and the way your eyebrows instantly came back to their original not-worried expression.

Hara seemed a little too comfortable in his arms as she looked around nervously, as if she saw something she shouldn’t, or got scared by something. He stopped in front of you and gave you your pet in your arms, slightly letting his hands brush yours, but quickly letting go. The feeling was too good to be that short.

“Where were you?” you asked staring into her yellow eyes, as if she could answer. “You scared the living hell out of me, sweetie”

“Sweetie?”

Shit, he was still there.

You just gave him a quick look before kissing Hara’s head and placing her down to the ground again, pointing her with your finger to stay there, she meowed.

“Uh… thank you” you said, probably for the first time in months, and quickly feeling your throat go dry. He smiled, proud of himself because of course, he knew you never acted like this, in fact, it was like a totally different person in front of him.

He noticed the way your cheeks went slightly pink when he caught your baby-acting way of talking to Hara, he found it cute.

Cedric didn’t believe many of the things he heard about you over the years, like, you study so much in the library because you secretly read black magic in the forbidden section, or that you were so mean on your third grade that you made three girls cry the first day, when in fact, he knew it was another person. He almost hated the way people decided to treat you one day and never notice your existence again when it came to friendship.

You were popular, but still, one of the most feared persons. Did that make sense?

“Anytime” he replied, and you held your breath when he got closer to you, still looking at you, but quickly getting on his knees again to give your cat some little pats on her head and stomach when she just laid there, asking for more of his —probably— soft and comforting touch.

Traitor. You thought, looking at Hara.

“She’s so cute” you heard him laugh when your cat gave him the purest glassy eyes ever, enjoying his presence while you stood there awkwardly, just wanting to leave. “I think she loves me”

Once again, you didn’t know what to say, so you stayed silent again, playing with the edges of your robe.

He got up again, still standing too close to you. “You’re still letting me carry those books, right?”

“Huh?”

“Come on, it’s the-…”

“Oh, I know” you interrupted, lifting your palm as your lips clenched in disgust, but way too funny to not make him smile for the last time. “It’s the least you can do” you imitated and exaggerated manly voice.

He walked with you the whole way… and you hated the fact that you let him. If your arms weren’t feeling heavy with books, the ones that Cedric made you grab because they were the lightest, you would’ve crossed your arms over your chest all the way, but since you couldn’t do it, you decided to give him a silent treatment.

He kept eyeing you the whole way, that annoying expression on your face that really made him question to himself if he should even try to talk to you again.

It was not towards him though, but to yourself; how you hated yourself for acting so different all of a sudden, so… small. But this wasn’t your fault, was it? I mean, if he didn’t show up, none of this would’ve have happened, so he was the one to blame, wasn’t he?

Right?

You questioned yourself that same thing over and over again for the following week.

It was like he invaded your mind, everytime you looked at him, you heard him talk in class, or walked past him down the hallway. It was like you were always trying to see him too, it was pathetic.

Fucking pathetic. He only helped you find your cat, for God’s sake, why was that so important to you?

Maybe because no one ever helped you before, or the way he walked so tentatively towards you anytime he walked, or how good he looked with your own cat in his arms… so cute, so handsome.

Sometimes he was there when you tried to sleep too, inside your head. What was happening to you? Why were you desperately trying to keep him out of your mind all of a sudden? Why did you feel your heart skip a beat whenever he talked? Why did you happened to be thinking about his face so much? Why wouldn’t he let you sleep?

Was this what your talked about? She mentioned something about liking boys at a certain age, but every boy you ever knew ran away from you, so, was Cedric this boy now?

You certainly didn’t know what was it about him that caught your attention so suddenly, but stopping was not an option. After all, it made you feel good.

The more days that passed, the more confused you felt, and people started to notice. They saw how you were muy quieter now in class, how you barely raised your hand or how you just seemed… lost. Was something wrong with you? Probably, because you didn’t even eat your breakfast this morning. You just sat there, playing with your scrambled eggs and toasts, not even hungry enough to eat what you served.

