#but on this specific thing? really? he's not like that
Text
TikTok Gone Viral
Paring: charles Leclerc x Hispanic/Latina reader
Summary: Y/N used a specific TikTok audio and it goes VIRAL
Warning: spelling and grammatical errors
A/N: I had this audio in my head so like why not. It’s my version of making Y/N a “PR nightmare” as other fanfic authors put it
Y/N was scrolling through TikTok while Charles was washing dishes, as he should because she cooked, and came across a video of a girl using a Megan Thee Stallion song with the caption “ovulation week be like”. She thought it would be fun to use the same audio so she put her phone against the napkin stand they have in the counter and started recording.
I need *points to self* this pussy *points down* on his *points to Charles off screen* nose *points to her nose* I spread it, I spread it, I pose *random dancing*
However, she did not see Charles move into the frame as she danced because she had her head down and just posted it without looking back at it. She did caption it “needing my boyfriend a little too much lately” and just exited TikTok. Their relationship has always been private, no one really knew Charles was dating anyone after Alexandra and they’ve only been dating for a few months. At least it WAS private.
“What were you filming, Mon ange?” Charles asked.
“Just a silly little TikTok, muñeco, don’t pay mind to it.” Y/N said.
“Alright well I’m done with the dishes, you want to watch a movie?” Charles asked
“Can we watch ‘Nosotros Los Nobles’?” Y/N asked.
“Whatever you want, Mon ange.” Charles said.
“Get the chips.” Y/N said as she got up from where she was sitting to head to their bedroom for a blanket while Charles gets chips from the pantry. They both headed over to their couch, sat down, Y/N put the blanket over them, and Charles gave her the bag of chips and passed her the remote. “Okay, it’s has English subtitles, so I hope you find this movie funny.”
“I’m sure I will.” Charles said. Sadly, both fell asleep on the couch, charles was cuddling Y/N. However, with Charles’s phone charging in his bedroom, he missed multiple missed calls from the Ferrari media manager, Fred, Pierre, Arthur, and his other friends. Y/N also has missed calls from her friends
The next morning, Y/N woke up on top of Charles. She shook him awake.
“Muñeco, we fell asleep on the couch, get up.” Y/N said and Charles woke up.
“Mm, what time is it?” Charles asked.
“I Don’t know, my phone is charging in the room.” Y/N said, getting off the couch to get her phone.
“Can you get my phone too?” Charles asked.
“Sure thing, muñeco.” Y/N went to their bedroom and unplugged their phones and she was shocked to see how many missed calls both of them received. “Charles, you have so many missed calls, here.” Y/N handed him his phone.
“Thanks Mon ange.” Charles said. He unlocked his phone and called the media manager. “Hello?”
“Charles I’ve been trying to reach you yesterday, your girlfriend posted something on TikTok.” The media manager said and Charles was very confused.
“How do you know I have a girlfriend?” Charles asked and Y/N’s head popped up.
“What about me?” Y/N whispered asked and Charles made an “I don’t know” face.
“The whole world knows she your girlfriend because you’re in the background of her now VIRAL TikTok. I’ll talk to you later.” The media manager hung up and Charles looked at Y/N.
“Ma Belle, my beautiful beautiful girlfriend, what did you post on TikTok last night?” Charles asked. Y/N took out her phone to open up TikTok.
“Just a silly TikTok using a trendy audio…oh shit, I gained SOOO many followers.” Y/N laughed and Charles took her phone to click on her profile and see the video he posted. His eyes widened when he saw himself appear on screen. The video had 9.1 million likes, 60.7 thousand comments, 231.8 thousand saves, and 76.3 thousand shares. Y/N looked over his shoulder. “Oh that’s why the video went viral. Oh I’m so sorry, muñeco, I didn’t know you appeared, I didn’t rewatch the video before posting, are you in trouble?”
“I don’t think I’m in trouble but now I have to introduce you as my girlfriend.” Charles said. “We are no longer private, Mon ange.”
“Shit, I was doing so well without the hate comments.” Y/N pouted and Charles chuckled before kissing her.
“I hope you’re ready, Mon ange.” Charles said before he grabbed his phone to record a video. “Hello everyone, this is my girlfriend, Y/N. We have been dating for a few months. Say hello, Mon Chou.” Charles said, pointing the phone to Y/N.
“Hello” Y/N waved shyly. Charles pointed the phon back to him.
“We met at her job, she’s actually a bartender, it was after my break up with Alex, we talked, we hit it off, we started hanging out, and now we’re dating, not that it’s any of your business. But I like her a lot and we’re happy together.” Charles stopped the video and posted it on his Instagram.
“You really had to say I was a bartender?” Y/N asked.
“Well you are a bartender, mon coeur.” Charles said.
“Watch them say I’m only after your money.” Y/N said.
“But we both know that’s not true, your salary is pretty good AND you get tips. I am glad I don’t have to hide you anymore though, I can finally post pictures of us together.” Charles said, kissing her.
“Well I’m glad you’re happy. Do you have to go to maranello?” Y/N asked.
“Nope, you want to go out today? We could go on the yacht.” Charles suggested.
“Ooh, a picnic on the yacht?” Y/N asked,
“Yep.” Charles said.
“I’m gonna start cooking.” Y/N said already looking in the pantry to see if they have anything to make. Charles just looked at her with love in his eyes, now the whole world knows he has the cutest person as his girlfriend.
The End
Hope y’all liked it, I found this very fun to write. Also, is there a market for Logan Sargeant x Hispanic reader fanfics?
#hispanic reader#latina#hispanic#tiktok gone viral#charles leclerc x reader#charles leclerc fanfic#charles leclerc#charles leclerc fluff#charles leclerc imagine#charles leclerc x you#f1 x reader#f1 imagine#f1 fanfic
479 notes
·
View notes
Text
desitel feelings / love timeline (2 me)
DEAN:
immediate attraction in s4 (hello he has eyes!)
s4 - 5, going from allies to friends, crushing hard and shooting his shot / flirting, but all of it goes over cas's head
s6 betrayal / cas's s7 death: when he starts realizing that the way he feels abt cas is Different and More than just a crush / friendship. bobby and sam not reacting the same way to cas's betrayal and death really starts to get the gears turning. then when bobby dies, dean also realizes his grief over cas is different from his grief over bobby. (also the keeping his coat, carrying it with them in every new car all throughout s7. like that man was in Love-love.)
s8: purgatory solidifies dean's feelings. all dean can think about for a year is finding cas, saving cas. he prays to him every night. his mind is just a skipping record of cas, cas, cas. i think by this point he's accepted his romantic feelings for cas. and by the end of s8 he was ready to tell cas how he felt in the crypt. he changes "love" to "need" (which imo is MORE insane and vulnerable actually) and then dean perceives cas's actions after the crypt as a rejection of dean's feelings). meanwhile, cas has not yet even realized his own feelings for dean are romantic love yet, more on that in a minute.
s9 - s12 imo are dean grappling with the fact that his love is unrequited and trying to live with that and maybe move on (drowley summer of love).
s13 -s14 : first the widowers arc of it all. dean realizing no matter what, cas was IT for him. there's never going to be anyone else for him. he doesn't want anyone else. dean accepting that cas is effectively his life partner and he's fine with them staying platonic (bc he still thinks cas doesn't feel the same way). dean stops hooking up. dean is content with the family unit they have made for themselves.
s15: dean grappling with the knowledge of chuck's manipulation over the years. dean questioning what's even real ("is his love for cas even real?") cas asserting that they are real. divorce arc. destiel miscommunication at its finest. dean once again thinking cas doesn't care for him the way he cares for cas. dean nearly losing cas again in purgatory and deciding to put his heart on the line (was going to confess before cas cut him off). then---cas's "i love you." dean overwhelmed in the moment. dean still not sure what cas's words mean until cas is taken by the empty and he processes the speech and declaration. and then he realizes--cas was in love with him. it was mutual. they could've had it. they could've been together for years. the one thing they both wanted---
CAS
immediate attraction in s4 (hello he has eyes! many eyes in fact!)
s4 - 5: going from allies to friends. cas remembering what it's like to FEEL again ("for the first time") after his millionth lobotomy. dean re-awakening those feelings, both for humanity at large and for dean specifically. but cas doesn't have a name for these feelings yet. he attributes them to his bond with dean / assumes most people feel like this about dean.
s6 - 8: cas largely still attributing his feeling for dean to their unique bond. cas putting the mission first. cas also dealing with his own guilt over his failures. not a lot of time for him to process his feelings for dean.
s9: cas has his italicized "oh" moment. i think it's a combination of being human and for the first time all the angel stuff isn't there, he can't attribute his feelings to their "bond." he's rooted in his body for the first time, really in-tune with his physical reactions too. i think early s9 is when he starts to realize his feelings for dean are different but he's still not quite putting a name to them. then metatron calls him out on those feelings (his snarky knowing "he's in love...with humanity") and then dean dying really solidify cas's feelings. he is now aware.
aaaaaand then s10 - 12 is him grappling with those feelings at the same time that dean is really starting to accept that cas doesn't feel the same and is trying to accept that they'll be nothing but platonic and move on. so that's why you get stuff like dean calling cas their "brother" (he's trying to be ok with this) while cas looks sick to his stomach bc he is just now really accepting and processing the fact that he's in romantic love with dean. gotta love that classic destiel miscommunication, never being on the same page at the same time.
by s13 he's accepted he's in love and is now thinking it's one sided and this is all they'll ever be. he's also still kinda avoiding it all throughout the later seasons, putting the Mission first again, leaving more often, focusing on jack stuff. really just putting his feelings on the back burner.
then s15. just like i said in the dean bullet point, the divorce arc stuff is more classic miscommunication. cas so badly wants dean to ask him to stay. dean so badly wants cas to stop leaving. they both need to just have one good conversation about all of this. anyways, the "i love you." truly i think mr. avoidant cas would have continued to keep his feelings for dean to himself perhaps forever, had it not been a life or death situation where he realized telling dean his feelings would trigger the empty deal. but he does tell him. and my personal headcanon is that when he does tell him he gets hit with a wave of feeling from dean (along with the love in his eyes) that basically confirms to cas that dean actually has felt the same way all this time. and also, i think cas has partially known for a while but let his own self doubt and insecurities convince him that dean couldn't possibly feel the same.
Additionally: i do enjoy another late seasons variation, where BOTH of them have a mutual awareness of each other's feelings, but they both let insecurities and circumstances convince them it's not the right time, or they don't deserve to have this. they keep putting off talking abt this thing between them because there's always another apocalypse or big bad. because saving the world always comes before their own personal desires and happiness. so they keep putting it off until it's too late, until there's no time left. by s15 they're both feeling desperate. it's the end. they both feel they need to say something. dean tries in The Trap. cas finally does in Despair. and then there's just no time left. it's over. they never got to have it. (YET. because their story ain't over!)
anyways, i'm multitudes girlie and can enjoy many different interpretations, esp in fics, but this is my main destiel + feelings interpretation for when i'm watching the show and engaging with canon.
TLDR: they both start Feeling things for each other immediately. dean realizes these feelings are romantic love and puts that name to them first around late s6/s7. dean Accepts these feeling around s8. while cas has his realization that these intense feelings are romantic love around s9. and accepts them at some point between s10 - 12ish.
222 notes
·
View notes
Note
So you're a go to source for all things Dick&Tim bros and you tend to write primarily from Dick's POV. So, odd question, but if you were to summarize their relationship from his POV in FIVE panels which panels would you pick? Keeping in mind that one specific aspect of their relationship that you love needs to be clearly represented by each panel (loyalty, trust etc). I hope this is a fun challenge and not an annoying question so if you don't want to answer that's cool! Have a wonderful day!
No more talk. The same thoughts run through two minds... (SotB 29) / You're my equal. My closest ally. (RR 1) / I can't stop thinking how much I rely on him. (GoG 3)
25 Feelings Dick Has About Tim
This was such a kind ask & a cool challenge which I totally failed; here are TWENTY-five panels of Dick's POV on Tim sdfdsfds Look, I got carried away! Marcia and Cindy! The boys!!
OKAY SO BEFORE I GET TO THE PANELS A FEW NOTES:
WARNING THAT THERE ARE SOME NEGATIVE EMOTIONS IN HERE because I love conflict but but but you gotta remember those are not the final word!! They are complicated people and sometimes they get mad at each other BUT ultimately their relationship is so hugely important in both their lives & they love each other and rely on each other so much -!!! <3
Also I have CONCLUDING THOUGHTS at the end about what Dick's POV leaves out (mostly: a lot of Dick defending & protecting & supporting Tim, which Dick does instinctively but isn't very self-aware about most of the time)
I have loosely organized my list into 5^5 format (5 categories with 5 examples each!), so if you want to skip to a relevant one, here are the categories!!
Below the cut:
I hate him and find him infuriating (#1-5)
On second thought, he's endearing & fun (#6-10)
Grief is complicated & he's all tangled up in mine (#11-15)
I love him & think highly of him (#16-20)
I rely on him & though it's hard for me, I trust him (#21-25)
Final thoughts, a.k.a. if you ask Dick to tell you about Tim, you will be there all day and he will never once mention any of the times he saved Tim's life because they will genuinely not occur to him
I hate him and find him infuriating (#1 - 5)
1) He thinks he’s so smart and can psychoanalyze me and Bruce, but he doesn’t know me at all, he should get lost (New Titans 61)
2) He thinks he’s so smart and can psychoanalyze Bruce but he doesn’t know Bruce at all, he should get lost (Gotham Knights 26)
3) He is so nosy about stuff that is MY business (Robin 0)
4) He sounds like an insincere suck-up half the time... but okay, fine, if you push him he's got a sense of humor about it (New Titans 65)
5) I'm sure he's a better vigilante than me. It's my fault for being a failure, but I resent him anyway. (Nightwing 9 - Dick's having a nightmare)
On second thought, he's kinda endearing (#6-10)
6) He worries too much and gets anxious so easily, but it makes him fun to tease (Robin 67)
7) I'm not that competitive - okay, so maybe I'm a little competitive, I gotta make sure he doesn't get a swelled head (Prodigal)
8) I'm supposed to be his favorite! It is not cool for him to be fanboying over my not-girlfriend's not-boyfriend!! (Birds of Prey 19)
9) We have fun together. I can kick back and relax when it's just the two of us. Plus I get to boss him around a bit. (Prodigal)
10) He’s always trying to reassure me, and I guess it's a little comforting, but also he doesn’t really get it. Or me. He makes excuses that he shouldn't, because he doesn't understand that I suck. (Nightwing 64)
Grief is complicated and he's all tangled up in mine (#11 - 15)
11) He reminds me of everything I try not to think about. Sometimes the memories are so strong it hurts to look at him. (Batman 441)
12) WHY IS HE BEING IMPOSSIBLE ALL OF A SUDDEN??? THIS IS SO FRUSTRATING (Nightwing 139)
13) We're the same. He says all the things I don't let myself think about. It's like arguing with myself. (Nightwing 139)
14) He thinks he gets to tell me what to do but he doesn’t, fuck him (Battle for the Cowl)
15) Life sucks, so what. I sucked it up so he should too (RR 1)
I love him and think highly of him (#16 - 20)
16) He’s the closest thing to a brother I’ll ever have. If someone hurts him I will hurt them harder. (Nightwing 6)
17) I can't handle the idea of losing him. (Nightwing 97)
17) He’s so good and I’m not. I'm afraid I’m bad for him. (Nightwing 110)
18) He’s better than me, and it’s kind of a relief because I know no matter what he’ll be okay. (Gates of Gotham 3)
19) In my head he’s the responsible one. (Gotham Knights 10)
I rely on him, and though it's hard for me, I trust him (#20-25)
20) I know I have to trust him but I'm afraid he'll make the wrong choices and get hurt (Nightwing 139)
21) I'm sure I know what he should do because I see myself in him - not that I can take my own advice, but he should (Blackest Night 3)
22) I trust him. When I’m losing my grip on things, he pulls me back. (Gotham Knights 10)
23) I want him to trust me (Red Robin 12)
24) He can tell when I'm lying. Sometimes he sees my weaknesses better than I wish he did. (Detective Comics 874)
25) He’s always there when I need him. (Teen Titans / Outsiders Secret Files)
Final rambling thoughts:
TIM: Uhh, okay, so I'm just skimming this list - do you really trust me? you're not just saying that? - but anyway, I'm confused because you left some stuff out? Like some stuff that's kinda important?
