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#partly it’s helpful for writers to know
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Afterparty
Rating: M/E Word Count: 2.7k Summary: You can't tell if he's mad at you...he shouldn't be mad at you. You hadn't done anything.
A/N: A prompt request by my lovely @mrsjellymunson, who asked for some spice surrounding someone's whorish behavior on the red carpet, and a desire to be looked at like that from the foot of the bed.
This may not be exactly what you were hoping for, bb, but I still hope you like it.
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The ride home is all wrong. It’s nearly two in the morning and all you want to do is get out of your dress, throw your shoes into the pile in your closet, and fall into bed.
What you don’t want is to decipher this tense silence that piled into the back of the car with you and stretched out between you and Joe.
You don’t think it’s anything you’ve done.
And even if you had done something, a petulant little piece of your brain argues, it’s not like Joe had been around all night to notice.
But that’s fine. You’d known that was going to happen. You’d been a plus-one at enough of these award shows to know how the evening was going to play out. He would walk the carpet while you were ushered through a different door with the other plebians, then he’d meet you inside, and—if you were lucky—he’d have time for one drink with you before his obligations would take over.
This evening was no different—he had people to meet, an award to present, a list of reporters and correspondents he had to speak to—he was busy.
He was always busy.
And you…
Well, you were bored. Just a little. Just enough to jump at any opportunity for conversation with the first person who offered.
And if that person happened to be Brett Goldstein—one of the funniest and most charming humans you’ve ever encountered—well then so be it.
While Joe was passed around from A-lister to A-lister, you had spent your evening with writers, comedians, and a host of actors who’d made you laugh so hard your cheeks and sides hurt by the time it was time to go.
Joe had appeared unexpectedly and placed his hand on the small of your back, stepping in close to squeeze into the half-circle that had gathered around to listen to Bob Odenkirk.
“Here you are,” he’d said with an unreadable expression on his face. Smiling, but it didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Been looking for you.”
“Here I am,” you’d responded cheerfully.
“Makin’ friends?”
“You know me,” you’d shrugged, stepping back just enough to keep from interrupting or talking over Bob in the middle of his story. “I’m a friendly girl.”
He’d let out a little laugh and shook his head. “Don’t I know it.”
“Not to worry, love,” Sarah had interjected with one of her big, bright smiles. “We’re just keepin’ her warm for you.”
And maybe that was the wrong image to invoke, but you’d laughed anyway. Partly because it was funny. Partly because you were just on the cute side of tipsy. “I’m ready to go if you are,” you’d said, bumping your shoulder gently into his chest.
“Don’t want to pull you away.”
“You’re not,” you shook your head. Joe might be a seasoned attendee of awards season, but he still didn’t like them. Too many people. Too many eyes looking at him. Too many things pulling his attention in all directions. “Let’s go home.”
A quiet ride home wasn’t unusual—not with a man who had to fight his introverted instincts every minute he spent in the public eye. You knew him well enough to know he’d feel much better after the time and space you gave him to decompress after the heavy-hitting social events.
But this isn’t usual quiet. This is tense quiet.
Quiet with something on its mind.
You try once to ask if he’s okay and are assured with a nod and a twitch of a half-smile that he is. From the corner of your eye, you watch him take his phone from his pocket and turn it off, silencing all the buzzing and pinging notifications as the car turns down your street.
You both thank the driver before Joe gets out of the car first to help you out. You don’t think he can be too upset with you since he slows his stride to accommodate your slower gate in your painful heels as you walk up to the front door.
The patience you’ve afforded him runs out as soon as the door is closed behind him and his keys clink into the dish on the table in the foyer. “Okay,” you say with a heavy exhale as you step out of your shoes and relish in the delight of cool tile against your aching feet. “What is it?”
Joe looks up from sliding out of his own shoes, eyebrows raised. “What is what?”
You roll your eyes and sigh, turning to head toward the bedroom. “Or don’t tell me,” you mutter.
You’re not expecting him to follow you.
Or grab your hand as you reach the open door.
Or step in close, forcing you to back up until your ass bumps against the corner of your bed. Your stomach flips with anticipation as you finally pinpoint what’s been hiding in his expression all night. “Yes?” you ask, lifting your brow expectantly. “Did you want something?”
“Yeah,” he says quietly, letting his eyes travel from the neckline of your black dress down to your bare feet. “I wanted to be with you all night.”
You bite your lip. “Oh yeah?”
“Only every time I had a minute to spare,” his hands slowly reach for your hips, holding you in place. “You were with someone else.”
Your toes curl against the thick, plush carpet. “You can’t expect me to sit by myself all night every time you bring me to one of these things, Joe,” you remind him, keeping your voice low as you let your fingertips rest on his belt buckle.
“Didn’t say I did,” he says. “Just wanted you to know that I missed you.” He leans in farther to press his lips to the corner of your jaw, moving slowly up to your ear before he says, “And that I see what a flirt you are when you think I’m not paying attention.”
You pull back and offer your widest, most innocent eyes. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”
“Course you don’t,” he says with a smirk. Before you can say anything more, he takes tighter hold of your hips and slides you to the center of the foot of the bed. One little push has you sitting on the edge of the footboard with a rumple of unmade sheets and blankets at the small of your back.
You reach again for his belt, tugging him in closer to stand between your knees. He pulls your hands away as he leans in to kiss you fully, sealing his lips over yours while he pushes you to lie all the way back on the bed. “What are you doing?” you giggle, tipping your head up to see him pull your hands over your head.
“Keep these up here,” he says, rather demanding for someone whose lips are ghosting kisses over your jaw and down your neck.
“And what are you going to do?” you ask, doing as he’s asked while trying to keep him close enough to do something about the heat pooling in your belly. “Punish me for being too flirty?”
Your teasing would have been slightly more effective if he hadn’t chosen that moment to slip his hands beneath the hem of your dress and push the fabric up to bunch at your waist. But your breath catches in your throat when the cooler air of the bedroom hits your thighs, and you have to swallow a little hum of excitement.
Joe stands up and undoes the second button of his crisp white shirt, pushing the sides open to reveal more of his neck while the fingers of his other hand draw little circles on your thigh. He smirks again and you wonder again how he can get away with looking like that. On anyone else, this would be unbearably arrogant. “If you want to think of this as a punishment, my love,” he curls his fingers around the back of your knee, brushing that unexpectedly ticklish spot, “that’s entirely up to you.”
His short nails drag over your skin as he reaches down to remove your panties—the lace rolls as it moves down your legs until Joe crumples the material and tosses it aside. He lets his dark eyes linger on your bare right ankle for a moment. “Kinda wish you’d kept those shoes on,” he muses quietly before he pulls your leg up against his chest so he can kiss your instep.
The act sends a shiver of desire up your spine, but you manage to laugh. “Fuck those shoes,” you declare, pretending your heart isn’t pounding in your ears as he kisses your ankle, then your calf. He gets to his knees as his lips reach the inside of yours and he draws his fingertips slowly over the outside of your other thigh, subtly pushing your legs farther apart.
His jacket feels cool and silky against the back of your leg as it drapes over his shoulder while he moves those soft, sweet kisses ever higher up your thigh. You squirm slightly when he reaches your center and have to bite your lip to keep from groaning when instead of continuing, he turns his head to deliver a little bite to the inside of your left thigh.
“Oh, you are punishing me,” you mutter, staring up at the ceiling and trying to keep your hands above your head where he’d placed them. You can feel him smile against your skin before his lips move for another kiss. When you fidget again, unsuccessfully trying to bring him closer to where you want him, Joe moves one hand up to splay over your hips, holding you in place.
“Is that what you think?” he murmurs against your sensitive skin.
“I’m not seeing any evidence to the contrary,” you remind him, swallowing hard when he presses his hand down harder to stop your unconscious movements.
He hums quietly. “Maybe I should stop, then,” he suggests. “If it’s such torture.”
You huff out a quiet, breathless laugh. “You would certainly be proving my—” The rest of your sentence dies on your tongue and turns into a sharp inhale when you finally feel Joe’s lips on your clit.
He kisses your cunt as gently as he would kiss your mouth. All slow, soft lips and just the slightest brush of his tongue at your entrance. Taking his time; an unhurried, teasing exploration, as if he doesn’t know your body like the back of his hand.
Except he does know. He knows exactly what to do and how to do it too well to pretend otherwise for long, no matter how much he wants to tease you. He can’t help himself, turning those soft kisses into long licks and flicks of his tongue. Moaning quietly against you and pulling you closer like he can’t get enough of the way you taste. Pursing his lips and sucking on your clit before thrusting his tongue into you, making your back bow off the bed with a loud as relief floods your body, pulling a loud, low moan from the back of your throat.