There was some mumbling that came from behind you, the Gryffindor table, but didn’t even bother to look back at them, as you always do, so they would either lower their volume, or shut up. Instead, you took the cup in which you had some pumpkin juice, and drank it all.

And then, the mumbling stopped.

The whole Gryffindor group went silent, and that’s when you turned around, almost asking them to speak again… they were all staring at you.

Fred and George were mouth opened and all big eyes looking directly at you, as if something really bad just happened. His friends were whispering into each other’s ears, and you finally spoke.

“What?”

Silence.

“What are you staring at?”

“Um-…” one of the twins spoke first, but you found tell which one was it. Then he lifted his finger, and pointed to the golden cup on your left hand. “Was that your juice?”

You frowned your eyebrows, looked at the cup, and then back at them. “Yes” you replied “Why so interested?”

Silence was dominant again, as the twins exchanged a scared look and then looked back at you again. Your ears were starting to get red, nobody was telling you anything so they were either messing with you, or something bad had happened. You chose to believe the first one… but saying what you were actually thinking was not part of the plan.

“Alright, stupid looking faces, what the fuck is going on?”

The expression on their faces changed, surprised about hearing what you just said… you never insulted anyone. In fact, people thought that you were the kind of person to insult in their mind, but trying to be as cold as ever on the outside, that’s why everyone called you ice hearted or ice princess, you never actually said what you thought… you just tried to be as calm and as cold as always.

But you just insulted a group of teenagers, and that never happened before. No matter how mad you were, you always tried not to insult. People did it to you and it felt horrible, so why do it to someone else?

You gasped lowly while covering your mouth. “Fohmygad” you muttered against your palm. “Oh my God, I’m-… I didn’t want to”

“We know” the other twin had said. “You just drank veritaserum”

And your whole face transformed.

“What… did you just say?” Your voice tone was scary, just like a threat.

“It was not for you!” you recognized the girl that just spoke to you, Angelina. You sat with her a few times in class, but she was quick to run away from you as soon as class finished. “I told you you shouldn’t have done that! All the cups look the same” she hit one of the twins on the side of their head. He whined.

“How was it supposed to know she was going to grab Malfoy’s cup?”

You quickly stood up and placed the cup on the table, right next to, in fact, Malfoy’s breakfast. It was not too far away from you, and you had poured yourself the same drink, but Draco left for a second before you drank the wrong juice.

Fred and George kept talking at the same time towards you, fear in their voices and getting smaller and smaller almost hiding under the table. You ignored them as much as you could so nothing else could come out of your mouth, and with half your face covered, you walked away from the Great Hall.

But of course, not before bumping into another person again.

“Woah” Cedric said as he grabbed your shoulders. He laughed when he noticed it was you “We keep bumping into each other, huh?”

“Don’t talk to me” you bit while shaking your body off of his grabbing, and bit your tongue again as the gigantic door kept getting closer and closer, but it didn’t make you feel any better.

You didn’t look back as you walked as fast as you could towards the bathroom on the fifth floor, the Prefect’s bathroom, after all, you were one. It was a safe place, since no one was ever there at that time in the morning and not everyone could come in. You just wished that Myrtle was not there, she could be a bit annoying sometimes.

After letting your way in, you ran to wash your face with the coldest water that your skin could handle. Your skin was on fire, just like the rest of your body and maybe, just maybe, your brain. You have definitely gained a new enemy.

Verisaterum? Really?

Malfoy could be a pain in the ass but, out of all the potions in the wizarding world, the Weasley twins had to choose the hardest one to make, with no taste, no color, but most importantly, illegal to any use outside the Minister?

Merlin’s fucking beard, you needed a break.

“yn?”

You scoffed when a male voice called your name. “It’s occupied, genius” you answered with your back still turned to where the voice was coming.

The footsteps were coming closer and closer, and you were not in the mood to deal with any Weasley shit, you thought.