DICK: No? I think I got everything?
TIM (starts counting on his fingers): The time I was having a bad day but then I called you. The time I got captured by Two-Face but then you saved me. The time I fell off a train but then you saved me. The time I fell off a building but then you saved me. The time I fell off a different building -
DICK: I feel like you're trying to make some kind of point but I'm not sure what it could be.
SO THE THING IS, I put 25 panels in here and not a single one has Dick catching Tim when he’s falling!!! But I think that's a central motif of their relationship from Tim’s POV, not Dick’s. I love Dick, but in some ways I think he is spectacularly un-self-aware.
And I think he especially has a lot of blind spots about Tim. He kinda intermittently gets that Tim admires him, and he enjoys it in a playful I-get-to-boss-you-around way. But Dick tends to consistently underestimate all of his own good qualities & skills, and he meets Tim at a point in his life when he's especially down on himself & his abilities. And so he's unable to see his own influence on Tim, & therefore unable to fully understand a lot of Tim's priorities and loyalties and motivations, because you can't actually understand Tim without understanding Dick's impact on him. There's a fascinating moment in Bruce Wayne: Murderer when Dick's completely blindsided & upset to discover that Tim doesn't entirely trust Bruce, even though this has been a definitive fact of Tim's whole thing ever since he showed up with his Batman needs Robin theory, and Barbara has to actively remind Dick of the obvious-to-everyone-except-Dick fact that a lot of Tim's loyalty is to Dick, and Tim loves Bruce but feels free to be more wary of him. (And to give Bruce credit: this is not something he ever begrudges.) But anyway Babs points this out, and Dick manages to sorta process it for about five seconds, but he cannot actually accept it into his worldview so instead he discards it at the speed of light and goes off and has an argument with Tim instead sdfsfdsf
All of Dick's virtues - Dick's kindness at the circus and Dick's determination to fight through grief and Dick's rigid sense of morals and Dick's vigilante skills and every time Dick has ever backed Tim up or listened to him or protected him or saved him from something or just been casually kind to a stranger in Tim's presence etc etc etc - all these things loom really large in Tim's mental story of Who Dick Is, and What Dick And Tim's Relationship Is. Tim meets Dick before he meets Bruce, trusts Dick more than Bruce, aspires to be Robin instead of Batman. And so in Tim's default version of the story, Dick is the super-special and admirable hero and Tim is... nobody in particular, a tagalong outsider who's barely managing to be a hero, not part of Dick and Bruce's family and not part of their story, who, if he's VERY LUCKY and tries REALLY HARD, might be able to fight his way to proving himself and offering something to Dick that Dick will value, if Dick doesn't get fed up with him first.
But that's not Dick's version of the story!!!
Dick's version of the story is almost the exact opposite, a story where Dick's an outcast failure black sheep who's screwing up everything he tries, and meanwhile Tim is The Sudden New Perfect Robin Who's Better Than Me And Probably Bruce Loves Him More And Probably They Gossip About What A Loser I Am, mixed with a complicated edge of Tim Thinks He's So Smart But He Doesn't Know Me/Us At All. Dick gets much more attached to Tim over time, and Tim gets unnervingly better at the know-it-all psychoanalysis so then Dick gets to have complicated feelings about him being right instead of just annoyance at him for being wrong, plus Dick's relationship with Bruce improves a lot, so Tim stops feeling so threatening. But Dick never fundamentally changes his basic theory of their relationship in which Tim is highly impressive and capable, and Dick is not so much.
And so asking Dick about Tim is kinda like if you asked George Bailey to tell you about Harry Bailey in It's A Wonderful Life; like, you'll be there for five hours while he tells you how great Harry is, and how accomplished Harry is, and how he doesn't really get how or why Harry does the things he does, and maybe George does feel a little resentful or jealous sometimes, but that pales in comparison to all his admiration and trust for Harry who he loves so much, who's better than him in so many ways, and he's not gonna openly gripe but secretly he can't help but feel sometimes like he's such a failure in comparison to Harry, a perfect person who emerged fully formed from Zeus's head with all the virtues and also all the accomplishments, etc. etc. etc. --
-- and he will not actually remember the part where he changed and saved Harry's whole entire life unless you literally send him to an alternate timeline in order to force him to remember it. <3
#i enjoyed thinking about this so much i wrote a novel with All My Thoughts sorry sdfsdfs#tim drake#dick grayson#somewhat tangential but as i was writing this i was thinking about zahri's post#about how different types of stories offer different kinds of emotional payoffs#and i think for me for dick and tim the main two payoffs are:#1) someone who sees & understands your grief for deaths that will never get fixed or get better#and who will face your ghosts with you EVEN WHEN you're also mad at each other#2) someone who you look at and you see all the ways that you suck & he's better & you're a loser who's failed him etc etc#but it turns out that you're wrong. that you're good enough. not that none of the failures were real or that they were all in your head#but it turns out that it's okay that you didn't always immediately do or feel the right thing#and it's okay that you weren't perfect. you can fuck up six thousand ways & everything you did right will still matter#not because of making excuses or allowances or somebody pityingly trying to make you feel better#but because in the end the things you did right are just Genuinely More Valuable than anything you did wrong#all the times you tried & everything that you tried to give - everything you think wasn't good enough - it was.#IN OTHER WORDS they are both convinced they're not good enough & they are both wrong <3#anyway dick and tim are both INCREDIBLY SIMILAR and also CONSTANTLY misreading each other and i love that for them#and like. they will sometimes totally misread each other & then never figure out the part that they misunderstood#but then they manage to keep going anyway. we love each other on purpose <333#ask tag#dick&tim
253 notes
·
View notes
Text
FABLE OF THE DOG : 3. Little Freak
Series Masterlist; Chapter: 1, Chapter: 2,
Pairing: Joel Miller x FMC
Rating: Explicit 18+
Content Warnings: Cowboy/Heiress AU; Discussions of Grief; Daddy Issues; Parental Neglect; Angst and Fluff; Older Man/Younger Woman; Jealousy; Possessive Behavior; Brat Taming; Extremely Bossy Old Man; Rough Sex; Size Difference; Spanking; DD/lg Dynamics; Dom/Sub Undertones; Forced Orgasm; Dirty Talk (like really forreal); Small Boobie Rep; Biting; Over Stimulation;
A/N: really sticking my finger in the father wound and wiggling it around in this one :))))))
Word Count: 10.3K
Read on AO3
3. Little Freak
You pull your sticky fingers from the damp bed of your underwear, the not enough little orgasm you’d been able to rub out still pulsing hot and cold through your cunt.
Horrible man—you’ve never wanted anyone or anything as badly as you want him to need you. And no, not a wanting sort of thing, not a wanting sort of desire—that’s not what you’d demand from him. It’s specific, this thing: it’s that you want him to have no choice in the matter, you want him to be forced, to see no other recourse but you because that’s just how necessary you feel to him.
You want there to be no thought, no compunction in him—only you.
Even more, because lies are worth nothing here in your own mind in your cold bed—
—You want him to love you.
The way your father never did. The way no man ever has, not really.
Face buried in the dark for a moment, you groan softly before sliding belly first off the silk bedding onto your knees, pushing yourself up off the floor unsteadily. You toe your boots off and then step tiptoe on the end of each sock to pull them from your feet. It’d not been a lie—you’re not drunk, limiting yourself to only one tonight, and no liquor, because you knew you needed to be able to focus on the taste of his tongue when you inevitably got your hooks in him, hoping, knowing he’d take your bait and follow, but now, it’s a wholly different sort of buzz zinging through you.
All him. All man. All Joel.
He’d been flavored of smoked whiskey and mint, a hint of tobacco, and you wish you could’ve been more faithful in your pursuit of enjoying the chewing of the leaves he always has, you’d tried for years but couldn’t bear the texture, the green gnashed between your teeth, earthen and organic. It’s not for you, your tastes veering to something hotter and sweeter. But you’ve always wanted to be just like him anyway, and every endeavor at a connection, no matter how small, had always seemed like a valiant one.
Stupid birthdays. Disgusting leaves of mint. Dead fathers and daughters and all the different ways we hurt each other.
Stumbling coltish and uncoordinated, newly birthed down the staircase, you push your way out the back door. He’ll have gone to bed now, you know they’re going up the mountain early tomorrow morning to check on one of the herds, but you’re desperate for one more second of him, being spit out of the house of your dead parents, hunting for the last hint of his presence riding on the fresh air off the Tetons and all this land that’s all yours now.
You veer left then right, a zigzagging dance across the green lawn until you’re far enough away from the house it’s like you can pretend to ignore the ghosts you’re readying to exorcize. One knee hits the ground hard and stinging, limbs loose and strengthless, you feel the stab of a little rock against the curve of round bone beneath easily broken skin, catching yourself on a palm, another too hard scrape and then you’re rolling over into the grass, settling on your back to look up at the stars.
There are so many, an infinite number of lights winking like watchful eyes back at you, and you wonder at the sort of childhood that lends itself to laying in the grass like this beside a parent that loves you and wants you and carves space in their life for a child they'd forced into the world. It should be some sort of crime, you think, immediate execution sort of barbarity, to have a child and not love it the way it demands.
Back of your hands open at your sides, palms to the watching sky, you close your eyes and imagine what it’d be like to have the hand of a father holding it, one that would want you—not a mother because what is she in reality to you but an imagination figure you can’t even truly conjure up? That much of a stranger is what she is—such an alien thing you can’t even bother to dream her.
Drawing your knees up, you press your bare heels into the earth and the wet placket of your panties is ice cold and sticking uncomfortably now, breeze against it. You shouldn't be thinking about this shit, but you think you might cry anyway, sucking in too fast breaths, forcing them out in attemptedly slow little puffs through your nose. A wave of sudden grief, then a plateau, the nauseating up and down of it all. You should be thinking about him, about your victory tonight, about making him so angry he can’t help himself, about what’ll come next—his skin. But that’s the thing about him, Joel, isn’t it? Always has been—the incongruous, make-no-sense feelings he’s always pulled out of you since you’d first set eyes on him, fourteen years old and tender and so alone you didn’t even know there was another way to be but abandoned.
A laugh then—huffing and sardonic and again, incongruous, because now you really are crying. Tears leaking back, hot and fat to pool in your ears and salt the earth beneath you—unloading your grief into the grass as if God were beside you. Nothing will grow here again because of you if you’re not careful, and that’s the next worry—
If he never needs you the way you’re demanding of him, you won’t be able to stay here.
You won't be able to live here and love him and not have him, and you could force him, perhaps, in your own ways. But you’ve done so much of that your whole life—forcing unloving men to look at you and take you into their arms when they’d never really wanted to give you the thing you’d always wanted most.
The tender truth: it would be so much better if Joel decided to need you because he wants to, because he can’t fathom another way than just that.
And you don’t think you’ll ever be able to live with anything else besides such.
Another forced out laugh again—just to feel the feeling of it, go through the motion, mountain air a roundabout gust in your lungs, then to your left: “What’re you laughing at, weirdo?”
Ellie, long and loping and beautiful, come to your rescue. She throws herself down onto the ground beside you and doesn’t even have to ask a thing about it when she places her rough hand in your soft one.
Working girl, mover of mountains, changer of lives.
Ellie has always known how to know you, and it has always been an incredible comfort.
The two of you lay there for a few quiet moments. Friendship as an entity has always been a strange thing to you who have never understood love in a non-transactional way. But the thing that Ellie has always given you, it has always been an incredibly straightforward sort of understanding, simple—that of one abandoned child to another, perhaps.
“Are you drunk?”
“Why’s everyone always fucking asking me that?” Said with another laugh but of the real sort this time, despite the bite in your voice.
“You’re a hazard. What can I say?”
Undeniable. “Oh, shut up.” You dig your nails into the back of her hand, trying to scratch her but probably ruining your manicure instead, she squeezes your knuckles in sideways, hurting you way more than you could manage her. A yelp, and you say, “You know what I’m excited for?”
“What’s that?”
“Skijoring.”
“Fuck no, dude. I almost died last time.”
You snicker, “Yeah, that was the fun part for me.”
Elbow to the ribs, and, “Asshole,” she laughs. And then you’re quiet again together, still gripped by the hands, and it’s the sort of comfortable only two girls who’ve been together since they were truly girls can be.
“You see Cassiopeia?” She points her finger way north.
“Do you think I should stay?” You see it, and easily, and you know if you were somewhere not here, it wouldn’t be so simply found. Maybe that’s a good thing.
“Yes.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“Because of Joel.” It isn’t a question. You’ve never said it with words to her, but she’s always known.
You hum instead of answering, can’t say it out loud anyway just yet. “So you finally asked her.” Dina, she knows what you mean.
And Ellie hums now in turn too. The both of you are so fucked up. Can’t say a thing out loud.
“And?”
“It’s fine.”
“Just fine?”
“Good.”
“Just good?”
Ellie groans loud and long, baying goat, and you tell her so, which gets another knock to the ribs. “Turn around and don’t look at me so I can tell you.”
You roll over towards the mountains and feel her face the house where she doesn’t see ghosts like you do.
“But you’re not allowed to say anything—just say okay. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I think—well, you know…,” she gruffs, voice dipping low and dropping off before she can say the words out loud again also. Everything’s a secret code here, even the stuff that shouldn’t be.
“You think?”
“You’re such a fucker. I know.”
You hum again but the good and happy sort, pressing your lips together to keep the misty eyed smile at bay. “Okay,” you say back just as low and just as gruff.
“S’why I think you should stay,” she adds. “If I can find happy here, so can you.”
“I’ve never been able to before.”
“But you’re different now.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah—can see it, you know. And this place is different now too—will be different.”
“I was afraid to come back for such a long time. It seemed like the worst thing in the world.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, before she says: “You’re not supposed to be afraid of your father.” A very obvious thing—or at least it should be.
You feel her turn to look at the back of your neck, and you peer over your shoulder at her and when your eyes meet, she looks so sad, like she’s so sorry for you but without the pity, and you do understand what it is she’s saying despite never having had that fearless experience.
“Aren’t you?” A shrug of your shoulder and a helpless laugh but also maybe with real humor accompanying it. Because yes, you’re not supposed to be. You always were anyway. It’s funny in an impossible to understand way.
A beat and then, “Can I say something fucked up?”
“Yeah.”
“He isn’t here for you to be afraid of anymore.”
Funniest of all, you’re the most sad about this. And what you don’t say to her, perhaps for shame or that child’s feeling of having done something wrong but not necessarily understanding what that wrong is—sometimes it’s inevitable, missing the monster.
“Maybe you needed him to die.” Yeah, fucked up. You’d already thought the same thing and were chock full of guilt for it. “Maybe it was like—like I don’t know. It was never going to be the way it should have between you, but now you can remember him, fuck, I don’t know—different. Not that you wanted him to die, but now the reality of him isn’t here for you to see, so you can just remember it all however you like or not.”
“So I should lie to myself?”
“Why not? There are worse things you could do. There are worse things you do do.”
You snort. “Is this what your method is?”
“Yeah. Like—like sometimes, when I’m so happy I can’t believe it’s me feeling it because she makes me that happy, Dina,” she says her name with love, “I pretend nothing from before was ever the way it was, and it’s only here and now and me and Dina and the ranch and there was no shitty, abandoning father and no dead mom and no nothing and only Joel is my dad and it’s all always been okay.”
Joel.
At the center of everyone’s happy dream, why is it always him?
“Okay,” you whisper. “I’ll try it.” She reaches behind her back then, pawing at your hip until you give her your hand again, and you were wrong. She’s changed too. She can say things now. She’s always had those too perceptive eyes and that too big heart, and she’s changed now in a way that makes her not afraid to let it out and use these things anymore.