You’re still blinking the spots away from your eyes when you force yourself to stand, accepting the hands Joe offers to pull you up. Worried he might have come up with some other idea to tease you, you don’t wait to surge up onto your toes and pull him in for another kiss. He’s wiped his mouth, but his lips are still salty and warm, and he doesn’t resist when you slide your hands beneath his lapels and push his jacket off his shoulders. It falls in a soft pile on the ground, followed closely by his shirt and belt.
All the rest comes off with eager hands and kisses that grow quicker and more desperate until you can push him to sit back on the bed and throw your legs over his, straddling his thighs. His hands roam over your breasts and slide around to the zipper at the back of your dress. It slides down much easier than it went up and within moments it’s pulled off, over your head and you can lean in again and capture Joe’s lips with yours, relishing that addictive feeling of all his skin against all of yours.
With his lips moving to your neck, he grabs your hips and pulls you down onto his cock and you can’t tell if that deep groan of satisfaction comes from you or from him. It doesn’t matter—not with how it’s followed quickly by another audible sigh when your hips are flush with his.
You leverage yourself on his shoulders—your nails digging into the muscle just enough to make him groan again—and find an easy rhythm. Joe runs his hands along your waist, your thighs, and your breasts, thrusting up into you while you grind down. He pulls in a sharp inhale through his teeth when you circle your hips, urging you to do it again while you clench around his cock that’s filling you with the most delicious stretch.
He has only a few tells that let you know when he’s close; he bites his lip and clenches his jaw, his thigh tense and twitch beneath yours, and his fingers grip you tighter, almost too hard, trying to dictate your movements. You sink your fingers into his short curls and pull his mouth away from your neck to push your fingers between his lips. He sucks on them with another muffled moan, releasing them with a soft pop, and follows your hand with his eyes as it trails down your belly to slip between your thighs and press warm and wet fingers to your clit.
Joe’s hand slides up your back and curls around the back of your neck, pulling you in close and crashing your lips against his. His other hand anchors at your hip, holding you in place while he moves faster, thrusting up into you harder. You can hear all those soft desperate sounds he makes, muffled by his tongue in your mouth, and circle your clit harder, faster, matching his rhythm. Even still, your second orgasm takes you by surprise, snapping up your spine like an electric shock that leaves you boneless and unable to do more than hold on while he chases his own release and finds it a moment later, breaking away from your lips with a choked moan.
You let your arms circle around his shoulders while he leans against your chest, pressing his sweaty forehead to your collarbone. Feeling giddy and still a little cockdrunk, you giggle and kiss the top of his head.
“What?” he asks with a smile you can hear, even muffled against your skin.
“Nothing,” you shake your head and wait for him to look up. “Just…for a second there, I thought you actually were angry with me for all my shameless flirting.”
Joe raises his eyebrows. His cheeks are splotchy pink and his lips are fuller than usual, swollen from your kisses. He looks just wrecked enough to be absolutely perfect. “So, you are admitting to the shameless flirting, then?”
You bite back a grin. “Does it really bother you?” you ask. Because you’ll stop if it does. A little silly jealousy is one thing. “Me flirting with Roy Kent for half the night?”
Joe snorts a quiet laugh. “Well, first of all, his name is Brett—”
“Nope,” you shake your head once and tap your temple. “Not up here it isn’t.”
“And two,” he chuckles and brings one hand up to brush his thumb along your cheekbone. “You can shamelessly flirt with whoever you want,” he says quietly, pulling you in to rest your brow against his. “So long as you keep coming home with me.”
“Well,” you smile and bump your nose lightly against his. “You do have your charms. Even if you are a terrible date at all these fancy events.”
Joe lets out a shocked laugh and begins to tickle your ribs, rolling you backward onto the bed until you’re both laughing so hard you can hardly breathe.
fin
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Taglist: @fluffysmutmnstr, @freyaswolf, @girlwiththerubyslippers, @fullstealthwombat, @mrsjellymunson, @aysheashea, @grimeysociety, @palomahasenteredthechat, @ficsbypix
(if you'd like to be added to my 'all other random ideas' taglist, please let me know!)
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typinggently · 2 years
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The fact that these two fics were posted minutes apart (&almost a month ago) has done so much for me tbh.
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I don't think I'll ever get over how Organization XIII was hyped up as this super nefarious villain group but then you get to their game 358/2 Days and they treat it like a job. A 9-5 soul crushing job. They have their daily menial tasks and then they go home and wash, rinse, repeat with little else occupying their lives. Even their hobbies and pastimes seem so limited, although you can arguably chalk that up to the game just not being interested in developing them like that (which is part of why the manga is great, because it has a tendency of developing them in ways the main writers aren't interested in). From the way they talk about it, they almost sound like they work at an office sometimes. A very bizarre, particularly backstabby office, but still. It's a soul crushing job AND a weird cult all at once and it's treated with this mundanity that's both hilarious in a way I didn't really get when it first came out and oddly humanizing.
I know for some dumb reason they didn't do a remake of Days and it's harder to access because of that, but if you can and it interests you enough to where you've wondered if it was worth playing, I really recommend playing it or watching a playthrough of the actual game instead of just the cutscenes. The story really is partly told through the mechanics and so much is lost when they just gave us the cutscenes pulled from the game in the compilations.
They really reinforce how bleak and mundane Roxas' life is most of the time, how bleak and mundane most of the members' lives are. How much control the Organization has over them. You don't just level up organically like in other kh games, you have to do this weird puzzle thing that limits your growth and abilities. They don't give you munny, they give you heart points that you can only use at the moogle shop in their castle, so they're literally paid in scrip. If you're unfamiliar with it, scrip is a currency you can only use in certain places instead of throughout a whole country or other type of political union like the eu, usually with the store at the company you work at. When you're on missions your path is blocked off, you can only go to certain areas that are directly related to your daily mission. It's suffocating and genius, especially since in most other series entries you get so much freedom comparatively.
With all that context it starts making some of their vices a bit more understandable. Can you really blame Demyx for not wanting to do his work when all he gets out of it is room and board, and the distant, vague promise of maybe someday getting a new heart? Especially since he's probably been with the Organization for years?
Can you really blame Marluxia and Larxene for wanting to mutiny when their boss is useless and all of their colleagues seem indifferent to it? I mean like. The murder isn't great. I'm still a bit sore about that. But I can definitely get behind the 'screw our boss' sentiment. I'm still very fond of my 'instead of going the cloak and dagger route Larxene and Marluxia somehow, possibly with the help of devil magic, manage to get everyone to cooperate so they can unionize and kick Xemnas out' au. An Organization XIII union au, if you will. Imagine Xemnas having to explain that to the other Xehanorts.
Master Xehanort: The people you gathered up for us to use as our vessels. Unionized?
Xemnas, the biggest loser in the entire series: :/
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cozyquinn · 1 year
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Not bad, old man
Hopping on the older!eddie hype here, seeing as its the only thing I've been able to write anything for recently, bloody writer's block. I'm a sucker for age gap fics, so couldn't resist going for the upper end of the age gap here- Eddie is late 40s, reader is written to be 22-24 (these ages are not mentioned in the fic but they are the ones I had in mind when writing)
A/N: I've left reader's description as bare as possible, down to not specifying what clothes are worn by reader to make it as plausible as a self-insert as possible. I hope it doesn't retract any from the fic! Not 100% happy with this one, but hope it suffices!
I have since gone back through and amended parts that perhaps could have been thought through a little better and added bits in to smooth things out a bit!
Also, I do not give permission for my work to be replicated or reposted anywhere.
summary: When Eddie agrees to resume his place in Corroded Coffin for one night as a favour to Gareth, he doesn't expect the Hideout to offer an opportunity to go home with anyone, let alone the pretty girl half his age.
warnings: 18+ smut ahead, minors DNI. Blogs interacting with this work who do not have their age in bio will be blocked.
No established timeframe, NO established relationship, older!Eddie x fem!reader, NO use of Y/N
trigger warnings for: age gap, daddy kink, use of pet names (sweet thing, sweetheart, baby, baby girl), use of 'fetish' or kink related nicknames (Daddy, Sir), p in v intercourse, oral (f receiving, mention of m receiving) spanking with hand, choking aftercare at the end! Please let me know if you find any others, but also note that this list is not exhaustive- please consume content safely and cautiously! If you don't like this kind of content, please just scroll on!
Your sober mind does little to dull out the unpleasantness of the Hideout in all its stale and smoky glory. The unfamiliar surroundings and gawping eyes of older men have you shrinking into the peeling wallpaper.
Only here thanks to the lack of excitement anywhere else mid-week in Hawkins, Indiana, and the promise that the headlining bands didn't always suck, you settle yourself comfortably against the wall.