“Pretrificus Totalus!” you screamed while turning around, your hand already grabbing your wand and throwing it towards whoever it was the Weasley that followed you.

“Hey!” the male voice, not Weasley, screamed as he hid behind a wall, your spell crushing into the cold surface. “What do you think you’re doing?” Cedric showed himself, confusion on his face as he slowly decided to walk again.

“Cedric.” you called, putting your wand away. It was the first time you called his name. “I thought you were one of the twins”

“I can tell… are you okay?”

Yes.

“No”, you replied. You groaned lowly when the truth came out of your lips. In times like this, you really wished these kind of potions didn’t exist, it was hard to hold back their enchantment. “I just drank the most stupid potion that the Weasley twins could think of to piss off Malfoy”

He placed his hands inside the front pockets of his pants as he laughed. “Verisaterum?”

“How’d you know?”

He clicked his tongue, making his way towards you again. “They joke about it too much” he leaned his back against the sink you were gripping tightly with your hands.

You took a deep breath and stayed silent for a moment, analyzing your reflection as you asked, “How long does it last?”

“Depends on how successful it is. It can go away between one hour and six”

“Six hours!?” you yelled to his face, then scoffed while letting an annoyed smile draw on your face. “For the love of….”

“We can always ask Snape for the antidote… but that would mean you tell him about the twins’s action and that was illegal”

You bit your tongue as your feet bobbed up and down, snapping your toes onto the shiny floor again and again as your breathing was a clear sign of how bad you were feeling.

“Forget it. I’ll just wait”

Your knees bended as you sat on the floor, right next to Cedric’s legs, and letting your head fall against the cold pipe under the sink.

“You’ll wait up until six hours before you speak again?” his voice could perfectly fit with another type of quiestion… ‘are you crazy?’ would be the perfect one.

But you just nodded, not even looking at his perfect face. “It’s not like I have someone to talk to, anyways”

Ouch.

Cedric bit the inside of his cheek as he looked down at you, feeling bad for you and how vulnerable were feeling, but being smart enough to keep that thought to himself.

“Or… you can talk to me”

You clicked your tongue and laughed coldly. “Yeah, right”

“Really” he insisted as you saw his figure squat next to yours, finally dropping his whole weight to the floor, imitating your posture. “By this time you should already know I’m not someone who falls for your complains, right?”

“You’re right” you replied as you played with your fingers nervously. “That’s good”

Shit, shut up already.

“Why?”

“‘Cause I like it… oh my god” you covered your face “I was not supposed to say that”

Cedric laughed again.

“You like my company?”

No, no, no, no.

“Yes” you whined “Please stop asking me questions!”

He let out a louder laugh this time. “Why? It’s fun”

“Yeah, you drink verisaterum and we’ll see if it’s funny, smart boy”

“Sorry”

He stayed silent after that, and so did you. Your cheeks were flushed with embarrassment as you kept wishing that this potion was so poorly made that it only lasted one hour, but the effect didn’t seem to go away any sooner.

You could feel it because that’s just how your mind felt too. Suddenly the thought of not saying the truth to any question was not an option in your mind. Did you even know what a lie was? God, you felt so weak that you hated yourself. Why couldn’t you be like those wizards you read about? The ones that can resist it?

Your whole reputation and personality would’ve stayed intact if you could.

But right now, sitting right next to Cedric Diggory, asking you questions, and with red cheeks… that just ruined the whole image that people thought you had.

“Do you mind if I ask you something?” he suddenly stammered and it made you jump slightly. He had leaned closer to your ear, as if sitting next to him was not enough to hear him.

“I do” you answered before laughing to yourself “That was the only answer that did not feel forced to come out”

Cedric laughed too, and he took his time before deciding what to ask you, trying to find the correct words to say to not make you mad, or walk away and leave.

“Is it… are you really how people say you are? I mean, I see that you can be as cold as you want but, is that who you are?”