You tell this changed Ellie now: “You know that like— that like… I don’t know how to say it. When a person’s life seems like it should be perfect, and you have everything. Everything should be good, right—but it’s just not. Your parents should be kind, they should be loving. They should be attentive and give a shit what happens to you, and it probably seems that way to the whole rest of the world except for the people that have to witness the humiliation behind closed doors, but it’s really just not, and then they probably look at me and wonder how my life could be anything but rose colored, and it all just seems a little silly and empty. Doesn’t it?”
“Nah—don’t know. My life was always shit before I came here and found Joel and Dina and all of them and you. And I'd seen enough to recognize what you were and how it was. Nothing ever looked rose colored to me—just looked like more shit.” You laugh again out loud now and for real, squeezing more tears out over your hot cheeks when she joins you in the sad hilarity as well.
When her voice is finally steady from the belly laughs again, she says, “It’s a grief pyramid, we’re all just going around hurting each other in the name of our ghosts and call it an excuse, an offering to their memory and act like it’s okay. But it’s fucked up. That’s why I decided to stop. I stopped pushing her away, I told her—well, you know. I told her.”
“Say it, loser.” You bump your butt into hers.
“Not to you—leave me alone.”
Say it, say it, say it, you sing.
“I love her, fuck off.” And a little clog of emotion sticks wetly in your throat.
That’s the real question, honestly: How do you make someone love you? How do you make yourself into someone people can love?
“It’s a grief pyramid,” she repeats. “You have to choose to stop adding to it.” And she’s quiet again for a long time, and you can’t fathom how it is one stops building onto something they’d been born into. You think on it so long the feel of her palm clutching yours starts losing itself to sleep in the grass and the breeze comes off the mountains like a blanket over the two girls who’d become women before them until she says again, “Anyway, that’s usually the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid.”
-
“Joel?”
“Yeah?”
“Whatcha doin’?”
“Nothin’.”
“Nope. You’re definitely doing something.” He angles the phone away from her prying eyes, trying to shield his shame with the palm of his hand.
“Mind your own damn business, kid.”
“Is that an Instagram account?” Ellie howls like a banshee, Tommy coming up behind him to reach over his shoulder to try and rip the phone out of his hand. He holds it out of his reach.
It’s just that he couldn’t help himself. He’d heard the boys all talking about it on the ride back down after their long day of work—your Instagram page—as if he knew what the fuck that was. He’d had to search it up on the internet when he’d gotten a moment alone in the bunk, cracking open a beer, muscles exhausted from the hard ride and having to haul a heifer out of a bramble she’d gotten herself caught in, he’d realized it was a thing young people put photographs and such on, a social media thing. But when he’d gone to search your name, it’d told him he’d needed to make an account of his own. Growling in frustration, he’d slowly made his way through the process, too big fingers punching at the too tiny keys of the stupid phone you’d forced on him.
“Can you shut up and just show me how to work this thing. And stop your goddamn howling—Dina’s gonna think she’s dating a hyena not a girl.” She slides into the seat next to him, taking the phone from his grip to finish setting up the account and type in your name, a deck of pictures loading up for him to hunt through like a vandal. Photographs of you in all sorts of different places, draped in fine clothes and jewels and your fucking perfect ass right there for everyone to see.
Oh my God.
“How many people can see this shit?” He asks Ellie, angling the phone back towards her.
“You’re so nosey, man,” she chastises. “Thirty-seven thousand followers.” And a long, impressed whistle from Tommy who he’s going to punch in the face after he’s done with this.
He swallows hard. “What’s that mean?”
“That thirty-seven thousand people are following her and looking at her pictures, Joel,” his brother says. “Man, how fuckin’ old are you?”
“Yeah, you’re not that old, Joel. Come on.”
“Go away now. I’m busy,” he tells the both of them, going back to doom scrolling through your pictures. One’s of you in barely any clothes at all, an itty bitty orange bikini, hands on your ass and sand where his tongue should be.
Joel feels insane again.
“Pervert.”
“Joel… I don’t mean to alarm you, but I think there’s steam comin’ out of your ears, man.”
“Fuck off.”
Blessedly, they leave him to suffer in peace after a while, and thank Christ for that because eventually, the ex-boyfriend shows up in the scroll of pictures too. There for everyone to see in posts dated several weeks back—even one of the two of you kissing, you on his lap, fuck that. Good looking, shiny-boy sort. Joel’s left eye twitches at the sight of the sort of man he has never been, could never be for you, someone of your caliber.
The memory of your cunt grinding against him last night flashes through his mind and his cock throbs once and hungry. He stretches his long legs out in front of him, adjusting in the suddenly too tight seat of his jeans.
A clusterfuck is what it is—this sudden melding of the memory of the girl-child you used to be, the one that up until only recently lived in his mind, good and golden, and the woman you are now. With both figures meeting together with all the characteristics he’d always admired in you, your kind heart, your honesty, your generosity. You’ve turned out to be an exceptional woman, and it’s difficult to let the distant perception from before meet the lust he feels for you now and grapple with it without feeling sick to his stomach about it all.
It’s all an inevitability though, anyway. He knows this just from the rewind memory play of last night, the taste of your mouth and the little sounds you'd made for him, because of him, the way your hips had rolled over his lap desperately seeking.
You’re ending up on his cock one way or another—inevitable.
He’s never claimed to be a good and honorable man—never played the part of one either. He’s not about to start now.
Clicking on the picture of your sun bronzed ass in the tiny bikini again, he imagines himself biting and eating it, shifting his legs restlessly, taking another long pull of his beer. Tapping twice on the image, he tries to zoom in to the apex of your thighs—he’s going to hell, he’s so fucked up, doesn’t matter—when a little heart appears in the center of the image. He clicks it again and the heart appears once more, refusing to zoom into what he wants to see up close. Fucking piece of shit phone and fucking Instagram—frustrated and hard and pissed off at the fact he’s yet to see you all day, he locks the phone, slamming it face down on the kitchen table, and downs the rest of the can.
If he doesn’t get a hold of himself soon he’s going to burst, gut all twisted up into a hot knot of coal. Sick with jealousy and anger and lust, aggressive, the taste of your sweetness ringing in his ears and the sound of your moans on his tongue—his head is not on straight and he better get it fixed quick or all this pent up frustration is going to come out with teeth to take a chunk of flesh out of you.
Groaning loudly, he lets his head fall back, thumbs digging into the sockets of his eyes until he sees stars and not the sight of your slick swollen mouth made that way by himself. He wonders if you slept well last night, if you thought of him, if you’d made yourself come the way he’d ran home to the little foreman’s cabin Kelly had given him years ago, to do himself. Jumping in the shower to jack his leaking cock to the image of what it would’ve been like if he’d been brave enough to pull that flimsy little tease of a thong to the side, let his cock out and force it inside of you, make you take it until you were crying and coming so hard you’d never think to even look at another man again, much less kiss him.
He should’ve hit that fucker harder. He should’ve kissed you longer.
He needs to force you to take all of those goddamn half naked pictures down. No one should get to look at you like that except for him, and he doesn’t give a fuck how insane he sounds.
Outside, he can hear the cowboys hooting and hollering at something, egging each other on louder and louder, the scuffle of them shoving each other and horsing around. He sighs once and long, too tired to deal with their shit right now. All he needs is an evening of peace to get his head on straight and relax and will his boner down for a few hours. He’s acting like a goddamn randy teenager, walking around hard and aching half the day.
Heaving himself out of the chair, back hurts, he grabs another beer before he’s pushing the bunk door open to the sight of half the team huddled together and peering around the corner of the bunk towards the house.
“The hell’s got y’all clucking like a bunch of hens?” He asks, coming around them to stop dead in his tracks when he lays eyes on what it is that’s got them all worked up.
That same ass he’d just been trying to zoom in on, right there in the flesh for the whole ranch to ogle at. Stretched out on one of the sun loungers from the deck, dragged out into the center of the lawn with a little table set up next to you. You’d even gotten someone to scrounge up a huge umbrella, a misting fan spinning lazily, spitting a damp sheen of water every few minutes, a drink and a speaker playing some girly song, whole goddamn set up for all of these fuckers to stand here and take an eyeful of your perfect ass.
Joel tries to take deep breaths, counting back from ten in his head—fails. He’s going to be calm and cool and collected—not. He isn’t going to lose his temper—sure.
Fuck that.
He’s going to spank your ass so hard you can’t sit for a week.
“If you all don’t find something to do in the next thirty seconds,” he growls at them all through clenched teeth, “I swear I’ll have you slingin’ shit for a month.” The can in his grip pops loudly between his fingers.
They all take one peek at the look on his face and scatter like chicken shit until it’s only Ellie left smirking beside him.
“Take this,” he shoves the can at her and starts towards you.
“Bro—” He ignores her. Hey! She calls after him, voice demanding now, stopping him in his tracks before he can go get exactly what he’s been denying himself from the moment you kissed him two nights ago.
Giving him that look she gets when she needs to remind him she knows exactly who he is and that he can’t ever hide it from her, she chews on her cheek for a second before she says, and he doesn’t mistake it, it’s a warning: “She’s a real peach. You know that. Pretty and soft and sweet, but easily hurt. Needs gentle handling, even when she wants to pretend otherwise.”
It pisses him off. Bad. “You think I don’t fuckin’ know that? I understand her—” thumb to chest. Because he did—does. Because he thinks that he really always has. It’s undeniable that he has what you have, what Ellie has. Even what Oswald Kelly himself had had and what he’d seen in Joel when he’d decided to save the life of a no good man in a no good spot with a no good future in front of him—that sadness, that lost doggedness about you all that makes you so like one another, even despite your immeasurable differences.
The two of them look at each other for another long moment, and Ellie knows, Ellie always understands. With a roll of her eyes she spins on her heel, muttering to herself, slugging back Joel’s discarded beer.
Slowly, he rounds back towards you, afraid as if he were looking down the barrel of a gun, just as dramatic, as well. Objectively, he knows you’re doing this on purpose, to piss him off and rile him up and get a blow out reaction out of him. He tries to remind himself of it as he marches towards you, and if he were smarter or less inclined to take your bait, he’d take a beat to finish that count to ten reversal in his head and calm the fuck down before he gets to you—but honestly, he just doesn’t feel like it.
All he sees instead is the baby pink barely there string bikini you’ve got on, the slope of your back gleaming in the sun, slicked in something shiny, the damp from the mister, the lush curve of your ass and the shine of your hair resting face down on your folded arms.
You’re all sunkissed everywhere, and he’d really rather just give you what you want already.
“Get up,” he growls down at you.
One eye winks open, peering up at him before you press up on your elbows to take in the sight of him scowling down at you, and he can’t help it when his eyes flit down to the sight of your breasts cupped precariously in the tiny bikini, skin all sun flushed red against the soft baby pink fabric. You look like you’re made of sugar and sweet fruit and like you’ve come here specifically to ruin him and his whole life and all his self control.
Hmm? You smile up at him wide and teasing. Oh, he’s feeding right into your shit, and you piss him off so badly.
He’s never been this hard in his entire life, he’s even made dizzy with it.
The little wisps of hair at your temples are sweat soaked and curling, looking silky soft. A thousand little details about you and your body—the white of your smile and the flushed heat of your cheeks, sun burnished bridge of your nose starting to freckle—that he can’t help but notice.
Get. Up, he grits through clenched teeth. No one in the whole world deserves to see you like this, looking so beautiful, especially not him. Shading your eyes with the palm of your hand, you scrunch your nose up at him, and he’s got half a mind to bark at you to not do that when he’s around or he’s really gonna lose it. Your smile beams brighter.
“What’s wrong, Joel? Havin’ a rough day?”
“I swear to Christ, if you don’t get your ass up and in the house right this minute, I’m going to put you over my knee right here in front of your whole ranch to witness, little girl.”
You smile up at him again and a muscle at the corner of his jaw flutters madly, he’s about to crack a fucking molar. “Hmm, I don’t think so.” And you flop back down again so that the soft of your ass jiggles slightly, arching your back just a little so that he’s growling once, right before he’s gripping you by the elbow and pulling you upwards against his chest and dragging you all bare and slippery limbed to your feet. You smell like coconuts and sweet sweat and saliva pools heavy beneath his tongue.
“If you wanna act like a brat, I’m gonna treat you like one. You get me?” He yanks you towards the house screeching like a banshee, let go of me, you fucking psycho, you howl. A too little fist swings towards his face, and he catches it in his palm, squeezing tight and feeling your thumb tucked inside your fist.
“Stop that—you’re gonna hurt yourself.” More squawking and howling, skinny wrist slipping from his grip to take another swing at him. “Don’t even know how to throw a goddamn punch—Jesus fucking Christ. Don’t tuck your thumb.” He hauls you up higher against himself, getting a better grip around your waist so he can carry you bodily up the steps of the deck.
You jam your heels into his shins, and he huffs and puffs, trying to keep his hold on you. I’m gonna kick your ass, you screech again, scratching and pinching at his forearms.
Joel is too old and too goodman tired for this.
“No, you’re not. And if you think I’m gonna let the whole goddamn ranch and all the boys stare at your bare ass all day, you’ve got another thing comin’ for you.”
“Well, I’ve gotta show it to someone, don’t I?” You sass back, trying to elbow him in the throat while you’re at it. Blood boiling, catching you by the small joint, he pulls your arm bent behind your back, other forearm banding against your stomach so that his hand is splayed at your hip, feeling the satin soft skin, slippery in your suncream.
And sure, he might be too old or too tired for this, but his cock is still hard as anything at the feel of you all against him like this.
Pushing the door open with his hip, he shoves you inside. The late afternoon sun paints the cool interior in shades of gold and beaming white; everything is beautiful and pristine as always, and yet tinged with the red of his temper and lust. His temples beat in tune with his too fast, pumping heart.
“Where’s Dina?” He’s still got you caught in his grip. He does not plan to let go.
“Let me go, you mother ffff—” He gives you one hard shake, hearing your teeth click and rattle. Little doll caught in his grip. He can do anything to you—and you won’t be able to stop him.
“Where is she?” He asks again, and something in his voice must snap you alert because you settle for a brief second, a little shiver skipping down the length of your spine that he follows to your full ass. He tugs you back, barely moving and slow, just that little bit further into himself so that the lush curve presses against the hard length of his cock—and there it is, the little knowing gasp, finally understanding what it is you’ve gotten yourself into.
-
“She—” Your belly is suddenly so hot and tight, heartbeat starting up behind your navel. Suddenly knowing what it is this is about to be, and yet now finally confronted with the reality of it for the first time, you can’t even begin to imagine what it’ll be like. “She—I don’t know. She went into town, I— I think,” you stutter, brain short-circuiting, desperate to feel that hardness again. “Waiting for Ellie—they’ve got plans there tonight.” His entire hand is wrapped around your forearm pressed against the small of your back, long, thick fingers overlapping against each other, and you roll up on your tiptoes, trying to arch your back further into him.
He grunts once, exasperated, and then shoves you forward again, rough enough you’re stumbling over your own two feet, full on aggressive panting bull at your back.
That’s good, he says so low you barely catch it before he’s pushing you up against the wall by the front door, cheek smushed against the silk printed wallpaper.
Your mother decorated this room years ago, melding the masculine taste of your father and her love for European decor. The walls, wrapped in hand painted English wallpaper on the top half, and paneled at the bottom with a mahogany so fine it gleams an amber golden glow when the afternoon sun shines in through the windows just so.
Everything beautiful; still, even after all this time.
He holds you there for a long moment, his breathing quick and shallow, bellows of hot air at the nape of your neck, disturbing the escaped hair from your claw clip curling there.
“Joel?” You ask once, voice wavering just a little bit because he suddenly feels so large and imposing behind you that something like trepidation beats behind the soft of your kneecaps. You know he worked all day, and his big body is a steaming blaze of heat, waves rolling off of him to burn the naked length of your back and limbs.
He pulls your arm trapped between his forearm and your stomach to the small of your back to join the other, holding you there in a lock pinned against the wall, reaching up slowly to let your hair down, long and swinging. You listen to the clatter of your clip against the hardwood floor, and then he’s circling the side of your neck, the tiny beating pulse held in the cup of his palm so that it feels as if it’s reverberating back into your head, a staccato rhythm, and echoing all through your body. A chiming bell, ringing and ringing and ringing, telling you that it’s time now. His hand smooths down the slope of your throat to your shoulder, and you listen to the rumbling half humming moan he lets out at the feel of your sweat sticky skin, then down the flat wing of your scapula, thumb nail scraping against the edge of your jutting bone for the way he’s got your arms trapped behind you.