Swearing to yourself you'd stay sober tonight, you nurse a tepid Coke -if you could call it that- in your hands, the measly dash of ice now fully melted by the heat of your hands and the heavy smoker's breath filling the room; condensation on your glass matching the slow drip of perspiration at the nape of your neck, both cooling your skin some.
A murmured voice announces the headlining band of the night, and you watch as four older men bustle on to the stage; a concoction of greying hair and fading ink that adorns the skin on show.
The band's entrance is blighted somewhat by a commotion amongst the 18-strong crowd; an elderly patron being shooed from the bar for his rather chancey grope at the band's sole groupie's backside.
On the stage, Eddie shakes his head with a smirk, remarking to himself how some things never change. The wrinkles forming around his eyes deepen as he squints into the cheap fluorescent lights blaring down on him.
Breathing in the stale air of his old stomping ground offers him a little confidence, but doesn't mask the time passed since he was last here; reminiscing on days of shooting the shit until early hours and thrashing himself across the stage until his bones ached.
He scans the room finding mostly dull eyes, only partly bothered by the presence of the aged misfits readying their instruments; the overall response not helping to calm his nerves from years of avoiding any kind of stage presence. This appearance was just a favour to Gareth, after all.
That is, until his eyes fall on you tucked quietly to the side of the room. Entirely out of place, but a gracious reprieve from the groaning oldies giving Eddie an age complex in his forties.
He feels a pang, a warmth, radiating from you across the room; he shakes the years from his heavy shoulders, only breaking your eye contact with a confident wink in your direction.
You quirk a smile up at the older metalhead on stage, his eyes glinting back in amusement as his bandmate musters up an anticipatory drumroll behind him; the rumble sent out across the floor lit a flame of energy below your feet, the vibration coaxing boldness through your bones as you sway to the music.
You keep your eyes trained on him throughout the set, darting between the silver strands scattered throughout his brown curls, his strong hands adorned with rings commanding control over the slender neck of his guitar, and the snarling twitches of his lips as he belts out vocals.
In Eddie's mind, the set goes without a hitch- minus the few misplayed notes dotted here and there from a lack of recent practice. 'Not bad for an old timer, huh', he thinks to himself.
He sets down his guitar, letting the guys know he was heading to the bar to wetten his hoarse throat.
Despite his best efforts to resist temptation -to remind himself of his seniority- he finds himself veering towards you where you'd settled on the left side of the bar, taking in your misplaced youthfullness amongst heavy smoke and wrinkled skin.
He approaches you, announcing his presence to your turned back with a kind greeting to the bartender. You turn your head just as his palm gently brushes your shoulder.
"Hey there, sweet thing. Mind if I sit here?" He says, gesturing to the seat to your right.
"Go ahead" you nod, turning to face him as he settles onto the fraying fabric and creaking wood.
"Thanks doll, the name's Eddie"
He reaches for your hand, bringing your knuckles to his chapped lips; a blush rising from your chest as you garble out your own monicker with as much composure as you can muster. A tarnished ring catches your finger as he gently pulls his hand away, electricity seering through your palm in its wake.
"I see you stuck around for the set. What'dya think?" He keeps up the conversation, a warm smile never leaving his face.
"Yeah, I saw you up there. You were pretty good, for an old man" You quirk your shoulders, a sly grin gracing your soft features as you eye him up from your periphery; doing anything to force a calm facade amongst the flurry of entirely inappropriate thoughts breaching your mind as you eye him up close.
"Oh, low blow. You wound me sweetheart" He chuckles with a hand held mockingly to his chest, any suggestion of real hurt in his voice dampened by the deep-set grin adorning his face. He continues before you can respond.
"What's a pretty little thing like you doing here, anyway? Would'na taken this place to be your kind of scene"
You shrug, dipping your head to focus in on your fingers fidgeting against the cup in your hands, doing your best to hide your blush from his attentive eyes.
"I guess I was just looking for something different. I'm sick of all those hyped up bars charging twice the price and offering glorified karaoke as headline bands, you know?" You say, a mischievous glint in your eye as you watch him through your eyelashes.
This earns you a deep chuckle, the gruffness settling heavily on your chest and lighting a warmth under your skin.
"Yeah, I get that" he nods, his eyes squinting in thought for a second.
"Uh, can I get you a drink? Least I could do since you stuck around for the whole set?" Eddie's eyes light up at his own gentle humour, a kind smile settled on his lips to keep you sweet.
Smiling sweetly in thanks for the offer, you reply.
"Oh, I'm not drinking tonight. Not alcohol anyway, just sticking to whatever sugar saturated crap this is supposed to be."
You raise your half-full cup to him with a laugh, trying desperately to ignore the throb settling between your thighs with each look he sends your way.
He laughs deeply, nodding understandingly at your response. He shifts on his seat, his calloused fingers reaching to scratch at the base of his neck.
"I forgot how humid this damn place gets" His voice is hoarse with age and strain but smoothens out with a cough.
He stands, shrugging off his thinning red flannel to reveal a plethora of faded ink dotted down his arms. Your eyes settle on the slightly blownout bats rounding his forearm; wondering what else could be hiding beneath the black shirt left hugging his torso.
Your heart thumps a little harder as your eyes scan out wider, along his broad shoulders and down towards his covered navel. The heavy breath leaving your lips thickens the air around you, winding around your throat in a way you imagine Eddie's rough hand would.
You're cruelly brought out of your thoughts by the sound of Eddie's voice above you.
"Hey darlin', you got a lil bit'a drool right-" he pauses, bringing his forefinger to the corner of his upturned mouth and brushing the greying fuzz above his lip.
You bring your hand up to your face with speed, frantically wiping and prodding at your lips; your mind burning with embarassment, your cunt betraying you with a clench.
He leans down, the scratch of salt and pepper scruff along his jawline tickling your cheek as his supple lips tease the shell of your ear. A gentle whisper sending a flush from your cheeks to your gently throbbing cunt.
"I'm just teasing ya, sweetheart" He takes a small breath before continuing.
"But don't think I haven't seen you eyeing me up. Didn't your daddy ever tell you it was rude to stare?"
His words punch a gasp from your chest, and his sly grin darkens the red tinge adorning your cheeks.
With eyes wide and pupils blown, you lean back. Your mouth agape, lips lightly trembling, as you search your clouded brain desperately for a response.
Eddie beats you to it, his right hand now gently approaching your cheek, his forefinger outstretched to brush a strand of your hair behind your ear; the clench of your thighs doesn't go unnoticed.
A quiet whimper leaves your lips as he brings you closer, his rough palm now caressing your neck. His thumb gently rubs along the vein pulsing through your skin, applying enough pressure to have your eyes fluttering closed and your hands reaching up to his tousled curls for purchase.
Without a second thought, your lips are on his. Chapped against smooth, you taste a hint of settled smoke and mint. You deepen the kiss, wanting to taste more of him. His rough tongue fights with yours, experience overpowering desperation.
His hands map out the path of your body, cupping and pinching in all the right places before they settle on your ass. Experienced fingers pressing into your flesh with a delicious sting, soothed by the lick of cool metal. His lips leave yours as he trails kisses along your chin, suckling a sweet red bud into your skin where your neck meets your jaw.
His mind fights an internal battle. He knows better, you've got to be at least half his age, but the aching pulse from his cock wins over.
"How about I show you what this old man can do, huh?" He growls into your ear, pulling you up onto your tiptoes as he nuzzles his strong nose into your throat.
You squeak out a "yes", the word drawling into a squeal when his teeth nip at your soft skin.
"Was hopin' you'd say that"
With that, he's leading you towards the door, leaving behind any semblance of your control and the now-flat cola you placed clumsily onto the bar.
Your feet stumble slightly underneath you as you try to keep up. The thrash of your thighs against each other with each small misstep eliciting a feeble whine from your lips.
Disregarding the call from Gareth across the room, Eddie thrusts you both out into the crisp air; gently draping the thin material of his flannel over your shoulders as he leads you to his van parked in the lot just a few feet from the door.
Throwing himself into the drivers seat with an urgency he thought he lost in his thirties, Eddie starts the engine and whips the van out of the lot quicker than your hazy mind can keep up with.
Your pulse races to the thrum of the engine, Eddie's hand squeezing your supple thigh leaves you twitching and aching for more; thanking all that's holy for the short distance between the Hideout and Eddie's trailer when he parks up.
He helps you out of his van, his arm flexing around your waist as he half-carries you to the threshold of his front door; swinging it open gently with the rattle of rusting keys.
"Sorry sweetheart. It ain't much, but it's mine" he murmurs, lightly gesturing to the small space of his living room.
You shake your head, a whispered reassurance of his home's perfection slipping through the crack of your swollen lips, you grasp his forearms with desperation, hoping he'll feel the throb of your hole through your hands.