Your eyes made him nervous. After his lips closed, your face just inches away from his, you just stayed there staring at him. You bit your own lip as you kept looking at his grey eyes, trying to find any sign that showed you that he really didn’t care about it, or that the wrinkles on his skin would show up like anytime he laugh, another sign that he was just messing with you, and he really couldn’t care in the slightest about you. But he didn’t move.

So you sighed. “No”

Cedric nodded, more than satisfied with that answer. He was right.

But you had a lot to say, even though he didn’t ask you that much.

“I guess I became what people started to say I was, or what I started to hear about myself. I wasn’t always cold, or I wasn’t always pushing people away from me. Actually, I was the one trying to have lots of friends and be myself with many people but they just… I don’t know, they felt threatened, so… let’s just say I got mad with my own life and decided to not let myself feel vulnerable again, because I don’t deserve it”

Another big gap of silence… and your eyes slowly got filled with tears.

“I’m not who everyone says I am. Ice princess, the hell” you laughed “I mean, sorry I’m not a sweetheart to everyone that gave me nicknames! They expected me to be like this so, here they go”

You sniffed while your nose got red and puffy. Not a single tear was dropped but you still looked so heartbroken that it made the boy next to you almost cry too. You didn’t even complain about the potion this time, because you finally had thrown again that massive rock that just kept hurting your chest over and over again.

“There was only one person that treated me nicely in the last three years”

He frowned his eyebrows. “Who?”

“You”

You had turned your head towards him again, with a small smile on your lips. He knew it was going to be hard for you to thank him, but the shiny look in your eyes was just enough for him to realize. “Really?” he asked.

You nodded, still smiling. “Yes, it’s like a bonus point”

“Bonus point?”

“Because I like you”

Fuck… fuck!

“I-…”

“Wha-…” you both started taking at the same time.

It was like a fucking movie. Both of you frozen in time, staring at each other’s faces as you tried to say the correct words, but nothing came to mind.

Cedric could feel his heart pounding in his ears, while you wanted to crash your head to the nearest wall.

“You…” he started, but didn’t finish, at least not what he initially wanted to say. “Are you for real?”

“No, Diggory, I just fucking lied to your face, can you believe it?… Of course I’m for real, dingus!” you yelled.

Cedric bit his lip as he turned his head to the opposite side, trying to bite back his laugh. “Okay, I get it, it was a dumb question”

But then he laughed. God, his laugh, his perfect little giggle. It made you smile.

“I kinda like you too”

Your neck snapped so hard towards his direction that you thought that maybe, you just died.

Your lips kept opening and closing everytime you tried to say something. For some reason, none of this seemed like a joke to you, almost as if the potion’s effect had affected Cedric too. Something about this felt real, maybe it was because you openly talked about your feeling with him. He knew you weren’t bad, he always knew, he just wanted you to confirm it.

Maybe drinking verisaterum wasn’t as bad as you thought.

Your heart pounded heavily in your chest when he fixed a piece of your hair behind your ear, and the lightest yet burning touch of his fingers against your jawline made your breath hitch once again. He smirked again, as he always does, “You’re really beautiful” he cooed, as his hot breath hit your cheekbone and left behind a sweet feeling that you never wanted to get rid of.

He then got up, as swiftly as a leaf would do, and extended his hand to you.

“What?” you debated.

“Let’s go for a walk. I feel like I have to ask you a few more questions before I decided which place I’m taking you to this weekend”

[synthetickitsune]

Red Haze ✧ j.ww

Pairing: Jeon Wonwoo x f!reader Genre: smut Summary: The taste lingering on your tongue is smooth like his hands caressing your skin and the warmth in your chest could be love or wine, who really knows. It's unimportant either way with the way he's looking at you. Word count: 2.6k Warnings: smut, mentions of alcohol consumption A/N: This is my part for @svthub's cupid fic exchange aka cupid's gift for @wonusite! Surprise! I hope you enjoy it and have a nice day ♡

The sunset bleeds deep red honey color over the pink sky. The clouds lazily lounging in the air look like stray rose petals Cupid mischievously left for the angels to be flustered by. It’s a beautiful and warm evening. Your feet hurt from all the walking you did today, but the view is worth it. You sway a little, acting clumsy and more tipsy than you are, because the only thing that would make this moment more perfect is Wonwoo’s hands on your waist. And you always get what you want.