You let out a high pitched whine, almost a scream, another puff of sound in the assimilation of his name, pleading now, rolling up onto your tiptoes again to push your ass back against the hard of his cock. Everything is so, so sensitive.
Quit, he snaps once and mean. Ordering. In a tone that says he’s in charge, and finally.
It’s such a relief.
You whine again, higher, needier, like you’ve never felt before, and there’s a nauseating thrum of electrified butterflies in your tummy, sticky sweet and cloying for attention. Joel, please, again and the wings beat faster. You’re sure he’ll enjoy the sound of your begging, it’s just something you know. Tiptoes straining higher so that the soles of your feet ache, he smooths that work roughened palm down the slope of your spine, thumb against your vertebrae, feeling the round little notches of bone beneath sensitive skin until he’s reached the twin dimples at the low of your back right above your ass, and presses there and hard—mean—so it hurts. Keening loudly, you crush your cheek harder, harder against your mother’s wallpaper until the bone aches, until there’ll surely be an indent of your shape left in the wall, and his thumb digs even harder anyway, gripping you tight enough to bruise.
This is how it’ll be—surprising, but also not. In all your years of imagining, you still don’t know what it is you expected.
“You’re carved so fine,” whispered against your skin and gooseflesh spreads like wildfire, nipples going tight and aching. His nose skims the slope of your nape, smelling you. “S’like you’re made of sugar. Is that what you’ll taste like too?” And his words are slurred, drunk-like and you feel the same way also, legs on the verge of giving out.
You press your hips back again, desperate for any sort of pressure, and he jostles you once, hard enough you bite your tongue. Quit moving, he snaps, shoving his knee between your legs and spreading you wide and immobile, thigh hooked over his own so that the toes of that leg barely skim the ground and now you’re precariously balanced on one foot, held up and pinned entirely by him.
Caughtcha, he murmurs.
You couldn’t move even if you wanted to.
The palm at the low of your back splays wide, his long fingers reaching from side to side and pressing hard against your skin and then all of a sudden he’s gone, and only for a second, before he’s back and slapping you hard and painfully stinging on the ass. A downward swipe of his thick fingers so that it really fucking hurts, and then the palm is back at the small of your waist, hooked thigh over his leg, unable to move, unable to do anything except take it.
He presses your belly into the wall, and the pressure is so intense and so deep—his breathing is so rough behind you. You know he worked the mountain all day, he should be exhausted, but the strength he’s trapping you with belies the possibility.
His hand goes away from your back again, and he’s spanking you once more, and you can’t tell if it’s harder or not this time, if it hurts worse than the previous, but the fire pain of it snaps all the way down from your thigh to your calve, pooling there in a knot of painful ache. An animal baying noise warbles in your throat, he tuts once, a cooing click of his tongue and cups your ass right at the rose of pain he’s left, kneading the skin gently, palpating the hurt like he’s looking for the physical imprint of it beneath your skin.
“Yeah, baby? Like that?” You sing the little animal song for him again. “S’what you needed, right?” His voice now is not the Joel-voice you’ve always known, but it is the one you’ve always dreamed of. The kneading fingers slide whisper soft down the back of your thigh, up again, down again, callused skin scraping. On the up again, his thumb catches at the edge of your bathing suit wedged between the cleft of your ass.
And lest he thinks he’s bested you, you say, “Yes, that’s what I needed,” and he laughs a rough laugh that makes him sound like he’s been gutted.
He squeezes the thick of your ass between his thumb and forefinger, an almost pinch and then smoothes his thumb beneath the pink edge along the curve, precariously close to danger. The sound of his name loses meaning, you’re praying it in a litany almost, over and over, begging. Hush now, he gentles, more in a sort of voice you recognize while your heart beats so hard against the wall it must surely sound like someone’s knocking on the front door for entry, like it must surely send echoes all through the ghost-house.
His smoothing thumb continues its journey until it’s between your thighs, pulling the wet lycra wide away from your skin so that he can tuck the rest of his fingers flat against your cunt, and now he’s there.
One of you says the word fuck another lets out a whimpering sort of noise—you’re not sure which is who, it’s all only a cunt-throbbing need you know he’s feeling leak and pulse against his hand.
“You’re so wet for me,” he murmurs all reverence like. Joel—touching your cunt and sounding like he can’t believe it. His hand slides back along the curve of your sex, and you really are so wet the sound of it is slick and lewd, his fingertips at your entrance, a gentle probing and then forward again, a circling not touch around your clit, like he’s learning for himself this new little place that belongs to him now. Your mouth falls open on a spit-full moan, your eyes closed because you don’t even have strength now to keep them open and watchful. You’re so wet for me, he says again and again like he can’t believe it all either.
He drags his finger flats against you once more and then another time and then taps twice with all four of them, two little almost slaps to your clit that make a sticky wet splashing sound. Good girl, and you don’t know which part of you he’s talking to. You’re practically leaking onto the floor, trying to widen your hips, arch your ass back further and present your cunt to him for fucking. And then his fingers side to side in a swiping motion and fast.
Oh God. Oh God. Inside, inside, you need him inside. He needs to go inside.
“Please, pleeease, Joel. Oh, please.” Delirious.
“Please?” His fingers move fast and your vision goes entirely away. “Please what? Please what? You, please.” He switches front and backwards again, and then two fingers draw a little ghost circle at your entrance. You, please, he says again. His hand flips over, palm facing downwards, and he starts to slowly, slowly press a single tip of one inside. “Please behave. Please don’t— don’t—fuck— please gimme a second to breathe, to think, to catch up. God, fucking tight little cunt. I’ll never fit in here, baby.”
Your vision whites, then blacks, then goes blinding bright and colorless—zero frequency. Up to the first knuckle, and he wiggles the tip inside, making you cry and squirm, pulls out and then two fingers are pressing inside and downwards. “We’re gonna have to take it so slow in this little cunt.” Shit—shit.
“Oh my God, yes.”
Your hips shiver and shake as he penetrates you, his forehead tucked against your shoulder so he can look down at what he’s doing, and drool slides along your mother’s wallpaper from the corner of your mouth as he pushes his fingers in and out of you so slowly, the slick slide, the pressure against your front wall so heavy, and spread so wide like this but held so immobile—it all makes you feel like you’ll wet yourself with such little control over your body. A few slides in and out again, “Good girl, just a little more,” before he’s wedging a third into the mix, trying to put it inside of you as well. A little more? The stretch is too much, burning, and you wail and cry, arching again but this time to get away instead of steal more.
“Okay, okay. It’s alright,” he soothes. Hush. “It’s okay.” He pulls his fingers entirely out and covers the slick mess of your mound with his entire palm possessively. Rubbing soothingly at your wet, his fingers slide over the satiny smooth skin of your lips.
“You’re all bare,” he whispers, shocked.
You swallow hard once, shoulders and neck starting to ache. “I— I got lasered.”
“Lasers?” Voice confused.
“Yeah.” You swallow again, can’t catch your breath. “Yes.”
“Gotta see.”
He pulls you from the wall, shuffling you like gambling cards in his hands, that’s what this is, a gamble, so that you’re facing him as he walks you backwards, bikini bottoms askew and cunt bare to your parents living room; your dead father’s best man about to fuck it raw.
Pressing up on your tiptoes at the same time that you’re tugging him low by the collar and the slightly too long hair that curls over it to press an open mouthed kiss to his lips with eyes kept open. You need to see his face, his reaction, that even though he’s all rough, he’s still Joel and he’ll still take care of you now.
One strong forearm bands around your back, pressing you up high and close to his chest, fingers tangling in the bikini string at your back so that it pulls tight and bites into your skin, the other reaching around the back of your thighs to take a squeezing handful of you ass as he lifts you clean off the ground, lumbering slowly towards the couch while the two of you stare at each other with something that smells suspiciously of wonder.
On the high ground now, you stare down at him, held as you are and kiss him again, for real this time, with tongue, an eating of his mouth. Trying to taste him as deep as you can go, digging your manicured fingernails into the rough whiskered planes of his cheeks until he grunts roughly.
Showing him that you can hurt him too.
His knees hit the edge of the couch, one palm going to the back to hold himself steady as he sets you down, following your path to fold over you nose to nose. Watching each other for a blink, predator, predator, lashes tangling and then his mouth is sliding wetly over your burning cheekbone, drawn out groan like dying. Down to the hinge of your jaw where he sucks sharp once and his tongue flutters down the column of your throat, tasting your pulse, his palms everywhere at the same time too. Over your shoulders and down your goosefleshed arms, cinching at the nip of your waist to slide around your hips and to your ass, pulling you forward and open when he goes to his knees on the floor at the edge of the sofa between your spread thighs, with you draped diagonally across the cool leather that sticks to your sweaty, coconut flavored skin.
One palm slides down your chest, dragging over your breast, the other catching at your nipple with this thumb, nail scraping and pulling the wet fabric along with him, baring you to the first glance of his eyes. A sound that’s a little like a whimper precedes his latching mouth, sucking hard and with teeth so you’re arching and crying and when your head rolls to the side, eyes bleary and barely seeing, he’s got your small breast in his mouth, jaw hinged wide and hungry. His teeth scrape, one wide palm sliding over your thigh to the back, pushing your knee up high and open to your shoulder, lips skim over your belly, smell so fucking good, sharp edge over your hip bone and the lave of his tongue, taste so fucking good.
“I’m gonna eat your cunt.” Bikini askew, one little tit bared to the cold AC, nipples hard enough to hurt, he pinches it once and mean and stretches the soaking wet center gusset of your bottoms wider.
He looks and looks and grins and everything inside of you pulses.
Boyish smirk and a cocky glance up at you, oh, pretty, “Perfect little princess pussy, huh? I see now.” He sticks his thumb into his mouth, pulls it out with a pop to rub it spit slick against your clit. Yeah, yeah, like that, and you can’t help the whining cry.
Pushing your other thigh up high, the grin turns to something a little more menacing before he bends to your cunt, whole mouth covering you there like he’d swallowed your breast. His thumbs dig painfully into the backs of your thighs like they’d dug in your back, leaving little spots of hurt all over your body is what he’s doing, spreading you wide open.
Every touch is possessive, full of ownership.
“What are you doing to me?” He groans as he eats your cunt, doing exactly as he said he would, flat of his tongue licking all over you, dipping inside. Purse of his lips then and he’s sucking hard and pulsing in quick successions, and there’s your first one—little gush of slick and your belly so tight it hurts, you need something inside of you so bad—your first orgasm forced from you and onto his tongue, swallowed down into his stomach. He groans like an animal—doubles his efforts, tongue spearing inside, pulling away to press two fingers in—fuck, fuck, and you grab hold of your own thigh to keep yourself open for him, knees trembling beside your ribs.
The hand not inside slides across you, smearing slick over your belly, it’s everywhere, and presses down as he crooks those two fingers forward. His hair’s all fucked up, eyes glazed a maniacle shade of hazel that makes him more intimidating than you’ve ever seen him and also hotter than you could’ve ever dreamed, that boy’s smile again.
His mustache is soaked in you. “Little pussy’s so small ‘nd wet, baby.” He wiggles his fingers, pets against the blindingly sensitive place inside of you. “Feel that?” Fingers twisting—almost too much, the stretch burns already and just like this.
“Please, put it in,” you beg stupidly, a tear leaks and then another, not at all smart of self preserving.
He clicks his tongue, and you can’t tell if it’s soothing or condescending or both, your eyes screwing shut at what he’s doing to you, trying to paw at his shoulders and pull him towards you at the same time. “Can’t—cunt’s too little.”
No, no— His palm at your belly presses down, fingers petting forward, again, again, head bent once more to suck on your clit, licking it roughly if a tongue can be rough because it’s heavy and strong and intentional—I can take it. There’s your next one, obeying the come here order of his fingers. Mid-come and he’s forcing that painful third one from before inside, and now it’s split open and sloshing wetly—your cunt—hiccupping into another left over shaky orgasm, fucking hurts a little bit. More tears and his soft chuckle—you’re really in it now.
When he slurps at your leaking again, fingers leaving you to gape empty and wanting, your hips shiver, trying to shake him away and rock against him at the same time. He says something you can’t make out, can’t even open your eyes, you just need a second, you swear, and then the clink of his belt, the shuffle of clothes, and he’s pulled his shirt over his head—you’ve enough mind left to open your eyes for this.
He’s so strong, built for fucking and working and heaving. You knew this already, you hadn’t needed to see him without clothes to know.
And all yours now, too.
Your fingertips paw greedy at his chest, muscular, the thickly corded arms and shoulders. One hand wraps around the slim of your ankle, manacling you while he undoes his fly, your heart skips with the split of the zipper’s teeth and pulls his cock out, letting it fall heavy on your stomach—a threatening, aggressive thing. It drags against your cunt, so big it doesn’t stand up straight and jutting like the others you’ve been used to, but bobs low and hanging.
Reaching forward you flit the tips of your fingers over the wide head—barely there butterfly touch—and your hand looks comically small next to the thing as you pet at the dark head swelling out of the thick skin around it, soft and burning hot—he growls like a wolf at your touch.
“I’ve never— I’ve never… with one like…”
He pulls your hand forward, wrapping it tightly around the thick length with his fist over yours. “Nah, baby. You’ve never had one like this. It’s alright—I’ll show you how to take it.”
You’ve half a mind to roll your eyes at him, but he distracts you with the soft touch at the split indentation in your knee from your romp in the grass last night. “What happened here, little thing?” His words and his touch are so soft, eyes warm and caring, as if he weren’t threatening at all, as if that thing that’s about to split you in half and make you cry hasn’t started to slick itself back and forth between your legs, parting the lips of your cunt, sticky sound on every pass with his fist wrapped around himself—too many things happening to you all at once by his hand.
“A rock hiding in the grass last night.” You start to roll your hips minutely against him, presenting your similarly torn palm for his appraisal, no, no, my poor baby, he kisses the little hurt while the fat head swipes over your clit, pressing against your hole—a little gasp and you circle his wrist at your knee, anchoring yourself.
He frowns. “Last night when?”
“After you left me.” Pouting back.
Cooing once and low, “You shouldn’t go out alone at night, anything could happen,” pressing again at the mouth of your cunt. Fuck, now—
“Wasn’t alone—”
The head notches and stays, “Without me then— Deep breath now, baby.” He grunts on the first push inside, and your back arches tight as a bowstring, hand splaying wide at the center of his belly and his long fingers wrap around your breast tight, holding you in place, deep breath, he says again.
“Oh God. Oh God. Oh my God.”
He pitches his hips forward once, just a little, just a small shove, and you tense, sharp whine hiccuping through you. “Oh, it’s too big,” pressing harder at his belly as he edges deeper again, an inch and then another, literally splitting your cunt open for himself, thumb swiping slow and gentle over your clit, forcing little shudders of pleasure out of you amidst the pain.
“See, told ya.” It’s slow, slow until he makes it fit, watching himself sink inside of you the entire time, until you’re rooted on his cock, breath coming is quick, sucking pants, puffs out through your nose, body flushing hot and then even hotter. He folds over you, groaning loud and long, deep grinds and small shoves, and then it’s so much, too much until there’s no room left inside of you at all, that dull ache pain of his tip pressing against your cervix.
You’re going to be so sore tomorrow, it hurts, it hurts, but he plays with that place anyways, covering you with his body to press his face against your breasts, mouthing wet and hot at your nipples, biting hard to distract you from the pain inside. Your fingers twist in his hair, hot and damp at the roots, sweaty musk smell of a hard day's work, masculine, making you wetter for him. “It’s alright… it’s alright. You can take it. You’re such a good girl.” And then a fuck, and he’s mumbling your name, how good you are again, how well you’re taking your fucking.