Eddie seems to get the message, pointing in the direction of his room, sealing his promise of joining you in a moment with a kiss.
You rush to his room, peeling your outer layers of clothing from your body, fondling your breasts and teasing the slope of your hips as you go. Unclasping your bra, you toy with the straps in a teasing game, edging yourself with fingertip caresses against your skin.
A hungry grunt behind you grabs your attention, halting your sweet touches. You turn, gently circling your shoulders to tease away the straps sitting pretty on your clavicle.
You spread your arms out infront of you, sending your bra tumbling to the floor; a gentle request for closeness, your skin screaming to be touched.
Standing in just his underwear, Eddie's eyes trace your figure from top to bottom, his chapped lips being soothed with the brush of his tongue across them; you parallel his softness with a harsh bite to your bottom lip as your eyes follow the path of his tattoos to the bulge tenting his boxers.
The only reminder of his age sits at the edge of his eyes, the lines there softening his rugged look. He gives you little time to admire his mature but toned body as, with a feralness you've never before experienced, Eddie has you pinned to the bed.
His hips hold yours to the mattress, the giration of his pelvis offering sweet, agonising relief to your swollen clit through the layers of fabric.
He pulls away, planting hot kisses down your body with a desperation unmatched, the tickle of coarse stubble against your skin soothed by the drag of his warm tongue.
As he reaches the peak of your mound, your jittering hands inch down to circle your thumbs across his cheeks. His deep brown eyes settle on you, committing your vulnerable beauty to memory.
Your fingers loop through his hair, his silver curls adorning your digits like delicate rings as you rut your hips towards him. A sweet whine is all it takes to beckon the touch of his thick fingers through the cotton modesty of your panties.
You writhe and whine, begging for more; the blush of your cunt calling to his cock like a siren's song to a sailor. A slow stream of arousal fills your panties, hollowing the material to show the empty clench of your heat.
"Please Daddy"
It's barely a whisper but Eddie hears it, clear as a bell. His eyes widen for a moment, mirroring your disbelief at the words uttered from your mouth, before he's smirking into your clammy skin.
"What was that baby? Want to repeat that for me?"
You whine, shaking your head as your desperation fights shame. You squeeze your eyes shut and plead, "please Daddy, need you"
He smirks to himself. Whispering so low you'll never hear, "Daddy kink, huh. Should've guessed that one".
Raising his voice enough to flood your senses, his words ring out.
"Sweet little girl wants more, huh?" The smirk evident in his words.
He settles a rugged finger under your chin to coax your gaze back up to his, holding you there whilst you squirm; tears brimming your stinging eyelids.
"No need to cry sweetheart, Daddy's got you" he promises with a gentle tug and pull at the waistband of your panties until they hang idly from your ankle.
He wastes no time in blessing your bundle of nerves with his experienced tongue, branding the Munson name into your skin amongst calculated figure-of-eights.
You sob sweet nothings into the heavy air as his fingers breach the cusp of your entrance. His free hand takes purchase of your chin, curling you in on yourself to watch as the tattoos decorating his knuckles disappear into your heat with a squelch.
The cold sear of his rings against your sore folds has you hissing under your breath; each plunge of his fingers offering a new sweet wetness over the shimmering metal.
You beg to repay the favour, offering him your desperate mouth, as a blinding pressure builds in your core. He reassures you "next time baby", as you soak his fingers, extinguishing the flame of the inked candle on his middle finger with your wet.
Leaving you no time to regain your breath, his mouth is on your lips, your cheeks, your throat. Plump lips caressing your skin as the throbbing head of his cock kisses your entrance.
You whine as he enters you, the stretch unholy as you adjust to his size. His heavy balls rest against your pert arse and his hazy smile tells you he's exactly where he wants to be.
"That's it baby girl. Feels good, huh? Old man still got it?"
He taunts you with your earlier jabs. The curve of his cock relentlessly prodding at your aching walls, sweetening the sting of his jeering.
Flashes of white appear in your vision with each harsh thrust of his hips and snarl from his chest, and you grind your hips further down on to his pulsing cock.
You nod frantically to answer his question, your hands caressing his still-soft skin before puncturing your nails through the swell of his shoulders.
His desperation starts to show, his calloused hands slipping beneath your backside to hold your hips at an angle. His tip kisses your cervix, punching harsh moans from your chest as his thrusts start to falter.
"Gonna cum, sweetheart. Tell me where you want it"
Your head lolls back as you whimper a pathetic "inside me Daddy, please", your own words driving you over the edge to your honey-sweet climax as you quiver beneath him.
His cock throbs inside you, each flex against your walls sending aftershocks through your spent body. His forehead rests against your breasts, both of you rapidly chasing steady breath. As you calm down, he gently removes himself from you, rubbing soothing circles into your hips to lessen the sting.
"I'll be right back babygirl", he whispers into your cheek with a kiss, leaving the room momentarily to grab a damp cloth to clean you up.
You turn to him once the rise and fall of your chest has steadied, your bleary eyes finding adoration staring back. He smiles widely at you as he pulls you in close to his side, but you're the first to speak.
"You okay?", you ask quietly with a smile, not wanting to disturb the moment.
"More than okay. How you holdin' up, sweetheart?"
You only nod in response, your gentle eyes reassuring him that you were doing just fine.
His smile widens, a mischievous glint taking form as your eyes flutter closed.
He chuckles to himself, the vibration of his chest caressing your cheek as his gruff voice fills the air again.
"Not bad for an old man, huh?"
2K notes · View notes
hobbitkiller · 5 months
Text
As someone who will defend Ahsoka tooth and nail and finds much of the criticism lacking, here’s what I thought could be improved:
1. Eight episode seasons are a bane on streaming, and it was a detriment to Ahsoka. The fact that Andor got 12 and Ahsoka 8 sucks, partly because I think Ahsoka needed those extra episodes far more to flesh out the dynamics and go further into motivations.
2. The mystery box reveal of Sabine and Ahsoka’s falling out, like so many mystery boxes, was unsatisfying and hastily done given how much that whole mess clearly contributed to both their actions, with Ahsoka being intentionally stoic and reserved and Sabine feeling lost and abandoned. I don’t know if this is something that was going to be dove into later, but I think it should have been given more time.
3. I thought the direction of the final episode wasn’t great. The blocking and pace of all the fights except Morgan and Ahsoka felt off, and Sabine using the Force did feel slightly weightless. I think Natasha did fine, and I liked that her hands were trembling when she pushed Ezra, but something about those shots didn’t land.
4. Marrok was pointless and seemingly existed for Ahsoka to have a cool kill. I don’t think we had time for that with only eight episodes.
5. The balancing act of trying to satisfy Rebels and Clone Wars fans while not completely alienating Mandoverse and movie fans didn’t always work and led to silly things like Sabine’s “I can’t see. How am I supposed to fight?” line, which is a fun reference for film only fans but makes no sense in context for Rebels fans who wonder how she forgot Kanan was blind.
Otherwise, there are things I would have liked to see that are in my wish list for Season 2. Kanan appearing as a vision or in a flashback would have been great. Letting Hera hug her adult children, Sabine with her jetpack, referencing the fact that she was the one who gave Bo-Katan the Darksaber…but these are more personal wants than active criticisms.
I think a lot of the flaws with Ahsoka were based on current streaming conventions, and I hope changes being implemented after the writers’ strike will help course correct.
592 notes · View notes
toruro · 6 months
Text
— ✧ cry for me
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i want you to cry, cry for me (twice)
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pairing: lee chan x reader
description: in which you're holding back tears in a cute little restaurant because you spilled wine all over your lap, and chan is holding back a raging boner.
a part of the crybaby series (can be read as a standalone)
genre: smut (18+ / mdni), fluff, ft mingyu for a second
tags: tattooist + tattooed chan, crybaby reader, established relationship (they're so cute it's disgusting), dacryphilia, oral (m receiving), wall sex, petnames (baby, crybaby, princess), chan has a chest tattoo and i think that deserves it's own warning
w/c: 5.1k
a/n: i am a woman of my word: i finished it tonight! thank u to @rubyreduj iand @gyuswhore for looking this over for me when i thought i was going crazy. anyways, i hope u guys missed me actually writing. writer toruro is BACK!
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Pretty and short satin skirts are saved for nights like these. Under the dim glow of the moonlight and stars, the soft fabric falls loosely over your soft thighs and the beautiful curves of your hip. The cool night breeze pinches at your skin as you shuffle toward your boyfriend, hugging his arm that’s already linked with yours even closer to your chest.
Chan hums when you press your cheek against the cool leather of his jacket, “What is it baby?”