He catches you quickly and pulls you to his side, giving you an unimpressed look. He knows your limits better than you do, and he knows that the wine tasting you devoted the day to isn’t enough to get you drunk. His playful annoyance quickly disappears from his face, however, when you lean up and kiss his jaw.

You’re both tired and the wine makes you feel a pleasant buzz that makes the short walk back to the house you’re staying at feel surreal and peaceful. You end up leaning your head on Wonwoo’s shoulder for the rest of the way. His arm remains curled around your waist. You feel protected and satisfied, life feels just like you’re living in a fairytale.

The feeling lasts even after you make it past the front door and into the kitchen, sharing a glass of water that feels disappointing to say the least after the rich tastes you enjoyed throughout the day. Looking around, the walls are tinted pastel red too. The world is blushing on the lovers’ day. 

All the colors of the world are not important, though, safe for the black of Wonwoo’s eyes. It seems deeper, richer, a warm darkness that feels like the hug of the night after you’re safely wrapped in your sheets after a long day. It’s made warmer by the look in his eyes, speaking of pure devotion and adoration. It makes you shy, even after all this time, so you decide to speak up to chase away the embarrassment.

“You never formally asked me to be your valentine, you know?” you hum, a teasing lilt to your voice. It’s pointless - why should he? Isn’t this little retreat enough? Isn’t the way he looks at you enough? He laughs, pulling you closer until your head rests on his chest and his arms can wrap around your body. 

“Is that necessary?” He asks and sighs in amusement when you fervently nod your head. He rests his head against yours while he thinks for a while. “Do I need to ask every year?”

You nod your head again. “Do it or I will.”

“Hmm, won’t you trust me instead?” his hand leaves your waist to cup your cheek as he makes you look into his warm, dark eyes, “I will never want another Valentine. I will court you again and again every February.”

You bite your lip, trying to stop it from trembling as warmth spreads through your body, from your heart all the way to your fingertips. You cover Wonwoo’s hand with yours and turn your head to kiss his palm. 

“It’s just me and you until the end of time,” he smiles and strokes your cheek with his thumb. It doesn’t take much to convince you to kiss his lips instead. 

He tastes like wine, just the same as you. You recognize the aftertaste as the one of the last wine you tasted earlier. The one that charmed you and made you crave more. As if Wonwoo's lips weren't addictive enough already.

"What was it called?" you ask once you part, not pulling away much. Half-tempted to dive in for more.

"I'm not telling," Wonwoo smirks, instead fulfilling your unspoken wish and kissing you again. His tongue meets no resistance, only a warm welcome. His hand cradles your face and you allow him full control of the kiss. Your hands twist in the collar of his shirt between your fingers. It's good his arm is around your waist, holding you up or you'd be a puddle on the floor.

"Why?" you demand before you give up any semblance of control and kiss him deeper. The wine makes you do it. The red light and the taste. The feeling of Wonwoo enveloping all your senses. It makes your head spin and your knees shake.

“Breathe,”  he tells you, and you do. His lips meet the corner of your lips and you finally fill your lungs with oxygen.

"Why didn't you remember the name?" he teases, amused and tempted by the pout on your lips.

"Because I knew you would," you mumble.

"And I did," he laughs, "So I get to do what I want with that information."

“But why?” you whine a little, sliding your hands up his chest and to his neck, playing with the hair on his nape. He’s not caving.

“It was your favorite, wasn't it? ‘Best I ever had’ did you say?” he waits for you to confirm, “So that's why. Only I can get it for you now.” 

He kisses the tip of your nose while you're still trying to process that he'd actually gatekeep your new favorite wine from you. He laughs more at your perplexed expression. “It’s expensive anyway, I should be the only one to spoil you like that, right?” 