“This what you wanted, right? To get caught on my cock?” The palm cupping your ass tips you up and forwards, forcing him inside just that little bit more. Your knees are at your shoulders, folded entirely under him, and the tip of his cock is still there where it hurts the most while he pants and sweats on top of you. A cramp of heat moves like lightning down your back and something goes loose in your cunt, your womb contracting once, accepting its fate as you start to come around him, milking him deep inside of you. You start to cry for real now too, fingernails dragging against his naked back looking for blood—sobbing, actually, not just crying.
He bites your breast hard, grinds further not letting the orgasm stop, “God—I’m so fuckin’ deep. No one’s ever been this deep, right? Tell me, baby,” he begs, sitting back and dragging you boneless, still coming, into his lap, little girl splayed wide over his knees on the floor. You sink further down onto his cock, and he kisses your hot cheeks, letting your cunt drip down him. His belt digs bruisingly into the back of your thighs and it all hurts—he really is so deep now, head tucked firmly at your cervix, and he feels like he’s getting thicker, harder, like he just needs to be sunk deep like this, as deep as he can get so that all your cunt needs to do is work him until it milks the come right out of him.
Your head lolls back on your neck, supported at the edge of the sofa. “No more—” You don’t know if you mean it, but it is just on the verge of too much now. You’re so sensitive.
“Yes more.” He starts to lift his hips again, pulling back and shoving, not a lot, but enough that it’s like a little punch inside of you each time. “As much as I say.”
Whining, “No—I can’t.” You roll your hips against him though, the both of you moving, straining against each other, his wide hands around your waist shifting you up and down like a doll on his cock. Your eyes finally open again, and the sunlight spears in through the windows in buttery blinding shafts, sparkling dust motes dancing above as he fucks you. The sound is all so wet, everything from his lower belly to the open front of his jeans is soaked. “I don’t like it anymore,” you lie.
“I don’t care,” and he gives you the first really rough thrust, not a pounding but with enough strength behind it that you get that heat cramp again, feel like you’re going to wet yourself again, there’s so much pressure in your belly.
You’re going to come again. You are coming again. It feels like you should say thank you.
He laughs, little cock sleeve, and you can’t understand how it’s so intense when the fucking is so slow—so good anyways—who cares about anything. His name slips through your lips without them moving, and he’s laughing again, a little mean and you tell him so, but still tender, still endeared by you.
You push his face away weakly, a mumbled, “Nasty old man.”
Nuh uh, he hums, taking both of your wrists in his grip and pressing them back to the leather edge on either side of your head, forcing you into an arch so that he can latch his teeth at your throat and suck. The rolling of his hips pick up speed, just that little bit, the heat coming off him boiling up to steaming and his sweat drips onto your skin and disappears inside of you—everywhere you’ve got him inside of you.
“Birth control?” All broken up with pants and your jugular between his teeth.
Flexing fingers, hands going away to numbness, he’s got you held so tightly, not being so careful of his strength anymore, his cock drags and it’s so wet and sensitive and swollen inside of you, it feels like he barely fits even more than it did before, like there’s definitely no more space inside of you for him at all.. “Yeah—ye—ah, ahh,” can’t get your voice to come out right with your clit grinding against his pelvic bone like that. “Implant right here.” You turn your face towards your left arm, tipping your nose the hidden little bump right beneath your skin. He clicks his tongue, kissing it softly.
“Poor baby. That’s good. That’s real good, baby. Just be good and lemme come in you now. It’s okay.” He spreads his thighs wider, pushing up with his knees into you now. Oh fuck— “But you gotta give me one more. I want it—it’s mine.” And the way he’s got you arched, the spot he hits inside is more intense than the others. He grunts rougher now, biting your throat so hard you’ll be left bruised all over and on the inside too. One palm lets go of your wrist to grip your bottom, long fingers slotting on either side of his impaling cock, pulling you to him so tightly the orgasm is squeezed out of you forcibly and hurts all the worse for it. You’re limp and boneless now, and he starts to pump his come into you in thick spurts, belly all suffused with heat and your name a groan in his throat.
His fingers, parted around his splitting cock rub at the slippery skin of your labia, back and forth to your asshole, holding and cupping the place he’s claimed, and he comes so long, hunched over and rutting into you, filling and filling until the wet squelch is even louder and you can feel the thick come being forced out of your stuffed full cunt.
You want to say his name, trying to move your lips, but your tongue rolls uselessly inside your mouth, all you are is a shivering cunt, a muscle spasming and spasming around him. He nuzzles at your throat, finally unlatching his teeth, licking away the hurt, pressing a soft kiss to the sore spot. You can feel him playing in the leaking wet now, fingering at your puffy cunt, well fucked and filled.
You want to tell him you didn’t think that the bikini was going to make this happen, pull this out of him.
At least not like this. You don’t think you could’ve ever imagined it’d be like this.
His mouth, hot on your jaw once more before he finally picks up his head to look at you, and his eyes make you want to cry, all that manic heat is gone now, replaced by some softly smoldering ember. You don’t think anyone in all the world has eyes the color of hazel he’s got. Something that should belong to some fiercely guarded precious stone, they glow, amber opal like, burnished in the setting sun’s golden glow.
“You okay?” His voice is very soft, and only for you.
You nod, chin tipping to your sternum, face flushed with so much unbearably pleased heat you’re unable to find your own.
Tilting his head to get at your mouth, he kisses you long and soft and open mouthed, licking your tongue, tasting you completely. And when he pulls back he has that same look you feel on your own face—that same unbearable pleasure. Shocked wonder sprinkled into it.
Look at what we’ve done and together and how good it is—
A smile and then a laugh from both of you, giggling like school children into each other’s mouths, and you’ve always thought he has some strange effect of appearing all man one second and then smiling and boyish for the flash of a single moment the next. And you don’t think you understand how someone who’s been through so much can still laugh the way he does. You smooth your finger over the arch of his eyebrow, thumbing at the smile lines at the corners of his eyes. Gorgeously strong man, and you suppose, looking at the wider picture, his life here, Ellie and the boys and a whole full life, you understand it, just a little bit—all the ranch’d given him. He has so much here—centered by the land as its heart.
You’ve always wanted to be just like him anyway, and finally, voice found—the feel of his heartbeat inside of you—it’s like finding a dream, “I’m okay,” you tell him.
Netherfeildren's Masterlist
Updates Blog
#fable of the dog fic#vic fic#joel miller fanficition#joel miller x ofc#Joel miller smut#the last of us AU#joel miller fic
236 notes
·
View notes
Text
alfred, who writes in a journal every day unbeknownst to the bats.
alfred, who's journals aren't marked by a period of time, or his own age, instead by the names of those he looks after. when dick is first adopted, and he knows this change is permanent, he puchases a new journal, despite his existing one being only 2/3 full. this one has a simple 'richard' written with a gold accent on the cover, a change from the last 8, titled 'bruce'.
alfred, who somehow makes journaling more of a logbook, albeit still personal. he's writing about himself, sure. memories of old friends, his travels, stories he's heard, things he has experienced.
but he mainly writes of them, the things they do, how they act. their character quirks that they haven't even picked up on yet themselves. the things he wishes he could tell them as a parent, instead of butler. the things they should know about those who've come before them. the regrets he has, and changes he's making. how they've molded him into a new person.
alfred, who will take all this information to the grave. until then, they stay packed in their respective boxes, some dustier than others, in the back of his wardrobe in the manor.
the contents of those journals aren't specific to each kid. everyone's within those pages. in tim's there's a lot about jason, and damian's has a lot about bruce. nothing's overly invasive in them, and the furthest it strays from the truth is when sometimes alfred admits to believing a different set of events to whatever he's been told, and even then he's probably right.
jason, who receives his journals prematurely. there's only 2, there should have been more. it's painfully obvious the cutoff, how it wasn't supposed to end there, but still it did. he receives them post-resurrection, convinced he doesn't belong in the world. his memories of robin growing fogged and becoming twisted.
he reads them and he cries, maybe it's because he forgot how much good there was in those times, or maybe it's because that's the determining moment in his new life where he decides that he really deserves and wants to live, because his existence runs deeper than being the robin who died.
frankly it's quite jarring for jason, to read about himself from another's perspective. as much as i love the idea of him and alfred getting along the best out of all the kids, he definitely distances himself for a while to process everything. he slowly creeps back though.
no one else gets to read their share until alfred's gone, and when they do it goes unspoken, no one pries to know anything outside of their dedicated journals.
jason, after hesitance and much internal conflict, drops off his own on dick's nightstand one night. receiving them back, two weeks later, is a silent affair face-to-face.
tim, similarly, on no one's accord but his own, gives jason his, to keep. he says something about how he doesn't think they were ever about him, and they seemed much more like a sequel. he also apologises, and mentions how he almost felt like he was intruding on something. but he understands now, he doesn't clarify about what.
#cass + duke have one each too#batfam#batfamily#alfred pennyworth#bruce wayne#dick grayson#jason todd#tim drake#damian wayne#batboys#the robins#batkids#nightwing#red hood#robin#red robin#dc comics#dcu#dc#gothihop speaks
215 notes
·
View notes
Text
it's not about the roses
pairing: chan x reader (i wrote it with idol!chan or producer!chan in mind, but despite a brief mention of the studio it can fit any au, really)
word count: 1,1k
genre/warnings: er, fluff, a hint of angst if you squint but overall just tooth rotting sweetness. reader being kinda vulnerable
author's note: inspired by my and @skzms 's channie brain worms, me crying over how boyfie he is in may's dms and her coming up with this little prompt. i'm manifesting a sweet healthy relationship for y'all, never settle for less <3
you were never the one for flowers, really.
it just didn’t seem anything meaningful or special, an occasional cute little bouquet on some first date you had ages ago, meeting someone completely new after mindlessly swiping them right on a dating app.
plus, it’s always such a bother to take care for it. disassemble the thing, cut the stems, change the water, maybe cut off the leaves too.
at some point, you began to think of yourself as more of a practical person, taking gift giving to the point where it completely lost symbolism. always getting your friends and family either money or something they specifically asked for.
“at least, they’re actually gonna use it and get some utility out of it. ‘s good, right?” you thought to yourself, ticking a box on one of your friend’s wishlists for their birthday.
it is good. no stress of choosing and endlessly pondering whether they’ll like it or not.
or is it avoiding the vulnerability of going down a more symbolic route if they don’t happen to respond to your gift the way you’d like them to after carefully planting hidden meanings and confessions all over a seemingly useless present?
yeah, maybe, that’s the one, actually.
it was a regular saturday evening, no work, no plans, no big day or anything to celebrate. so, naturally, you were just spending the time at your place, resting after successfully having done all the house chores in one go.
purposelessly lying on the bed, you wondered what chris was up to. it wasn’t something out of the ordinary for you two to leave each other hanging during the day, keeping each other’s messages unread and waiting for some free time to give a thoughtful, proper reply.
but the little “1” next to your kakaotalk message was starting to feel unfriendly because... honestly? you just missed him. you wanted to know about his day, what he ate for lunch and whether work was okay today (knowing full well the man couldn’t care less about days of the week, coming over at the studio any time he needed or pleased).
distracting yourself with scrolling tiktok for a quick dopamine hit, you end up losing track of time a little. and the thing bringing you back to reality is chan’s short message, popping up on your notifications bar.
“can you come out for a sec? i’m at the door hehe~”
it takes you three times to read to finally understand what it actually means.
he doesn’t have keys to your apartment yet, and you mostly hang out at his place anyways, so him coming all the way to the opposite side of the city makes your heart skip a beat.
you rush to the door and open it almost immediately, only to see channie, your channie, standing right in front of you with a nice bouquet of red roses wrapped up in kraft paper.
the next thing you notice is chan’s wide smile, so sincere and endearing it makes you wanna cry on the spot.
you were never the one for flowers, really.
red roses always seemed like something either too vulgar or “easy”. something that becomes men’s first pick because they just never care enough to look for anything else and assume every girl loves it by default.
right now, however, it doesn’t feel like either of those.
the way chris is a bit nervous and really excited all at once; his hands gripping at the crunchy paper-wrapped base as he's waiting to give the flowers to you.
the way his eyes sparkle and shine with warmth and genuine adoration for you. and you read past the roses, you learn so much more from it.
you learn how he’s been quiet because he was plotting a little surprise for you, trying not to be too obvious.
you see how he thought of you during the entire process, from an idea to carefully picking out the best flowers, making sure they’re fresh and pretty and will stay this way a while.
you can hear his timid little “thank you” to the florist as they exchange their bows and polite smiles.
you imagine the slightly awkward small talk with the taxi driver asking him about the occasion — the traffic and the parking area next to your building are awful, so you’re guessing he did take the taxi. and the drivers sure love to talk on the long drives, this one you had to learn the hard way.
gosh, chan looks so warm and… so soft, his lips making a familiar heartbreaking :] shape.
snapping out of your thoughts, you look into chris’s eyes and swallow down a salty lump in your throat.
“please don’t be alarmed, but i probably will cry a little,” you warn him before your voice gives out and take the roses, holding them close to your chest where the heart is bleeding.
“so pretty,” you stare down at the gentle velvety petals and sniff quietly.
chan looks worried for a moment but quickly pulls you into his embrace, stepping into the apartment and locking the door behind him.
“hey-y, i expected a smile, not your tears, baby. i didn’t upset you, did i?” to which you shake your head to reassure him.
“no, no, ‘course not! what do you mean? they’re so nice. i’m just… really happy? and i missed you. so much,” the last words come out like a weak mouse squeak as you close your eyes and let your emotions roll down your cheeks, staining your skin wet.
chan nods and takes your face into his palms, wiping away the tears and looking at you so lovingly you think you might actually break.
“i missed you too, baby. do you mind if i stay the night? i…- uh. i bought some face masks too, so we can just relax a little before bed and cuddle?”
you squeeze out a little “yeah” in response, headbutting his forehead and putting your arm around him, with another still holding the roses carefully.
“i love you,” you say slightly louder, making sure that he hears it.
maybe, gifts don’t have to be practical all the time.
maybe, it’s okay to put sentimental value into simple, useless things sometimes. make them mean something.
“i love you too, baby,” chris hums still a little confused, rubbing soothing circles into your lower back and planting a chaste kiss on the bridge of your nose.
you reach for his plump soft lips and press yours against them.
and even though your tastebuds can feel the salt, it’s the sweetest kiss you two have shared so far.
#skz imagines#skz x reader#skz x you#my fic#bang chan x you#bang chan x reader#chan x reader#chan x you#bang chan x female reader#chan x female reader#skz bang chan#stray kids bang chan#stray kids fanfic#skz fic#my writing#my work#skz fanfic
175 notes
·
View notes
Text
ok gang. its theory time
the analysis of the new mercenary scene. meta, blueprints and time
warning it is incredibly choppy because of the chaos i am in rn !!!!!! but anyways
okay so. the video cuts off at green&red defending themselves but i doubt that really means a lot
the glitching. it IS reminding me of the way chosens memories were scanned through. but mercs having a whole tv remote?? chosens memories mightve as well pushed them to use youtube ?? but why didnt they access it earlier ?? why vic didnt???
bc of these question im more willing to think they themselves decided to use youtube right now. maybe only right now !
this raises a ton of questions. does outernet have somewhat of an access to internet after all? is it just their own tech? (could be supported by the fact that if youtube was common there i doubt theyd be using specifically television for it. i feel like theyd use other screens instead without a need of a remote especially considering how advanced their tech is)
still possible that it is common. considering they aren't that focused on it and there are random workers in the bg literally enjoying the show
this whole thing is VERY meta lol but i do think the mercs are the ones that influenced the stream in this way
A BIG portion of alan drawing a flower from ava season 2 is paid attention to in the glitching scene for some reason ?? maybe as a note for his and secs alliance.
the video then cuts off and goes to victim again. the whole video was watched through
the stream cuts off to mercs. **RIGHT** at the moment chosen notices the freedom stick rights article. based on the vid it could be just primal messing with shit but i feel it was intentional. (ha. freedom? loser. we're here instead)
later. the video resumes at victim again. i didnt see any changes to vics or chosens ending.
okay. the mercs. pulling up screenshots for this one
i. cant decipher THAT much even though the quality is 1080p for me.
but i DO see that the first blueprint has as i suppose the hover ??
the text pinpoints "power core" and its pretty much the most readable thing for me. another one is kyokaz was here its just a cameo
the blueprint shows buttons? perhaps the controller of the hover? going to a circle thingy. perhaps what is working inside the hover
the whole thing on the left corner says f___ complex but i cant decipher
second screenshot. the blueprint left to the first one looks like a pc?? and its not surprising even in the screenshot itself bc. the mercs have one to the right corner behind em
now. third sc.