“‘m cold,” you mutter, pressing your legs together in an attempt to preserve what little warmth you have left. In hindsight, wearing this skirt probably wasn’t a good idea knowing that it’d be on the chiller side tonight but still, you couldn’t help but want to doll yourself up.
“Here,” Chan says, and you nearly whine when he pulls his arm away, but the complaints die on your tongue when he takes off his jacket and slips it over your shoulders, leaving him in his short-sleeve shirt.
“But—” you protest, running your fingers over his bare arm and frowning, but Chan cuts you off before you can speak further.
“Wear it baby, it looks nice on you,” he says casually, holding his arm out so you can wrap yourself around it again and hold him close. You feel warm, partly because of the protection that Chan’s jacket provides but mostly because of the way your body flushes with heat at his affectionate words.
The two of you are standing outside of this restaurant that you’ve been aching to try for ages, waiting for your names to be called in. As you settle back into his hold, Chan pulls out his phone holding it at an angle so the both of you can read the messages on the screen when he scrolls through your friends’ group chat.
“You wanna go to Jeonghan’s place tomorrow?” you ask, noticing Jeonghan complaining about being bored since Jihoon never leaves his room. Chan nudges your head with his own affectionately before shrugging.
“I’ll go if you go.”
You frown. “Well do you want to?”
“Baby if you want to, then I want to,” Chan says with a chuckle. “And anyways—”
“Chan! Table for two!” the voice of the hostess from the entrance of the restaurant calls out, and the two of you perk up. Chan raises a hand and nods, gently tugging his arm out of your grasp and instead slotting your hand in his, pulling you to follow after him inside.
The hostess greets you kindly, and you’re thankful that indoors is much less cold and much more inviting as she takes you to your table where you and Chan sit across from each other.
“What were you saying?” you ask as you settle into the seats, slipping off Chan’s jacket and handing it to him.
He only holds his hand out, palm facing you, and shakes head with a smile. “Keep it. Anyways, I was saying that I’ve been meaning to talk to Jeonghan for a while since he said he wanted to get a tattoo done.”
Your eyes nearly bulge out of your head at that as you carefully drape his jacket over the back of your chair, scooting forward. “No way! Jeonghan always told me he’d never get a tattoo ‘cause he’s scared of needles.”
Chan laughs and his eyes light up. “Didn’t you say you were scared of needles? Look at where you are now …” he murmurs, eyes glossing over the little crescent moon on your arm, and then the small star that he had the privilege of pressing into your wrist just a few weeks earlier.
You shift in your seat and shyly nod. “Yeah but … that’s different. I think I might’ve chickened out of the last part if—” Your breath hitches in your throat and you stop yourself from finishing what you were about to say. If he hadn’t fucked you in that tattoo parlor right there and then, is what you both are thinking.
Chan grins at the way you grow flustered at his words before changing the topic. “I like this top, is it new?” he asks, eyes glossing over the blue, knit shirt that you put on for him just an hour earlier.
“Yeah! I got it to match the skirt—I’ve had this one for a while though, but it didn’t look nice with any of my tops I had until now, so I was really excited to finally get to wear it,” you tell him with a grin, hands smoothing over the satin and brushing over the plush of your thighs. Your stomach fills with a wave of giddiness when Chan smiles at you and nods.
“I’m glad. You look really pretty,” he says, reaching over and grabbing your hand. His gaze doesn’t falter, eyes on you as you continue to tell him about how you thought the shirt was sold out when you found it online you cried (Chan remembers; you called him with choked sniffles at midnight and almost hung up right away out embarrassment but he assured you that it was okay), rubbing a thumb over your skin as you speak.
You two fall into conversation naturally after that, waiting for your food to come as your fingers intertwine and sit in the middle of the table comfortably. The waiter starts off with your drinks—a wine for you each—before bringing out the appetizers.
Things go smoothly as they always do: the food is amazing and the setting is perfect, Chan’s hand grazes over yours ever so often and his eyes are on you in a loving gaze—everything’s going great, actually.
So maybe that’s why you let it get a little to your head when you hear the clanking of glass against glass.
It happens so quickly—the sound reverberates through the room and you blink once and then twice, looking down to find the growing wet spot on your cute little skirt. The feeling of wine against your skin hits you next, and when you look to your right and see the apologetic look of the waiter as he scrambles for the glass on the ground, it sinks in.
Fuck, and there it is again—that ugly feeling that clogs your throat and the furious blinking of your eyes as you try your best (you really, really do try your best). Chan knows it all too well, the way you press your lips together and try not to quiver as you reach down and try to help the waiter.
“What the hell man?” Chan exclaims, standing up from his seat in an instant to walk over to you, his eyes set as a hard glare on the waiter as he observes the growing stain on your precious little skirt.
The waiter stutters for a moment, reaching forward to dab a napkin over your lap, but your boyfriend stops him midway, swatting his hand away. “Watch it—” Chan peers closer at his name tag as he snatches the napkin from the waiter’s hand, “—Mingyu. You’ve done enough.”
“I-I’m sorry,” the waiter, Mingyu stutters out, holding the dropped wine glass behind his back as he shuffles away.
Chan glares at him hard as he presses a hand against your back, and if your vision wasn’t already so blurry you might have been intimidated by how intense the gaze was. Instinctively, you turn your face towards his figure as you feel other customers’ eyes over the little scene unfolding at your table. “C-can we go?” you ask him quietly.
It doesn’t take him more than a second for Chan to turn to Mingyu and mutter, “Just get us the check. We’re leaving.”
Mingyu nods bashfully and scurries away, but you don’t really notice because you’re chewing down on your lip as your boyfriend pats your back and leans down to watch you apologetically. Fuck, you feel so pathetic for crying over this but you can’t help it! You really can’t!
You’ve been looking forward to this night for so long and have been planning this outfit for even longer, and now that both your night and your pretty little skirt are ruined, you swear you can’t stop the tears from falling.
Chan hates it when you cry. Well, that’s a lie. It’s a fickle thing, really—the anger that bubbles up inside of him whenever he sees your eyes red and brimming with tears isn’t directed at you—fuck no—but rather whatever (in this case, whoever) caused it in the first place.
So yeah, you could say Chan hates it when you cry, but then again, he finds it cute when you call him, sniffling over your favorite croissant being sold out at that cafe down the street you always go to. He hates when you waste tears over things like this, but he also knows you can’t help it, and there’s something oddly endearing about the way you always lean in to his touch for comfort. After all, you’re his sweet girl, and he loves all of you; the parts of you that cry over seeing a kitten struggle to cross the street and the parts of you that sob when he’s shoving his cock into your warm cunt.
All of it, he loves all of it.
So maybe that’s why Chan can’t help but get a little bit lost in your puffy, glossy eyes when you look up at him and silently beg for some comfort. He knows it’s an innocent gesture, and when he runs a hand down the side of your cheek and you nuzzle into his palm, he almost feels guilty for the way his cock begins to strain against his pants.
You’re just so cute, and Chan swears he can’t control himself. He can’t ever control himself when it comes to you.
Using the napkin he snagged from Mingyu just moments earlier, Chan leans down and swipes over the wetness on your thighs, soaking up as much of the red liquid that he can. It’s kind of hard to think, honestly. He watches your tears mix with the wine on your lap, and while his fingers brush over the plush of your thighs, he starts to lose himself entirely.
Stop! Stop! Stop! Chan tries to tell himself because really, he should be focusing on taking care of his sweet, sweet girl and wiping away her tears but here he is trying to not think about the massive hard-on he’s got going on beneath his pants.
Mingyu stops by with the check, frantic with more wipes as he cleans up the ground as Chan pays the bill. You quietly slip on the same leather jacket Chan gave to you just half an hour earlier as he helps you get up from the seat, cringing at the way your wet and stained skirt feels against your legs.
With his hand closed around your wrist, your boyfriend leads you to the exit but you keep your head down bashfully. You feel the gazes of other customers on your back as you two make your way out of the restaurant, and the cold night air is a stark contrast to the way your body burns with embarrassment.
Once finally outside and standing by the parking lot, Chan takes a moment to look at you. You’re still biting down on your lip like it’s the only thing you know how to do, eyes trained to the ground as you tighten your fingers around him instinctively. He senses something is bothering you—something other than the fact that your meticulously planned outfit was ruined on such a whim.
Nightly zephyrs pulse against his skin and Chan glances down at your slightly shaking legs, realizing that they are now wet and exposed and probably feel colder than ever. “C’mon baby,” he urges, tugging you towards his car, “Let’s sit inside.” Silently, you comply and follow behind him, slipping into the passenger seat and sighing contently as you escape the chilliness of the night.