“Will I have to wait for another Valentine’s day then?” you challenge.

“Spoiling you is a year-round thing,” he tuts. You half-expected an answer like that, but it still makes more heat rise to your cheeks.

“And when will it be my turn to spoil you?” you blink up at him. He pretends to think for a moment. The corners of his lips, twitching up, betray him though.

“Every morning that I wake up with you next to me.”

“That's so cheesy, so so cheesy,” you sigh, hiding your face in his chest.

“And still if I let you go now I'd see how weak in the knees it made you.”

“You're-’

“Terrible? Horrible? Mean?”

“Love of my life,” you correct him with a pointed gaze as if he didn't finish your sentence correctly.

“Look who's cheesy now,” he sighs before he guides your head back to his chest, quick enough that you can't tell if that's red dusting his cheeks or just a trick of the light.

“And my knees are still not working properly - it’s the wine, don’t get any ideas,” you warn him playfully as his chest shakes with chuckles, “So how about you help me to the bathroom and have a shower with me?”

“Lovely idea,” he hums, “If you let me undress you.”

With just one exchanged glance through the steam rising in the shower you both knew it’s not going to end with simply washing each other’s bodies.

It’s a blur - how you managed to get through the shower routine filled with giggles and less than innocent touches, how - or why - you got dressed in your night clothes when you soon laid undressed again under him on the silky sheets. You beg to be touched, beg for him to stop exploring your body as if he needed to commit it to his memory. 

Wonwoo’s fingers finally dip between your folds. You take in a shaky breath as his warm fingertips circle your clit before slowly slipping lower. He just wants to tease, you know, but this time you bite your lip to stop from moaning and smirking at his surprise that you recognize in the brief pause in his movements.

“So wet from just a little sweet talk and showering?” he recovers and hums against your skin. His lips leave a trace of kisses down your neck, tender and innocent, yet your skin feels too sensitive. His fingers work their magic, teasing your clit with feather light touches that make you squirm. You don’t know if it’s the wine or the light pouring over his features just right or if it’s simply him and your love for him, but the softest of touch feels like it’s setting your body on fire.  He adds a little pressure and the pleasure is so intense that it makes you reach for his wrist. 

“Please,” you whisper, “Need you. Need you a lot.”

“I’ll make you feel good, darling,” he promises against your throat, his teeth scraping your skin. You shiver as goosebumps erupt over your skin. Your fingers circling his wrist don’t hold him back at all as he slowly inserts one inside your warm fluttering walls. His free hand that held your thighs apart caresses your body until it reaches your chest, cupping your breast. Your hardened nipple brushes against his palm as you arch your back into his touch. His lips move across your jaw to your lips, relishing in the vibrations of your pleased mewl.

“Need more,” you beg breathlessly, “Need you, Wonwoo.”

“You can’t take it, baby,” he shushes you with more sweet kisses. It’s hard to think, to do more than kiss him back. You feel like you’re floating, completely lost in the feeling of your lover’s lips and hands. His fingers curling inside you, taking your breath away, his thumb nudging your clit and making your toes curl, and the tender attention he pays to your breasts that turns your mind into a foggy mess. His tongue long since won the battle. It’s only natural to submit to him. It’s as natural as breathing to chase after his lips when he pulls away with a smile. “You’re so gone already, you wouldn’t handle my cock.”

You want to argue that you would in fact handle whatever he gives you, but it’s not possible. Not when your body feels like it’s melting and you only half hum, half moan in response. You barely have the strength to keep your eyes open and watch him. Watch the fond smile on his face and the spark in his eyes. “Feels good?”

You nod. Then you remember your hand still loosely wrapped around his wrist and you manage to stroke across his veins a few times, making him chuckle without ever slowing down the speed of his fingers pumping inside you. They drag against your walls at just the right pace. He knows your body so well, knows how to make you scream and cry in pleasure, but he knows more than that. All your worries disappear along with any tension, anxiety or fears. It’s just Wonwoo. Wonwoo and his love, your love. 