HELLO?
firstly. A VIC DRAWING????? WITH A GUN????
there is a possibility of it being any stick but. i feel its victim. in my guts
shooting?? what. for.
it is scribbled out . . .
there is a possibility (along with the self portrait of vics in the unused bg) that it was just. him doodling. it would kill me actually because he is no great artist like sec. just a doodler (<words of flareboi here)
now. this
again . the question how they accesed it.
if they can get youtube to open there. how did vic not know of the showdown. of sec
showdown was uploaded online. that was literally in canon !!!
unless there's a rule that not everything internet-like and youtube like can be accessible. but i dont really think of any implications that proved that
except. for the fact that showdown was already uploaded. before the ep even ended. would it imply time passing differently in both realms?
lord i needed to scream it out.
OH GOD !!!!!!!!!!!
#animator vs animation#alan becker#animation vs minecraft#storgesinsaneramblings#animation vs animator#ava victim#ava theories#ava the dark lord#ava the chosen one
209 notes
·
View notes
Text
Okay, so, I need to talk about the relationship between Persona 5's ending and Persona 5 royal's ending, because I think it isn't discussed enough how one puts into question the themes of the other and in doing so it elevates everything that came before.
Spoilers are coming, you've been warned.
The main thing that's given me an outlet to think about this is a few quotes from the Phantom Thieves when they're in the Velvet Room after being Thanos-snapped by Yaldabaoth. Specifically these quotes:
Ann: "I... I never want anyone to have to go through what I did!"
Yusuke: "Just as art is meant to break boundaries, people should be saved even if they frown upon it. I won't allow the justice I believe in to be shaken any further!"
Ryuji: "We're doin' this to make sure people don't go through the same crap we did. It doesn't matter if they think we're just or not. We gotta do what we believe in!"
Futaba: "I can't let people suffer like this, even if I don't know them personally"
They mention some core ideas: 1. They want to prevent people's suffering because of the suffering they've felt. 2. They must do this regardless of if people want it, because they think it's the right thing to do. 3. Their justice is worth fighting for by virtue of being what they believe in.
Does this seem familiar? Maybe makes you think of a certain therapist who shows up in Royal?
I think Takuto Maruki serves a decent amount of purposes narratively and thematically, but one of the most genius things about him is that he serves as a foil to both the Phantom Thieves and Akechi, and in being that foil, he is, deep down, following the principles that the Phantom Thieves fought for - In the end, it was largely Joker who inspired him to fight for his reality.
Maruki fights for a reality where suffering straight up doesn't exist, because he doesn't want anyone to feel the suffering he's had to endure. Maruki wants the Phantom Thieves and Akechi to never feel suffering anymore, regardless of their stance on the matter. He is "saving" them regardless of their wishes, and will fight them to keep the reality he wants. He thinks the world is unfair, so his "justice" is to make a perfect world for everyone - and that's what makes it worth fighting for, because that's what he believes.
Maruki's rationale to fight against the Phantom Thieves and Akechi is (partly) the same reasoning that the Phantom Thieves use to regain their motivation to fight the Holy Grail/Yaldabaoth.
So, narratively, Maruki serves as a mirror that's telling things not to be told for the Phantom Thieves to look into and to see the ugly parts of their own way of acting. Can they really fight Maruki, knowing that he is just acting how they did?
I see people sometimes refusing Maruki's reality because it "wouldn't actually work" or "it's imperfect". But as far as I'm aware, it's imperfect because it hasn't been completed yet - I think the game is a lot more interesting under the pretense that Maruki truly has the power to erase all suffering, once his reality is complete, past the deadline. I also see the argument, and even the game uses it, that Maruki's world "isn't reality". But did we listen well to Morgana's speech before he disappeared in the Yaldabaoth arc? The world itself is made up of cognition, reality is born from the points of view of everyone. Maruki *can* change reality, and the real question of the game is not about the logistics or "ontological dignity" of his reality, but rather - Do you want a world where all your wishes are granted and no suffering exists?
In the end, the game shows the Phantom Thieves that "sticking to their justice" will make them fight against people with similar ideals as theirs. It's funny, in a way, how Akechi was the one fully willing to fight Maruki from the start. His rebellion has always been more individualistic in nature than the Phantom Thieves' - he wanted revenge for himself, then redemption for himself and now he wants a reality where he isn't under anyone's control anymore. To him, Shido's country, Yaldabaoth's ruin and Maruki's world are all the same - Maruki just has a nicer, more therapy-speaky way of presenting his proposal, and sees people as his equals rather than as insolent masses, but his goal is the same. They're all worlds that shackle you for the "greater good". And in the end, Maruki, and Royal, force the P5 gang to become more like Akechi - to value their individuality in the face of the public's "justice".
To fight for what you believe in you will face people with the same determination as you. They will be your equals in many, many ways. In the end, you can only stick to your guns and hope that what you believe in is worth more than what they believe in.
I have a lot more to write about these topics but I'll leave it there. Maybe about the relationship between Maruki's reality and individuality next? That could be fun ^^
Btw - Special thanks to @thedaythatwas for inspiring me to write up stuff about Persona 5 Royal!
#persona 5#p5#p5r#persona 5 royal#persona 5 spoilers#takuto maruki#dr maruki#p5r maruki#akechi goro#goro akechi#writeup#damn this turned out long as hell
185 notes
·
View notes
Note
requesting maybe changbin feeling a little insecure about his tummy and a bunch of comfort and fluff with that? maybe tummy kisses too hehe, with reader being a little more dominant ^^
Absolutely! It got a bit angsty, but hopefully, it's to your liking! ❤️❤️❤️
Insecurity, Begone
Summary: Changbin doesn't want to weigh you down with his insecurities. Specifically on his stomach. Sadly, you're not as oblivious as he thinks.
Genre: Fluff, angst
Warnings: Changbin being insecure, talk about insecurities and a bit of body shaming, Changbin having self-doubts, reader wearing the pants in the relationship
Word Count: 3.1K
Small Note: Everyone is beautiful in their own way. Please understand that everyone suffers from insecurities, whether it's mental or physical. But it doesn't matter how much you weigh, how tall or small you are, how much acne you have, how you style your hair, or what style you have. You are a beautiful and wonderful person, and there are people who will always love you regardless. 💕
Everyone has insecurities. Changbin knew that. He saw it in all of his members every single day, in some shape or form. Bangchan was always insecure about his skills in leading. Minho was insecure on his personality, since some Stays always told him about how mean he was.
Hyunjin was insecure on his looks, knowing he had a reputation to uphold, but also not wanting people to just focus on that. Jisung was insecure about so much, Changbin couldn't even keep track of it. Felix was insecure about his freckles for a while, but now it was about his hair. If it wasn't blonde, Felix was even more insecure about it. Seungmin and Jeongin both had issues with their faces.
Seungmin was insecure about his smile, and Jeongin was insecure about his resting face. Even you, his wonderful girlfriend of two years now, had your insecurities that he was aware of. Changbin was also a victim of insecurities.
He had been his entire life. First, it was in his singing and rapping skills, because JYP was always so hard on him. It wasn't the right pitch, his voice was too shaky, his pronunciation was sloppy, the gravel-like voice he did when he rapped didn't sound good. Thankfully, Changbin had his members to fall back on.
Then, it was how skinny he was. Stays always pointed it out. He looked like a stick person; his head was disproportionate to his body, he looked malnourished, he looked so different from his members. And so to fix himself, he started working out. Working up his muscle, eating more. Along the way, he found that he actually enjoyed working out a lot. And Stays seemed to love how buff he had gotten.
He liked it, too.
But then, he noticed something he wasn't really fond of. His stomach, which seemed to be so much better than before...it almost looked inflated. His pecks had gotten bigger, and his torso had gotten thicker, rounder. He looked fat in some angles. He...hated it. And he wanted to fix it, but...he didn't know how.
He started working out more, first. He'd spend hours in the gym, working on his core, trying desperately to get the roundness to go away. To add a bit more effectiveness, he started to eat less. It killed him so much, but he had to. He couldn't live with seeing pictures and videos of himself looking like...like this.
Changbin started to wear more black to try and hide his figure and would always adjust the camera to hide his tummy whenever he went live. And the fans didn't seem to notice, which was good.
But you did.
You weren't dumb. You could see when someone was struggling with insecurities, because you've had your own battles with them, just like everyone else. And seeing Changbin do this to himself hurt you. It worried you.
The excuses were the first things you caught onto. When Changbin would come back from the gym all sweaty, you'd always confront him about where he had been.
"Bin, where were you?" It was always concerning, considering he'd be gone for so long, and would always look so worn around you.
"Oh, dance practice just went longer than usual." It was the same answer all the time. At first, you believed it, considering they were having a comeback and all. But then, you got suspicious. He'd only have dance practice on the weekdays. But...he'd leave during the weekends and come back the same way.
And so, you confronted Chan about it. You asked him about whether or not they had been having dance practice every day for so long. So imagine your shock when he told you that they hadn't had a practice for a while.
Then, it was the amount of food he had been eating. Changbin only ate one meal a day now, and it was dinner with you. Any time you asked if he wanted dessert, he'd turn you down. And that was equally as weird. He loved food, sweets specifically. So seeing him turn them down was very concerning.
Eventually, Changbin stopped changing around you, too. He'd always go into the bathroom to change. It was never, ever around you. He used to change in front of you all the time. Hell, you both changed around each other, but now...he didn't. And it really made you worry.
But nothing worried you more than the fact that Changbin stopped cuddling the way you both always cuddled. Most of the time, you'd lay on his chest, right on top of Changbin. His arms would be around you, and you'd nuzzle right up against his pecks. It was always so comfortable, and it always made you feel so safe and protected.
But now, he'd just sling an arm around you. Any time you'd try and lay down on him, he'd scoot away, claiming that he really didn't feel like laying down right now.
But in all reality, it was what he wanted most.
He just didn't want you to notice how round his stomach was. How his pecks weren't as hard as they used to be and have gotten softer. How he himself had gotten softer. He couldn't deal with you saying something about it. Changbin didn't want you to point anything out, because he already felt like crying every time he looked into the mirror.
Eventually, one day, you decided to hint to him. Hoping and praying that Changbin would take a hint and just...talk to you. You had been in the living room, scrolling through some social media, and Changbin had been watching some show on the TV. It felt like a good time to say something.
"Hey, Binnie?" You asked. You set your phone down, looking across the room to your boyfriend, who hummed, looking to you as well.
"Yeah? What's up, hun?" He replied, not really seeming phased that you wanted to ask something.
"I just..." And then, you paused. How were you supposed to hint that you wanted him to talk about what was bothering him? "Can we cuddle? Like we usually do?"
"Of course, we can." Though, Changbin seemed tense about it. He was smiling, but...he looked nervous.
You didn't say anything though, rather just smiling as you saw him walk to you, kissing your forehead before guiding you both to lay down on the couch. Once you were cuddled up into his chest, you let out a sigh, nuzzling into him, which made him tense even more than normal.
"I love you..." You told him, looking towards the TV. It practically melted Changbin's heart.
"I love you too, baby." Changbin replied. It was the easiest response in the world for him. And that was your opening.
"You know...if you need to talk, I'm here, right?" You figured it was the best hint you could possibly give him.
"I know. And the same thing goes for you, okay?" He responded. What you told him helped him relax a bit, but he didn't want to talk about it right now. So long as he got the hint, you suppose.
"Okay." You responded. You two spent the rest of that evening together like that, completely forgetting your worries.
At least, until a few days later.
It hadn't even been a week when you got a call from Chan. It wasn't really something you were expecting, considering the fact that he didn't reach out unless it had something to do with Changbin. Either way, you answered.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Y/n. I'm so sorry about reaching out unannounced, but...are-are you busy right now?"
"Not at the moment, no. Why?"
"Well, um, could you come and pick up Changbin? He just passed out during practice, and-"
Hearing what Chan had just said made your heart drop to your stomach. You felt so, so sick with worry. Hell, you thought you were gonna end up throwing up.
"He...He what?"
"He passed out. I don't really know what happened, he seemed fine earlier and then just...blacked out. I just don't want him to overwork himself, and I'm gonna ask that you keep him home tomorrow, too."
"You don't have to tell me twice. I'll be over in 10 minutes."
"Alright. I'll walk him down with Jisung."
"Okay."
You didn't think you could run so fast in your life. The second you hung up the phone, you raced out of you and Changbin's apartment, and bolted to the garage where your car was. Once you were inside, you sped to JYPE, parking the car in the Valet.
You didn't even have to wait long, as Bangchan and Jisung walked out with Changbin slung around Chan's shoulder. When they got to the car, Jisung went and opened the door, Chan helping Changbin inside. Changbin just groaned, leaning back against the seat as you and Chan buckled him up.
"There we go, all nice and secure." Chan said, patting Changbin's shoulder. "When you get back, rest. I'm serious."
"Yeah, yeah." Changbin responded. He didn't seem to happy about what had happened. And you weren't, either. You were feeling a lot of things. You felt so worried about Changbin. You felt hurt that he wouldn't talk to you. You felt like you failed as a girlfriend because Changbin wouldn't talk to you.
"Take care of him, okay Y/n?" Jisung told you. You just nodded, giving a small smile. If you said anything, you'd start crying. You were sure of it.
Once the car door was shut, you started on your way home. And the ride was so ungodly quiet. You didn't want to talk right now. And Changbin...didn't even know what to say. He could tell you were upset, but he was scared that anything and everything would just make you snap. But he had to try.
"Baby, I-"
"Don't." It was a good sign for Changbin to just stop, and wait until you were ready. He knew that your focus would be on dealing with him first, and then the talking would come after.
When you guys got back to the apartment, you helped Changbin out of the car, silently walking him up to your humble abode. And once you both were inside, you let go of him, walking to the kitchen. Changbin started to follow you, but stopped upon hearing your upset and shaky voice.
"Go and sit down."
"But I wanna-"
"Sit. Down." You were serious.
And Changbin wasn't one to push his luck, especially when it was you. And so, he did as you said, going and sitting down on the couch. Meanwhile, you went and got him some food, some Kimbap and a bottle of water, going back to the living space and handing him the food and water.
"Thanks." Changbin mumbled. He didn't mean for this to happen. He didn't want you to be upset with him, he just didn't want you to worry about him. He wanted to fix himself, was that such a hard ask? Instead, he has an upset girlfriend who is taking good care of him despite it all.
You both sat in silence as Changbin ate his small meal, as well as sipping at his water. It gave you time to process your emotions, and sort through your thoughts. You just felt so...hurt. Tears brimmed your eyes, and at this point, if you didn't say something, your thoughts would eat you alive.
"Why won't you just...talk to me?" Oh, that sentence hurt Changbin. He had just finished eating, but the second he heard what you had said and saw the state you were in, his heart was just crushed.
"Baby..."
"Changbin, I want to know what's bothering you. I've been watching you work yourself to death and distance yourself...you're not even eating as much as you used to!" Everything that you had been feeling just started pouring out of you. Tears streamed down your cheeks, each one holding that bit of frustration that you had been feeling. "I want to be able to help you because I love you so much, and I can't stand not being able to because you won't just...talk!"
"Baby, no no no, please don't cry..." If Changbin thought he hated himself before, he really hated himself now. The whole reason you were like this was because of him. And he hated that.
"I don't understand why!" You brought your hands up to your face, everything you were feeling just...collapsing. "Is...is it me? Am I the issue?!"
"No, it was never you!"
"Then talk to me!" That's what shattered Changbin's heart the most. He knew that if he wanted to tell you what was bothering him, he had to calm you down, first. And so, he immediately pulled you into a hug.
"Shh, baby...I'm so sorry, I just...I didn't want to involve you in the absolute bullshit I'm going through right now. I...I had to figure all of it out for myself first." Changbin explained softly. Hearing your muffled sobs in his shoulder was killing him, but he had to make you understand. "I wouldn't have even known how to word it. I just...I'm so fucking sorry..."