He watches you as you click your seatbelt on, sinking into the seat when that familiar clenching of your jaw and furious blinking of your eyes takes over your features. “Oh baby,” Chan coos, shuffling closer to you so he can plant a hand on the back of your neck. “Baby, what’s wrong?” he asks as you bury your hands in your face in a fruitless attempt to muffle your sniffles.
“I—” You stop because your voice comes out all ugly and distorted. “—I was s-so excited for tonight,” you admit honestly, calming down a little as Chan’s hand runs up and down your spine soothingly. “And then I just—I ruined it.”
“Baby, what are you talking about?” your boyfriend asks, tapping your cheek so you finally look up at him. Your cheeks are a little puffy and your bottom lip juts out in a pretty pout, and Chan brushes a thumb over the wet skin. “You didn’t ruin anything—it’s all that prick Mingyu’s fault. We can go to my place and still have fun,” he suggests, and although he means it to be a thoughtful gesture—something like takeout and ice cream—he can’t help but fantasize about some other definitions of fun.
“But—”
“No buts baby. Except, maybe yours,” Chan tells you with a playful wink, his heart swelling when you manage out a giggle between your harsh breaths. He starts to pull himself away from you when he senses a lightening of your mood, and so slowly, he starts the engine.
You settle into a comfortable silence as he starts the drive back to his place, and even though he’s mainly focused on keeping a smile on your face, Chan really can’t ignore the relentless ache in his pants.
After all, how could he when you insisted on keeping his hand on your thigh? “Wanna feel you,” is what you said when you guided his fingers to settle over the soft flesh, and Chan has half a mind to think it’s in an innocent gesture—his sweet girl just wants to keep him close—but he also knows you.
Chan knows that beneath all the soft whimpers and hot tears is a girl far more observant than you let on, and he’d be stupid to think you didn’t notice the tent in his pants earlier.
Maybe he’ll make you pay for that, he thinks as he parks in front of his apartment building, but when you shyly slip out of his car and keep your head hanging low as your eyes glaze over the big red stain on your skirt, Chan thinks otherwise.
Again, he can’t ever control himself when it comes to you.
Any thoughts Chan might have had about teasing you until the world’s demise wash away when he closes the door behind him as you both walk into his apartment. He knows you get a bit needy when you’re upset but still, he wasn’t really expecting you to turn around and sink into his arms the second the lock clicks shut.
Your cheek is pressed into his chest as your arms circle his firm torso, and from above, Chan can see that your eyes are pressed shut. The base of your stomach is pressing into his crotch and fuck, he can’t tell if you intentionally shift against him because your face looks so sad but then again, there’s no way you’re doing this without thinking.
Still, Chan shoves away the filthy thoughts that he really doesn’t think he should be having and wraps his arms around your shoulders, placing a hand on the back of your head. You’re not sure how long you guys stay like that, and despite the ache that burns between both of your legs, it’s a comforting few moments—his fingers in your hair as you pull him closer to you.
You need a distraction, you’ve realized. Something to really cry about.
Being with Chan over the past few months has taught you that, in the best way possible, your tears really mean nothing unless they’re falling because of him. Maybe it’s the thought that prompts you to finally pull away and pout up at him.
“Channie,” you whimper and fuck, Chan knows those eyes. You know he does.
“What is it baby?” he asks, gazing down at you so intensely that you know he isn’t even bothering to hide his lust anymore. He holds your cheek with a hand, thumb stroking over your soft skin for a moment before crashing his lips onto yours.
Chan kisses your breath away. Teeth nipping and sucking against yours as your tongues melt in a hot mess when he presses you into the wall. Looming into you from above, his grip on your face remains tight as he guides you deeper into his mouth, crotch pressing into your lower stomach.
It’s dizzying, almost. Kissing Chan always is.
It isn’t long before you’re pawing at his chest as you struggle to keep up with his intensity. Your palms ache for his skin, and having your fingers run up and down his firm arms just isn’t enough. When Chan pulls his lips away, your eyebrows furrow and your bottom lip juts out into a pout.
“Off,” you mumble, weakly tugging at the hem of his shirt, and usually Chan would play with you a little longer, make you beg a little harder, make you really work for it, but he feels that you’ve already suffered enough.
Swiftly, he pulls the tight shirt over his head, revealing the firmness that lay beneath the fabrics, and fuck, you think you might just pass out on the spot—you’ll never get sick of seeing him like this.
“Like what you see baby?” Chan chuckles, but he already knows the answer from the way your eyes zone in on the symmetrical pattern that adorns his upper chest.
“Always …” you mutter, wrapping your arms around his torso and pressing your body close against his as you start to place kisses all over his skin. Shy and sweet is what your lips feel like, skitting over his chest as Chan watches you in admiration; your tongue traces over the dark curves, eyes fluttering shut as if you’ve already got it memorized by heart (you probably do).
His hands start to thread in your hair, pressing against your scalp until he’s fisting the strands and tugging your head back. Chan’s mouth meets yours in a hot mess—your own saliva’s already smeared all over your chin and cheeks, and the mix of tongue against tongue and teeth against teeth is only adding to the sloppy kiss as he backs you into the wall.
“Baby,” he whispers into your mouth before beginning to trail rough kisses down your jawline and over your collarbone. He sucks blotchy, red marks into your soft skin, fingers kneading at the flesh of your waist when you start to press your lower half into his. “Baby, you drive me fucking crazy.”
You wanna scream and say ‘ditto’ but the only sound that escapes your lips is a choked moan when he shoves a thigh between your legs and presses against your core. The ache is like a fire, burning through your veins and blooming all up inside of you, making your tummy tumble and your eyes roll to the back of your head as you clamp your bottom lip between your teeth.
Grinding against him, your skirt rides up your thighs revealing the pretty white, lace panties hidden beneath, and Chan’s breath hitches in his throat. Something buzzes in his head and it’s like a rush in his ears—his hands shoot out and are all over your tits.
Gripping the soft flesh over your pretty little shirt and matching lace bra underneath, and soon you’re scrambling to get all this fabric off of you. “So pretty baby, so pretty,” Chan breaths out when he steps away from you a little, dropping his knee as you toss your shirt and bra to the side. He grabs your chin and uses his fingers to squish your cheeks together as you look up at him dreamily. “You’ll suck Channie off, right baby?” he coos, and you feel your legs grow weak at the sickly sweet touch to his tone.
“Yeah-huh,” you pant, inching closer to him as you start to drop to your knees, hands immediately making their way to the waistband of his dark jeans. Chan doesn’t help you with the belt—he enjoys watching you fumble with the leather, pouting when it doesn’t come out as easy as you’d like.
Once you finally work your way around it, you’re unbuttoning his jeans and yanking them down to reveal the bulge that strains against his boxers. Without a second thought, you lick his cock over the fabric, eyes lazily looking up at Chan who watches you expectantly.
“You know what to do baby,” he tells you, and so you comply, hooking your fingers under the elastic band and tugging his boxers down. When his cock springs out, it lightly slaps against your cheek, precum smearing all over your already wet cheeks.
Chan thinks you look so beautiful like this, shiny cheeks marked by his heavy cock that starts to make its way between your lips with the guidance of your hands. Soft fingers play with the base of his length as you swipe over the tip your shy tongue and fuck—you look so hot when you stare up at him like that, like you don’t know all the depraved things Chan wants to do with you.
You start off with kitten licks—lapping at the precum that’s dribbled all over the pretty, prominent veins that adorn his cock, and pressing your tongue flat against his bulbous tip. Chan runs a hand over your hair, resting his palm against the crown of your head at the end and gently pushing you forward.
You whimper as you start to take more of his length into your mouth, the underside dragging against your tongue, and you move one hand up to wrap around the base of where your mouth can’t reach, using the other hand to cup his balls.
“Jus’ like that,” Chan mumbles, watching you struggle to take him deeper, shoving his fat tip to the back of your throat as far as you can, tears pricking in your eyes, before pulling back to take in a heaving breath. “Good job baby,” he urges you on, when you open your mouth again, taking him down your throat again.
Your jaw aches as you repeat the motion, tears dripping down your cheeks, over your chin, and onto your soft thighs. Every time his cock pushes to the back of your throat, a few more drops fall, and soon Chan starts to take the lead, directing the movement of your head with his grip on your head.
And it feels so fucking good, the way he’s a got a firm grip on you, the way his cock stretches your mouth open so nicely—so you can taste all of him—the way he’s muttering curses amidst the murmurs of praise; “Yeah baby, feel’s so fuckin’ good.”
It’s got even you rolling your eyes to the back of your head and all you can think is Chan, Chan, Chan, and he can think about is you, you, you—and suddenly, he’s pulling his length out of your mouth so quickly it has your vision going white.