You let your eyes meet with some difficulty and his eyes are melted chocolate, dripping with sweetness. He gets shy, his composure slipping for a second before he relaxes. It’s just the two of you. He doesn’t hide how smitten he is with you, though you have a feeling it would be impossible anyway. His lips are parted, tongue darting to wet them as he watches your face scrunch up in pleasure. He feels you clenching around his fingers, feels your body pushing and pulling, fighting against and leaning into the sensation he provides. You’re so beautiful and so vulnerable. He could do anything with you, he knows you would let him. He could even take the approaching climax away from you and deny you the release. And while other nights he might take advantage of that for his entertainment, he won’t. Not today. Not when all he can think of is that his heart will burst if he doesn’t kiss you.

So he does. 

You whimper weakly. He feels your fingers tighten around his wrist, feels your chest rise and fall so fast. He focuses more of his attention on your clit, his fingers almost stilling and rubbing that spongy spot inside you. You’re struggling to catch your breath and he feels a little bit of guilt for that, but he’d feel worse if he denied you the kiss you so desperately return and keep coming for more.

Your words all blur together into desperate whines and moans, but he understands all the same. It’s a shame he has to give up playing with your nipples to hold your thighs apart, but you’re trembling too much and making it harder for him to please you while you hang on the edge of your climax.

He soothes your spasming muscles with gentle caress. Finally he allows you to breathe, pulling away only enough to watch you come undone. Your nails scratch his wrist, but what’s a little pain if he has the privilege to make you feel so good you can only think of the pleasure? He’s relentless even as your body tries to twist away from him. Your walls are sucking him in, your hips meeting all his movements. You were made for him weren’t you? 

He leans down to kiss your forehead, grounding you when the waves of pleasure wash over you and you almost forget how to breathe. He guides you through your high and safely back into his arms. Your nails digging into his skin become a warm invitation pulling him to lay on top of you. He grants your silent request easily. Still he’s careful not to put too much weight on you and pulls out his fingers slowly. It’s a bit awkward trying to maneuver himself without hurting you and reach for the tissues without making a mess on your skin or the pillows and the sofa.

The fog clouding your mind slowly settles and you realize his predicament, chuckling as he shuffles on top of you until he finally does what he has to and wraps both his arms around you.

“I love you,” you whisper, stifling a yawn to pepper some kisses on Wonwoo’s face, “I really enjoyed that.”

“I love you too,” he smiles, much more hesitant to meet your eyes now and so he kisses you again instead. “How are you feeling?”

“Good. Tired,” you sigh, but even so your hands creep under his shirt. His skin is so smooth and tempting. It's hard to move, you just want to soak up his warmth. At the same time, there are more exciting things you want to do. He hums, before gently moving away and letting your hands slip out. He walks to the adjacent bathroom and comes back with a wet washcloth. You frown at him a little.

“You’re tired,” he gives you a look, sitting down next to you and coaxing you to let him clean you up with gentle caresses.

“Wanna make you feel good too,” you mumble, whining as the wet cloth makes contact with your heated core.

“Already did, baby,” he smiles at you, “I love watching you enjoying yourself and you know that.”

“But…” you hesitate. He’s right, you’re sleepy and too sensitive. At the same time, you only want to please him. He shakes his head with a smile and kisses your forehead before making a quick work of putting the washcloth away. He lies down with you, pulling you closer to his body. It’s so warm you think you’ll need to get rid of the blanket in a bit, if only it didn’t feel like it keeps you safe and separated from the world.

“No buts. Remember when I said all the spoiling I need is waking up with you next to me?” he asks and you nod, too eager to hear him out to cringe, “I would like waking up with you on top of me as well.”

You laugh, weakly smacking his chest. He laughs too, quickly reassuring you he wasn’t being serious - but he wasn’t lying either.

“I like you under me too,” you purr as you nuzzle into his chest.

“You already have me under your thumb,” Wonwoo confesses quietly, so quietly you don’t hear it before slowly succumbing to sleep.