You couldn't help but wrap your arms around his neck, holding him close as you tried to calm down. The sobbing slowly stopped, and he just held you in his arms, kissing your head every here and there. And once you were calm, he gently pulled away, holding your face in his hands while he wiped your tears away.
"Hey...I love you." He said gently. Changbin gently ducked his head down so his eyes met yours, moving his head whenever you looked away from him. And when he saw a small smile appear on your face, one automatically appeared on his. "There's that smile I love."
"Bin, stop..." You giggled, Changbin just smiling wider as he kissed your forehead.
"Nope, sorry. It's my duty to tell you that I love your smile. It's in the rule book."
"Changbin!"
"It's true! I'll even go and get it!" He couldn't help but laugh as well, gently pecking your lips. Once he had pulled away, you pecked his lips again.
"I love you."
"I love you, too. More than anything in this world." Changbin replied, holding you close.
The two of you laid on the couch, cuddling close after that, much calmer than before. Much better than before. And then, finally, Changbin spoke up.
"Can I be honest with you?" He asked.
"Of course, you can." You replied, looking up at him. After a long breath in and out, Changbin finally announced what had caused all of this nonsense in the first place.
"I...I've had really bad insecurities recently."
"What?"
"Yeah. I just...I noticed I've been gaining weight, and it's made me insecure. I really don't want Stay to notice, because I don't want them to make comments on it, and-"
"Okay, slow down." You said, sitting up and looking at him. Changbin stopped, blushing a bit as he saw you on top of him. "You look incredible, and healthy. What in the hell makes you think you've gained weight?"
"I just..." Changbin took a second after that, looking away from you and mumbling something that you couldn't quite hear. And so, you placed your hand onto his cheek, guiding his face to look at you.
"Baby, look at me and speak louder." You told him. Changbin could only blush more, feeling embarrassed.
"But-"
"No buts." You interrupted. Changbin just let out a whine, only for you to raise an eyebrow at him. He just huffed, repeating what he had said louder.
"My...my stomach...it's rounder than it used to be." He said. You gave a confused look, looking him over.
"Your tummy?" You repeated. "It looks fine to me."
"It doesn't look fine, it makes me look fat!"
"Changbin, baby..." You let out a sigh, rubbing his cheek with your thumb before placing a hand on his stomach. "Your stomach looks great. All of you looks great. I'm serious. This roundness isn't fat, it's muscle."
"Still...It makes me look-"
"Like someone who will make Stay feral? I totally agree." You said, Changbin pouting.
"You're not listening." He grumbled.
"No, you're not listening." You replied, before looking down to his stomach. You gently grabbed his shirt, lifting it up so you could see his beautiful skin. And then, you leaned down, placing kisses onto it. "Your stomach is absolutely gorgeous in every way, shape, and form. So what if it's not slim and up to Kpop standard? You still look undeniably hot, Bin."
"You're saying that because you're my girlfriend." Changbin mumbled. He looked away from you, a nice blush on his face.
"No I'm not."
"Yeah, you are."
"Okay, if that's how we're playing this, then fine." You made up your mind. If he was gonna be like this, then you were gonna do what he always did when you were feeling insecure.
You were gonna kiss his insecurities away.
You started by placing one directly on his belly button, before kissing your way up and down his tummy, making sure every inch of skin was appreciated, worshipped, and loved. Changbin couldn't help but smile, moving some hair out of your face as you continued, almost giddy.
"What...what are you doing?" He asked, watching as you looked up with the cutest smile on your face.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" You asked, placing a few more kisses onto his skin before continuing. "I'm kissing one of my favorite parts on you."
"Baby..."
"I'm dead serious. I love your tummy. It's so nice and plush, it's comfortable, and if I'm being honest, it gives me dilf vibes." That comment had Changbin giggling as you continued your barrage of kisses, making him smile wider.
"Babe!"
"What? I'm just spitting facts, Bin!"
"I swear, you're gonna be the death of me." Changbin continued to laugh as you rested your head on his stomach, nuzzling your cheek against it. "Oh, are you just gonna stay there?"
"Mhm."
"Y/n, I get it. I don't have anything to be insecure about, and I swear I'll come to you the next time I'm feeling insecure. Now can you pretty please just get off?"
"Nope."
"BUT WHY-"
"BECAUSE YOU'RE COMFORTABLE!"
"Y/N!"
"CHANGBIN!"
And then, you both erupted in laughter, Changbin just running a hand through your hair. The two of you eventually calmed down, relaxing in the position you were both in, completely content. Content with yourselves, and with each other.
That night, Changbin learned something extremely important. You would always be there to take his insecurities away. You were his lucky charm. You made him feel a thousand times better.
And he wouldn't have it any other way.
Hey! Firstly, thank you so much for reading this post, and I really hope you enjoyed! If you did, please like, reblog, or comment so I can see how I'm doing with writing and getting feedback! I hope you have a lovely day! Sleep well, stay in good health, and eat something if you haven't! ❤️❤️❤️
#skz#stray kids#stray kids imagine#changbin#seo changbin skz#seo changbin#skz seo changbin#stray kids seo changbin#seo changbin stray kids#skz imagines#skz fluff#stray kids fluff#seo changbin fluff#changbin fluff#changbin scenarios#changbin skz#changbin x reader#changbin stray kids#changbin imagines#changbin x you#changbin x y/n#changbin x female reader#changbin x male reader#skz changbin#stray kids changbin#skz scenarios#skz stay#skz x reader
154 notes
·
View notes
Text
Last minute Swifties
Contrary to what many thought and some posted, I do think the OL cast's Taylor Swift experience was a last minute promo idea, very much monitored by *** and Tall Ships. I was wrong about minder/security guy (still, eerie...) and I never have a problem publicly admitting it. But quite unlikely I am wrong about this one. And sorry for the length, but you know how I am when I am looking for something, right?
Let's unpack: cast thanked the 'organizers' (and minders, really) in very specific terms, leaving NO much doubt:
Louisa McCulloch. Remember this name, we shall meet her in one hot minute. So thank you Louisa and Maril for organizing this: ask yourselves why did Maril, who (as far as I know) is based in the US, have to come to Edinburgh just for the gig. Damage control, perhaps?
And Sophie S., with a remarkable choice of words:
'Thank you ***, TS and her team for making it happen'. In my book, this means a strong, common effort to secure the box last minute. Because 'making it happen' means exactly that: 'need to do everything you can to facilitate it'.
Clearly Skelton, who is a Swiftie in her own right, was particularly appreciative of the efforts it took to ensure everyone could attend the concert. If that were a long planned event, her enthusiasm would have been more temperate, I think. 'Adding more Swifties to the clan' - LOL, Sophie, you mean S and C had no idea of the lyrics and were unable to sing along with you, John Bell, Izzy and Co (I keep forgetting their names and I like them a lot, in the show)? People of my generation are already too damn old for Taylor S. And this different sort of music might be more of S's real preference: otherwise why post it in his stories, as if to say ' TS is a different thing altogether'?
James. A Manchester rock band, formed in 1982, popular in the Nineties. I see no lies: he was clear 'JAMMF is a Swiftie'. And we are, after all, Children of the Nineties, not TS's crowd. And yes, I knew S was into the same kind of music as I was, in the Nineties (he seems to have stayed put, right there, unlike me, LOL):
Anyways, back to the mysterious woman up and front on three pictures in a row, that got many speculating. Nope, that was not Wendy, the MUA and S's bestie:
Once...
... Twice...
... Three times a lady:
Her name is Louisa McCulloch, née Radcliffe and she is the one S thanked, along with Maril (see above). It was a bit hard finding her, because her IG account is private. But I found her alright on Facebook, and then LinkedIn (of course):
Based in Lockerbie, Scotland. 20 years experience as a media publicist:
Worked with *** and Tall Ships since Season 3, after a short stint as Head of Publicity at the Paramount Pictures London Office. Got promoted from Unit Publicist to Publicist during COVID, for Season 6. So yes, she is the one who made it happen, locally, on what I think was a quite short notice.
Attention successfully diverted. Impeccable timing and giving a younger crowd what it wants. Trying to capitalize on TS's huge Instagram fan base: 283 million followers (wow! I had no fucking idea she was so huge). A win-win situation for just about everyone and an elegant way out from sordid waters:
And it worked. Lost among the hundred of thousands of likes and comments, look who's jumping on the bandwagon:
Sharon Stone. With a Blue Check and her 3.9 million Instagram fanbase. A Nineties deity, need I remind you (this blogger spotted her during the Berlinale 2007, while I was going out for drinks, blissfully unaware we were all staying at The Adlon, LOL)?
They mutually follow each other on Insta, by the way. I wonder why *urv did not pounce on that one. I feel robbed, for once, of a wonderful fanfic.
[Later edit] Several comments take on this person without a proper justification. I am editing this post to remind you she is only responsible for the implementation (in Scotland) of decisions taken elsewhere (in the United States of America). She is NOT a decision maker and as Publicist, was probably responsible for the local implementation of a hasty decision to attend an event (secure VIP box at Murrayfield, sell content to the local press). The direct contact with TS's team was, very likely, Maril and upwards, in the hierarchy. In all fairness, she has nothing to do with a billboard spotted in Los Angeles, USA - nothing of the sort in Europe. I am all for taxing, but let's tax people who are really RESPONSIBLE: she is just a very well paid underling. Thank you all, I am sure you understand fairness can only add to our credibility as a group.
122 notes
·
View notes
Text
Something to Tell
Azriel x Ace Fem!reader
Summary: You and Azriel are recently mated. You decide to take things slow, but you have something personal to tell Az.
Warnings: coming out, fluff
Word Count: 965
A/N: Sup y’all. Sorry I’ve been absent, a lot of shit happened. Anyways, I really just wrote this one for me. I think the topic of asexuality is really left out of this book series and fandom, understandably so, but I think it would be an interesting subject to discuss, so I’m here to fulfill my own wishes. Given the lore and rules around mates, I don't even know if this could be considered a thing, but I’m gonna try my hardest to make it a thing for my ace baddies out there. IDK if I’m gonna make this a series or not (probably won’t), but maybe see how people like it before making decisions. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to tell me. As always, minors gtfo. Adults, you enjoy!
You’re just finishing up bottling an allergy tonic for your neighbor’s son when the door to your apothecary opens, the bell above ringing out. You know exactly who it is, and you are simultaneously filled with dread and relief. Azriel, your freshly bonded mate, walks into the back room where you are working, his big Illarian boots creaking the floorboards wherever he steps. When you look up to greet him he gives you a soft smile, a smile you return.
You’ve known Azriel for a little over a year now, ever since Mor begged him to come pick up her sleeping tonic from you because she had been busy. But the bond haden’t snapped for either of you until roughly a month ago, when you were out drinking at Rita’s with the inner circle, per Nesta’s invite. Over the years you had grown close with the inner circle, specifically Mor and Nesta. What had started out as small talk when they came to pick up a tonic had blossomed into a beautiful friendship.
But the last thing in the world you had wanted to happen was to form a bond with someone, especially someone as good and sweet and caring as Azriel. Sure, he is beautiful, you of all people can see that, but the physical attraction stops there, like it always does. Emotionally you two are very compatible, sharing similar interests in books, music, and dancing. After the bond had snapped you both decided to take things slowly, moreso for your sake than his. Every day you grow more and more in love with him; you’re just terrified to see the disappointment and confusion in his eyes after you tell him you’re ace.
“Almost ready to go, Love?” Azriel asks, his eyes following the skilled movements of your hands.
“Almost done,” you respond, screwing the cap and writing the label onto the bottle quickly. You buss your wok table, putting away ingredients and empty bottles. You look over everything twice more, checking for anything out of place, but also as a means to stall. You are dreading this conversation.
“Looks good, Love. Want me to grab your coat?” You turn to him, a small smile on your lips, and grab his hand, gently cradling it in yours.
“Actually… Can I talk to you for a minute before we leave? I need to tell you something.”
“Ya, of course,” he squeezes your hand gently, reassuringly. “What’s up?” You take a deep breath and guide him to sit in one of the chairs at your work table, then pull one towards yourself so you're sitting in front of him. You take both his hands in yours. You don’t make eye contact but instead stare at your hands intertwined.
“There’s something I need to tell you about myself and I need you to listen and let me explain before you say anything,” you look up to see him nodding, a look of concern and confusion on his face. The knot in your stomach is twisting. Your anxiety is through the roof, but you take a deep, albeit shaky, breath to steady yourself.
“Okay. I don’t really know how to go about saying this so I’m just gonna say it. I’m asexual, which means I form little to no sexual attraction, in my case none at all, to anyone. Which means the likelihood of me wanting to have sex with you is basically zero. I know it’s kind of a thing for mates to do it all the time, and so I thought since I am the way I am that I would never form a bond with anyone, but I guess I was wrong. And I know you're probably thinking, “well, didn’t the bond snapping make you feel anything like that?” and the answer would be no. Umm…I guess I just want to add and say that I’m not broken, and that life will be a little different with me, and that I know my boundaries, but I’m also willing to try things with you because I love you and trust you… And this doesn’t mean I don't find you attractive, because I do, I think you're really pretty, but it's more in a ‘I want to paint you’ sort of way instead of an ‘I want to fuck you’ sort of way. And I’m rambling so I’m going to stop now.”
Your leg is bouncing up and down, gaze still glued to your entwined hand. A beat of silence passes, and then he squeezes your hands, which in turn makes you look up at him. His eyes are full of understanding and love, emotions you were not expecting to see. You exhale the breath you didn’t realize you were holding, feeling some of your anxiety fade away.
“You think I’m pretty?” he asks, a cheeky grin plastered on his face. You roll your eyes at him, the last of your anxiety washing away. He stands and pulls you up to do the same. He releases one of your hands, using his to brush a rouge strand of hair behind your ear, then pulls you into a tight embrace. You’re taken off guard, but you melt into him, breathing in his crisp, piny scent.
“Thank you for telling me,” he squeezes you tighter. “And I know you said life will be different with you and I want to let you know I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love you, and I know we can work through any problems we may face. You are perfect. Cauldron boil me if I ever so much as think to change a single thing about you.”
And with that, he releases you from his embrace, you wipe the few tears that had welled at his words, and you go home.
#acotar#azriel fanfiction#azriel fluff#azriel x reader#ace pride#fluff#acotar fic#azriel shadowsinger#fanfiction
102 notes
·
View notes
Text
Rewatching the part of FOTR where they’re in Rivendell and I noticed a few things:
We all joke about Elrond being super done with Gandalf after he recites the ring’s inscription in the Black Speech. But fun fact, if you pay attention you can actually see Elrond facepalm at this point. He is so done.
A bit after Frodo wakes up, we get a look at his bed. There is a statue of a winged elf(?) carved into the headboard. Elwing??
The pedestal that the ring is on? Fëanorian star carved into it.
I need Elrond’s shirt. The embroidery is so perfect.
Hobbits have gorgeous shirts made of linen (? That’s what it looks like, at least)
The collar of Sam’s shirt is clearly hand stitched, a neat detail separating him from the other hobbits, as the only working class one!
It is all the rage for elves to wear horrible velvet cloaks.
Boromir’s collar at 1:40:16. Wow? What? It’s very cool. He also has some very neat clasps that have the tree of Gondor on them!
At 1:42:05, there appears to be another Feanorian star on the ground surrounding the pedestal that the ring is on
There are lots of elf statues surrounding the Council of Elrond. I can’t make out anyone specific, but I’d be curious if anyone else can.
Legolas really likes jumping up and yelling at Boromir, lol
Wow, it looks like the number 8 is a recurring motif in Elrond’s decor. I wonder what that could mean. That’s certainly not a meaningful number at all.
Gandalf is really just wearing rags, huh. I’m glad Galadriel ends up giving him new clothes, but he could have used some a bit sooner.
While Frodo is staring at the ring, the black speech inscription is echoing in the background! Never noticed this before!
Elvish shingles are shaped like leaves
“On you who go with him, no oath nor bond is laid to go further than you will” and cut to Aragorn, who gives a grim smile to Arwen. Hmm. This one could be a stretch, but wouldn’t those two have grown up on tales of Oaths-Are-Bad?