“Gotta cum w’me, princess,” Chan instructs over the rush in your ears, grabbing your wrist and gently tugging you to your feet. You’re slightly light-headed, stumbling forward from all the movement, but Chan catches you gently with a soft chuckle. “Easy baby, easy,” he murmurs, smoothing one hand over your head and kissing your aching lips softly as he once again presses you into the wall.
You make out sloppily for a few moments, your arms wrapping around his neck, tongues melting into each other as Chan tastes himself on you. His hands are playing with the zipper of your skirt, and with a soft gasp into his mouth, he pushes them down to pool at your ankles. “Leg up baby,” he tells you, tapping your hip with one hand so you get the message.
Hastily, you lift your thigh, involuntarily groaning against Chan’s lips when his big, rough hand plants itself on the underside of your thigh, helping you wrap your leg around his torso. His cock’s prodding right against your leg now, and you swear you can feel how painfully hard he is, swear you can feel him straight up throbbing against you.
“‘m so wet Channie,” you sigh helplessly, slotting one hand between your parted legs and swiping your fingers over the slick that drenches your thin panties. With slippery hands, you mindlessly reach for Chan’s cock, gently nestling the thick length against your clothed core.
“Oh fuck,” Chan groans at the contact, jutting his hips further into yours to increase the friction. His pelvis is flush against yours, and the stimulation of his skin against your clothed clit along with his cock sliding right by your folds is dizzying. “Makin’ a mess already, huh?” he says, shoving the fabric of your panties to one side to reveal your dripping cunt.
Quickly, his fingers are all over you, sliding between your slickness and thumb rubbing circles into your clit until you’re whining and fuck—Chan hardly gets to stick one finger into your tight cunt before you’re almost on the verge of tears again—
“Channie, need your cock now,” you cry out, hands pawing at the tattoo over his chest. “Can’t wait—need it no—oh.” The last words die on your tongue when Chan shoves his fat tip inside you. “Oh Channie—feels s’full,” you moan, your head falling back and hitting against the wall as he continues to slide his full length against your walls.
“Yeah princess?” he mutters, leaning forward and kissing your shoulder blade after he fully bottoms out inside of you. Your cute little cunt is screaming from pleasure, erupting flames all over your skin as you struggle to adjust to his size. Chan can see it, the way you’re already trembling, standing leg quivering as you try your best to not crumble into him, try your best to not give in right away.
You always look so cute trying when you know you’re gonna fail anyways.
Without warning, Chan drags his cock out slowly, and when you look at him with those glossy eyes and flushed cheeks, he can’t help but slam right back into you with a force that throttles you against the wall.
“Fuck,” you whimper, running one hand up Chan’s arm, tracing the curves of his biceps before finally gripping onto his shoulder tightly.
“You feel it princess?” Chan asks you softly when he drags out of you again before pressing you into the wall with another harsh thrust.
“Yeah-huh,” you nod dumbly, using your free hand to run your palm over your lower stomach. “Feel you all the way here Channie,” you moan when he shifts inside of you so his cock is hitting you even deeper. “Fuck!” you cry out when his pace starts to speed up, the tears that lingered in your lash line already starting to drip down your face.
“My pretty baby’s crying already …” Chan coos with a mocking pout, grip on your waist tightening so much you feel you’ll have bruises the next morning. “That’s it princess … cry it out—I know you wanna,” he eggs you on once he leans in, fingers ghosting by your earlobe.
“Can’t help it,” you choke out, finally letting the soft sobs pleasure erupt from your throat, head falling against Chan’s shoulders. “Feel so good Channie—can’t help it—’m sorry, I—”
“Shh,” Chan hushes you with a particularly harsh trust, pressing so close to you that his pelvis is once again bumping against your clit. “Don’t apologize … you look so pretty … pretty crybaby. That’s what you are, aren’t you? My crybaby?”
“Ye-yes!” you mewl when your legs start to shake more rapidly.
“Yeah … yeah—fuck,” Chan huffs when you clench down on him, and your walls are so tight around his length that you’re starting to wonder just how much longer you can hold out for.
“Can’t have anyone seeing you like—fuck—like this,” he moans, gripping your thigh tighter and tighter as he starts ramming into you so fast it’s punching the air straight out of your lungs. You’re wailing into his skin now, teething at his neck as your whole face is covered in a hot and sticky mess, fingers running all up and down his chest.
“Only thing you should be crying over is me, okay baby? You got that?”
“Uh-huh,” you whimper, fingers sinking into his skin as you feel that familiar wave of pleasure well up in your stomach. “Only yo—oh fuck, Channie ‘m gonna cum s—fuck!” you gasp out, hiccuping over your own tears as the waves crash down.
Your legs go limp as Chan’s cock drills into your warm cunt, the combined arousal dripping down your thighs and onto the floor (you’ll have to clean the ground later). His fat cock is battering against your tight walls roughly, fluttering walls pressing down on every vein, every curve of the length.
“There you go princess, cum f’me,” he grunts as he secures one arm around your waist, digging your back deeper into the wall so you don’t fall over as he starts to ride out his own orgasm against your pulsing walls.
Watching your blown out eyes and swollen lips, tear kissed cheeks and disheveled hair, Chan feels his own eyes rolling to the back of his head when your overstimulated pussy clamps down on him, squeezing out every last drop of cum. Painting your walls white, the sensation of Chan’s cum filling you up has you whimpering and mewling into his neck as he starts to loosen his grip.
“Fuck princess … made such a mess,” he mutters, looking down at the sticky mixture that rests where his softening cock meets your cute cunt.
“Hmm,” you hum, letting your wobbly legs drop to the floor once his cock flops out of your slippery, cunt, nuzzling into his tattooed chest. Giggling softly, you wrap your arms around his torso and look up at him with a lazy grin, “I forgot why I was crying earlier.”
Chan smiles, holding your cheeks with both his hands to press a chaste kiss on your lips. “That’s my girl.”
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crybaby series masterlist
a/n: thank u for reading, i hope u enjoyed >_< pls feel free 2 leave comments / rbs if u did! i know i took horrendously long 2 pop pt2 of crybaby :[ I'M SORRY guys not 2 ramble but i have been in a writing slump recently and this is the only thing of decent length and decent quality that i have produced in the span of two months so c: i am happy w how this turned out! i'll try my best to get the 3rd and final part of the series a little bit quicker, but no promises :3
taglist pt1: @synthetickitsune @ixayjun @leejihoonownsmyheart @dahliatopia @gyuswhore @hoeforcheol @5xiang @hajimelvr @miriamxsworld @lixiel0ver @josefines-things @mimisxs @kawennote09 @bbyjjunie @rubyreduji @todorokiskitten @98-0603 @hipsdofangirl @minnie-mouser22 @minhui896 @whippedforjihoon @seokchannieworld @nishloves @woozarts @ellesmoon @blurryriki @maknae00 @hanniebanggi @peachyaeger @shoulietaro @1004luvangel @dnylwoo @dollyhaes @gyulune @wonranghaeee @tsukkisboo @cheolism (strike through could not be tagged)
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qc-wiggles · 5 months
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they say write what you know and what i know is academic stress and yearbook pain. so anyways it's a yearbook club au!!!!
YEARBOOK CLUB MEMBERS:
supervising teachers: gertrude and leitner. they become uncontactable like a week into the project (do they die? do they resign? tim has a running theory that they eloped.)
elias: head of yearbook club. dips unexpectedly in the middle of the entire thing (something about an optical surgery) and forces jon to take over. his dad paid for the adobe subscription they’re using 
rosie: treasurer, she’s very efficient, they’ve probably exchanged like 3 emails in total and she’s gotten everything funded. knows well enough to stay out of the dumpster fire that is yearbook production otherwise
jon: de facto head of yearbook club. thinks it should have gone to sasha instead. hes a bit incompetent but plans like it’s doomsday the next week so they are always in a wealth of excel sheets. writer, editor
tim: joined partly because he wanted an excuse to get out of football fixtures. also because he is 1 out of jons 3 friends including his ex and jon asked him. he has a tiktok. marketing, editor
sasha: joined partly to impress gertrude (she’s looking for her to write her letter of recommendation as head girl in sixth form). also because she is 1 out of jons 3 friends including his ex and jon asked her. she still uses livejournal. designer, writer
gerry: sixth form, occasionally helps out with networking at gertrude’s behest. tim is a bit starstruck over him. he saves their asses many, many times
melanie and georgie: got unofficially roped in as photographers. why you ask? manuela dominguez may have the cutting edge cameras but she is simply too scary to approach. melanie has a youtube channel that all the girls and tim are apparently subscribed to. 
martin: there is not one single picture of him. apparently he didn’t turn up for photo day, neither was he involved in any school events. even the people who have shared half-remembered facts about him seem to forget about him when questioned a second time. where did he go?