Right as Frodo is walking through the gates of Rivendell, there’s a statue. Again, I don’t know if it’s supposed to be anyone specific, but one of y’all might be able to identify it.
Unfortunately it wouldn’t let me screenshot anything so I can’t share pictures
#fotr#lord of the rings#lotr#lotr movies#Rivendell#Elrond#silm#silm references#silmarillion#feanorians#feanorian star#costuming
145 notes
·
View notes
Text
So, a while back, I ran a poll about how people interpret the Bible and I really feel like I should address the elephant in the room about Scientific interpretation. Specifically: none of us are doing it. Some of y'all even think it's heretical to interpret the Bible like that and I gotta say, God is (probably) sad if you feel like that.
See, most of scientific advancement pre-1900s was done by Christians — often Monks — and a lot of it was actually based on things they'd found reading the Bible. For example, wind and water currents were discovered because a guy was sick in bed reading Psalms, which said "the fish in the paths of the sea" and "the birds in the paths in the air." He'd never seen any paths in the sea, so he went looking for them and discovered ocean currents. Likewise, the Big Bang Theory was proposed by a Catholic bishop who figured, since the Bible said the universe had a beginning, the universe must have a beginning. Many of Newton's astronomical calculations were to explain Daniel & Revelation and his Observations on them are the foundation of experimental science.
And there are things there that you probably didn't even know! Circumcision happens on day eight, which is when blood clotting for newborns is most active and most safe. Epigenetics shows that an event can change DNA for 3-4 generations, the same amount of time God gives to generational curses. The air has weight. The Earth is suspended on nothing.
I'm not saying the Bible is a road map for how science has declared the world works, but I am saying that many of us could have our scientific minds opened by the Bible if we took time to read it like that. And I'd even challenge y'all to read it like that just once and see what you can find, both scientific principles that affirm what science knows and things for further research. You might just discover something brand new.
122 notes
·
View notes
Text
Close as strangers
Harry hurried down the hallway all the way to his room, sliding the key card against the key-reader, unlocking the door and pushing it open with his palms pressed against it.
He quickly removed his shoes, tossing them near the door, before plopping down on the hotel bed, his back against the headboard.
He fished out of his skinny jeans his phone, grimacing at the screen that read 3 missed calls from ‘Angel <3’.
He sighed as he unlocked it, typing hurriedly the number he knew by heart on the keyboard, and putting it on speaker, too tired to hold the phone to his shoulder for the call.
He waited for her to pick up as he listened to the incessant ringing of the line.
“Pick up, pick up” he whispered, biting at the skin of his thumb to suppress his sighs.
He knew he was late. And he felt like he could only imagine the disappointment YN felt when he didn’t answer her call.
He and YN had picked out a specific time throughout the day where the both of them had to be available. No matter what the other was doing, at 7 o’clock they had to answer the phone, which was a pretty understandable rule, and Harry had found it easy to comply to it at first, excusing himself to take a call or getting covered by his band mates if he couldn’t make up an excuse quickly enough. But with time, his schedule had gotten really busy.
And he sometimes missed her calls.
He wasn’t the fresh out of XFactor sixteen year old he’d been when they first started dating. He was Harry from One Direction now, and despite him feeling as the same shy guy that worked in a bakery, life around him had changed, and with it, his relationship.
He knew how she was; he knew she wasn’t answering because she was upset. And Harry really didn’t blame her, but he just didn’t find it reasonable to be upset (“stubborn little thing! — he’d say, once she had calmed down and answered the phone — It doesn’t benefit neither of us if you don’t pick up ‘cause you’re mad!”).
He rolled his eyes once the line went dead, and opened the text app instead, typing quickly with his fingers.
Baby pick up I wanna talk to you
After a couple of minutes, he wrote again: please
I miss you
And after that, he tried the line once again. This time, she picked up after five rings with a small “hello?”, her voice sounded croaky distorted from the phone.
“Hello angel. I’m sorry I didn’t answer.”
“It’s okay”, and Harry felt her sigh through the phone, “i was thinking we should push back the calls until you’re back…”
“What?”
“I know you’re pretty busy,” she said, sternly, “and I don’t want to bother you.”
“What?” Harry repeated, and once he realized he already asked that, he cleared his voice and said: “you could never be a bother”.
YN couldn’t see him but she knew he was shaking his head. She tried not to picture the frown in his brows and the pout in his face, otherwise she couldn’t possibly keep going.
“Things are different now—”
“No.” He cut her off, “don’t say that, angel. Nothing’s changed. It’s still us.”
“Harry” she softened her tone to make sure he really understood her, “it’s still us. — she nodded firmly to herself — I think it’s best if we stick to texting for now. It’s okay.”
“Okay… okay, if that’s - if that’s what you want. Okay.”
“It’s better this way” she sighed once again and Harry felt her breathing through the phone, her shaky breath loud in his ears as if it were his own.
“But we’re good, right? Tell me we’re good.”
“Yes, of course we’re good.”
Harry nodded, staying quiet as the words she’d just spoken lingered in the air between them. Despite being so far away he could almost feel her right next to him as she kept talking, unaware of the heavy weight he felt on his chest making it a little harder to breathe, the sudden realization that maybe they weren’t good after all.
Hi lovelies!!! I was cleaning my drafts and I saw this thing I wrote ages ago, based on Close as strangers by 5sos. Lmk if it’s something you’d like to read and I will publish the whole thing!
#harry styles blurb#harry styles fluff#harry styles one shot#harry styles#harry styles angst#harry concept#harry styles fic#harry styles tour#harry styles fanfiction#harry styles fanfic rec#harry styles one direction#harrystyles#harry styles x y/n#harry styles x reader#harry styles x oc#close as strangers
96 notes
·
View notes
Text
Feral
Reader has a cat and Feyd isn't a fan. Or so he says.
When his betrothed moves to Giedi Prime, she brings many things with her. Clothing, of course. Bedding as well, apparently she has sensitive skin. Two ladies maids, as none of the Harkonnen servants knew how to style hair. And one thing that seemed entirely unnecessary to Feyd. A cat.
A horridly behaved, near feral Tom cat to be specific. He looked nothing like the well groomed pets noble ladies kept. His fur tended to look unkept and dirty. He had white fur on his belly, and whenever he slivered back inside of the palace after sneaking away for a few hours, his white belly fur looked grey from all the dirt.
Friz, the cat was called. Fitting, you would think, if you saw his crooked whiskers and the mats that tended to form behind his ears. His betrothed, Y/N, tried to keep him from matting too much by brushing his fur a bit each day. Y/N had told him once that, "Friz is just at that age where cats tend to get a bit lazy with their personal hygiene."
Friz got dirtier and dirtier every day until Y/N took to bathing him three times a week to keep him clean. She often returned from that task with angry red marks down her arms. Deep scratches that Feyd would grumble about as he disinfected them for her. "Can't you declaw that wretched thing? People are going to think I'm hurting you."
She chuckled, then winced at the sting of the disinfectant he spread on her cuts. "Not a chance. That's basically cutting off half of his toe. It gives them arthritis and makes them depressed."
Feyd grunted, choosing not to mention how the cat probably already had arthritis and was always angry.
Honestly, he didn't mind his wife having a pet, he really didn't. But one would think that the point of having a pet was to either train it to do a task, or for it to provide companionship. Feyd thought the point of cats was for them to kill rodents and cuddle up to their owners. But not only would Friz not cuddle, he barely let anyone ever touch him. Even Y/N.
If Friz wasn't in the mood to be touched, anyone trying to pet him would get bitten, clawed, and pissed on in that order. Feyd nearly wanted to kill the mangy thing when it pissed in his boots. But Y/N fretting over him and insisting on cleaning his boots for him, and even shining his boots for him cooked his temper. As did her kissing him afterwards.
Fritz was lucky the boots weren't new.
It wasn't until one day, when he and Y/N both fell ill with a pesky cold that confined them both to bed that he began to appreciate Friz.
The tomcat seemed to sense there was something wrong with them, and diligently prowled around their bed for half an hour before jumping up to join them. At first he hesitantly crouched near the foot of the bed, but cautiously made his way up to sit on Y\Ns chest. Feyd opened his mouth to make a joke about Friz preparing to eat them, but was cut off by the shocking sound of purring. The grumpy old crusty cat was purring!
Feyd's amazement only increased when Friz eventually migrated to lay on his chest, kneading at his flym filled chest with his grubby paws in a comforting pattern and purring.
Feyd cautiously lifted his hand, barely touching Friz before the cat sank his teeth into Feyd's hand.
Feyd coughed while Y/N laughed. "He's all business today, no petting allowed."
Feyd smiled, despite himself. The purring was nice. A soothing rhythm that had him on the edge of sleep, sinking into it's embrace in no time at all.
Maybe he could come to appreciate the feral beast.
106 notes
·
View notes
Text
13:27
pairing: woozi x reader
warnings: this one is set up kind of weird,,, it goes back n forth between past n present idk I hope it reads okay. hoshi doesn’t like reader initially. vernon makes a “they hit the pentagon” joke. idk just woozi n reader being in love n saying it for the first time.
word count: 1.5k
you don’t exactly know what’s going on with jihoon, but you suspect that he’s (in some way) superhuman. something about him is weird, and your speculation is that he has two hearts; one for seventeen, one for you.
he’s been a little different lately. ever since the two of you made it official, he’s been a lot softer. he’s more lenient with letting you touch him. often times, he seeks out your attention on his own. it’s very clear that he loves you, that he’s in love with you, you just can’t quite understand how it even happened.
jihoon has so much love to give in general. while he might not be the best with his words out loud, his actions speak volumes for him. even as friends, he always just seemed to know. he knew if something was wrong, if you were upset. he knew if you had something to tell him, if certain things he did made you happy. small quirks of his that you loved more than anything would make you smile softly with this look in your eyes, and he would do them more often just to see you happy like that.
jihoon always knows, and while he’s not good at saying it, he hopes that you know that he loves you.
and you do. you know he loves you. it’s a little strange transitioning from the dynamic you two had as best friends to partners. he used to groan whenever you wanted to hold hands. now, he gets shy and the tips of his ears redden when your fingers brush his. jihoon has changed, and it’s been for the better.
it was soonyoung who had given you two the final push towards confessing to each other. “he loves you a lot, y’know?” he had said one night. it was after seventeen’s monthly meeting, and vernon had decided to rent out an arcade for the night as his chosen activity. without even a word from jihoon, everyone seemed to have the same idea.
“yes, you can bring y/n.” seungkwan was the one to verbalize the groups collective thought. and so here you were, racing against soonyoung in mario kart at the arcade.
being civil with soonyoung was still a new concept to you. it wasn’t that you and soonyoung had it out for each other, it’s just that he was very hesitant about your presence. jihoon hadn’t really mentioned you much, and then he started bringing you to hang out with the rest of seventeen, and soonyoung had his suspicions.
he just didn’t trust this new figure, one that claimed his spot as jihoon’s best friend. god forbid, jihoon confessed in a drunk phone call that he was in love with you, and soonyoung became even more suspicious of you. he didn’t know your intentions, and he had yet to see if you had jihoon’s best interest at heart for himself.
“hoon, i don’t think he likes me very much.” you had confessed, back slumped against the mirror in the practice room as soonyoung had basically been holding mingyu at gun point to run over a specific part of the dance they had just learned again. jihoon laughed softly, hand awkwardly patting you on the head.
“it’s not that he doesn’t like you, it’s just that he doesn’t know you and he’s being careful. i’m sure he’ll come around soon.” and jihoon was right. all it took to absolve months of tension between you and soonyoung was giving him a little tiger plushie you had found at a pop up market the week prior.
he had gawked at it, and then smiled at you before speaking. “okay, i like you.” and he ran off, out of jihoon’s studio without another word or the chance for you to even say anything after handing it to him.
“i know he does. i-i love him too. he’s very important to me.” soonyoung laughed softly, before cursing as he got hit with a red shell.
“you’re in love with him. it’s okay.” and maybe kwon soonyoung had all of the secrets to the universe, or maybe it was just obvious. whatever was going on in this arcade, it caused you to lose the race, hands freezing on the steering wheel.
“you lost to soonyoung?” it was jihoon. of course it was. he threw his arm around your shoulder, ruffling your hair softly. the dumbstruck look on your face still didn’t change. one: because soonyoung of all people was able to tell that you were in love with jihoon. two: because you had just lost a game of mario kart to kwon soonyoung.
soonyoung had shot jihoon a look, nodding softly, and it all clicked for jihoon.
vernon had peaked around the arcade machine and muttered something that sounded a bit too much like they hit the fucking pentagon when he saw the look on both of your faces. joshua shoved him, and soonyoung found his exit as you and jihoon stared at each other.
“we’ll talk about it later, okay? just enjoy yourself here. can you do that for me? just for tonight.” jihoon had all but whispered. you listened, and let him kick your ass at guitar hero.
a week later in the privacy of his apartment you talked about it. both of you cried. both of you felt stupid for wasting so much time by dancing around each other. but a week later, you were together. officially.
you think there’s something wrong with jihoon because being in love makes him a better person. he denies this fact vehemently, but everyone else agrees with you on it. love makes him softer. he’s less stubborn, more willing to work on communication; sure he has a long way to go, but he’s less emotionally constipated than he used to be.
what gives him away is his eyes. they say the eyes are the window to the soul, and you’d have to agree. while he’s often blunt and abrasive towards those who don’t know him well, jihoon’s eyes give him away everytime. he’s not the cold caricature people draw of him. he’s sweet. jihoon is so sweet, and you tell him so often. he might roll his eyes at you when you say it, but there’s a certain amount of love in them that’s reserved just for you.
“there’s something wrong with you.” you’re having dinner with him in the studio.
jihoon just laughs. “yeah, i know. i work too much. we’ve been over this before.” he shovels rice into his mouth.
“no. not like that,” you sigh, picking at your own food. “you have so much love to give. i don’t know how you do it.” jihoon doesn’t say anything. he just looks at you as he puts down his chopsticks, urging you to continue.
“like, between me and seventeen, i don’t know how you do it. you just… you care about all of us. you’ve loved the guys long before you met me, and then i come into the picture and you still have love to give. i don’t know how you do it. and i can’t figure out why.” jihoon stares at you. it was obvious that he loved you, sure, anyone could see that. but almost six months into this relationship and he hasn’t been able to say it. neither of you have ever said the L word, even in conversation.
“i—” he starts, and you shake your head softly.
“you don’t have to say it, jihoon. it’s okay. i know you do.” but he shakes his head and clears his throat softly.
“no. i want to say it, i just don’t know how.” he shifts in his spot on the couch, fingers twitching as if they were reaching out to you.
“it doesn’t have to be anything extraordinary. sometimes just saying it on its own is enough.” you turn to him, hand finding his as you brush the back of his hand with your thumb. he doesn’t pull away or flinch. he just basks in it; in the feeling of your hand on his, and the way you look in the afternoon sunlight.
“i love you.” it’s simple, like him, but it’s enough. it’s enough because you can feel it everywhere in everything he does.
“i love you too.” you push your head against his, and he smiles. jihoon smiles so brightly that it reaches his eyes. he leans in carefully, and kisses you with the same tenderness he always has.
you know that there’s nothing wrong with jihoon. you know he has one heart, and it’s all yours.
a/n: these little time stamp thingys r supposed to be short but I got carried away whoops. also reminder that my requests are open!!! also also tysm for all the love on the last one of these that I did woahhh. glad we r all in love w jihoon amen.
#seventeen x reader#seventeen x y/n#seventeen x you#lee jihoon x reader#lee jihoon x you#woozi#woozi x reader#svt woozi#woozi x y/n#woozi imagines#seventeen woozi x reader#woozi x you#lee jihoon fluff#seventeen jihoon x reader#jihoon x reader#jihoon x you#☼wooziorgans
82 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
c0ffeeluv
Caffeine and no WTL
shycowboyking-blog
Untitled
le4fyeseo
kie.
perhapsthen
Perhaps, then
lvxxdb
𝕷𝖊𝖛𝖎𝖆𝖙𝖆́𝖓.