PLOT:
it’s the month before the yearbook is due to be sent in for production, and the team have discovered numerous issues with the draft: pictures of random people keep getting swapped over like they’ve been photoshopped, some pages are illegible and distorted unless they are physically written out in hand and scanned, one paragraph is a leitner. and nobody can find martin blackwood so they can get his picture in the yearbook. what will they do.
SIDE CHARACTERS:
annabelle cane: current head girl
mikaele salesa: somehow knows literally everyone, involved in the funding of yearbook production
mike crew: uneasy alliance with gerry in their pursuit of jurgen leitner 
oliver banks: had a mental breakdown sometime during his gcses but hes fine now
david from research: nobody says it to his face but he has genuinely the most atrocious clothing choice in the entire school apart from michael shelley, and even then michael shelley makes work
grifter’s bone: the band of the school, except no one actually knows anyone who’s part of it. their shows are legendarily terrible. manuela says ambulances were phoned. 
daisy and basira: prefects, currently invested in making sure yearbook club remains LEGAL and not STALKING ANY STAFF OR STUDENTS, JON
jmag: principal. boo. what a creep
julia montauk: apparently her dad went to jail. but who is she living with now? i don’t know, manuela told me. how does manuela know? julia told her in a sleepover during year 6. and she’s telling other people? wow. that’s messed up. is that old guy her grandpa? why does he carry a rifle around
jared hopworth: prejudiced gymbro, but importantly, NOT a homophobe.
the admiral: what else needs to be said
FAMOUS ALUMNI:
agnes montague (campus celebrity from literally decades ago) (her relationship with jack barnabas is mythicised)
jude perry (allegedly caused some fire-related, agnes-related events)
edwin burroughs (allegedly commited atrocities during one year’s christmas dinner)
jane prentiss (left for uni a year ago, allegedly brought many live organisms onto campus) (keeps talking about this guy called jordan)
eric delano (he did WHAT to his eyes)
MISCELLANEOUS POINTS:
daedalus crew is astronomy club
breekon and hope are the manufacturers for much of the schools equipment and stationery
jon keeps finding notes from gertrude stashed in random places about yearbook difficulties its like a fun cool treasure hunt
they cant figure out where a computer they were initially using for yearbook club is from. it says ‘ushanka’ on the bottom of the display and the keys are slightly crusty
what the hell are the drama students actually up to 
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raplinesmoon · 6 months
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Après Moi, Le Deluge (JHS x F!Reader)
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pairing: Hoseok x afab!reader genres/au/rating: angst, smut, some fluff, mafia au, sort of arranged marriage au, exes au, 18+ summary: It was one night. One night where Hoseok sought refuge from the storm outside, from the life he led, from the past that haunted him. And where else does fate lead him but back into your arms?
word count: 8.2k
warnings: the mafia, mentions minor character death, cursing, smoking, alcohol use, use of weapons, strained relationships with parents, mental health issues, mentions threats against people Hoseok cares about, brief, non-graphic depiction of blood and injuries, breakups, makeups, a cameo by one Xu Minghao, Hoseok and OC are both very closed off and bad at communicating, Hoseok is lowkey an asshole for most of this, happy-ish ending, smut warnings: making out, fingering (fem receiving), nipple play, unprotected sex, marking, teeny bit of cockwarming
a/n: Hello it is me, profusely apologising because there is no reason this should have taken this long to write, other than I had the worst case of writer's block ever, but I missed Hoseok and I needed to see this through. This fic is set in the same universe as Doom Boy, my Namjoon mafia fic! You don't necessarily have to read Doom Boy to read this, but it may help some of the moments mentioned here make sense! The title is a reference to a famous saying by King Louis XV of France, or if you're me, season 1 episode 11 of The Originals. I hope you all enjoy &lt;3
listen to the playlist here!
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The rain slams down on the pavement, rendering the soles of Hoseok’s shoes even more sodden than they’d previously been. A cold, sticky feeling settles across his spine, and he heaves for breath, wishing he could just stop and take a break. But he can’t. He has to keep moving. Resisting the urge to shiver and warm himself up, he rounds the corner.
The day had started off normal enough. Hoseok had been assigned patrol duty for the day by Namjoon, a task he was more than familiar with. After the collapse of the Kim empire and his father’s death, Namjoon had returned to clean up the family business. And he was doing a damn good job at it, training the younger ones like Jimin, Taehyung, and Jungkook in how to run a business.
But there was more to this than a business, and Namjoon knew that well enough. Someone had to be around to air out the dirty laundry, to clean up the streets. And who better for the job than Hoseok? 
He was used to it anyway, more comfortable around knives and guns than he’d ever been around people who weren’t Namjoon, Yoongi, or Seokjin. It was partly the reason he’d been sent out tonight, to monitor the slimy activities that took place under the cover of night. 
Yet sometimes, the downpour got the best of Hoseok. He hadn’t been expecting the Choi cronies to spot him, much less for them to be armed. Luckily they were as thick-skulled as Hoseok expected them to be, and he’d been able to craft a quick escape. For the time being.
But it wouldn’t last for long. Hoseok knew the men would be on his tail all night, and as much as he wanted to call for backup, he didn’t feel like bothering Namjoon, Yoongi, or their families, at this time of night. He wouldn’t have had a problem bothering Seokjin, but that fucker had run the moment he’d shot up Namjoon’s father. 
Looking around, he falters. The buildings around him loom ominously, stretching much taller than he’s used to, the lights from the highest floors creating artificial stars against the cloudy backdrop of the sky. Hoseok gathers that he must be in the swanky part of town. He scoffs, knowing from personal experience the rich were no better than the mobs and gangs they pretended to look down upon, licking at their bootstraps whenever the necessity arose.
Still, he decides it’s better to take cover. He spots the sleeping security guard from outside one of the buildings, and slips in, shaking the raindrops from his hair. Making his way to the elevators at the end of the lobby, his mind ran with plans of how he’d clean up the mess with the Choi men in a way that Namjoon would approve of. 
Which is why he misses the other person entering the elevator at the same time as him, instead collapsing against the railing and letting out a loud sigh, rubbing at his eyes.
“H-Hoseok?” the voice that calls out to him is quiet, barely above a whisper. But its familiarity sends a chill down Hoseok’s spine. It’s a voice he thought he’d never hear again.
His eyes open slowly, and he sees his shocked reflection mirrored in the ones directly across from him, eyes that he’d never been able to forget. The way they look at him now is the same way they’d been the last time he saw you, on a similarly cloudy day.
The eyes of his former fiancée.
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The doors of the elevator screech shut, the sound doing nothing to drown out the pounding of your heart. The soft tiny plops of raindrops echo on the grey floor, falling from Hoseok’s hair as he freezes at the sound of your voice.
You suck in a breath, lungs desperately searching for air, unable to squeak out anything beyond his name. Brows furrowing, you check him for any signs of injury, relieved when you find nothing but his blank eyes blinking back at you. You didn’t have to ask him where he’d been tonight. Both of you already knew.
It infuriates you that even after everything, after all this time, he still manages to have this effect on you. You hate how you can’t take your eyes off the lean curve of his neck, or the tiny mole above his heart-shaped smile.
A chill runs down your spine, despite having never stepped foot out in the rain. 
“Why are you…” your throat feels heavy, struggling to get the words out, to ask him why he ended up here of all places. Especially when you made it clear you never wanted to see him again after the last time.
“Choi’s men were tailing me, I had to get them off my back,” he barks, immediately regretting his harsh tone when he looks into your weary eyes, on the verge of tears.
“I’m sorry,” he adds on, more gently this time. “If I’d have known, I would never…”
Never what? Never managed to infiltrate the one place you thought you could be free of him, from the past the two of you shared?
Your shoulders slump against the panel, and you realize you’d never pressed the button to go up, too consumed by his presence. Finally managing to muster up the focus, you turn away, hearing the elevator creak to life.
“You’re always sorry. How can I be sure that this time, you mean it?”
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Hoseok is annoyed. First of all, this damn elevator is taking nearly too long to go anywhere, and he longs for escape from this metallic box that’s imprisoning you both. Second of all, your words cut at him, sharper than any knife and hotter than any bullet any of Choi’s men could have sent his way tonight.
As far as he remembers, you’d been the one to end it. You’d been the one to walk away from your arrangement.
He doesn’t know why he grits his teeth, biting down to combat the throbbing pain in his temples. You were supposed to be gone, your goodbye delivered in the same way the designer bags and packages piled up at your doorstep - neat, polished, shallow, the ties that had brought you together unraveling before they’d even had a chance to be joined properly. 
Unfinished business. That’s what you were. And Hoseok hated unfinished business. But somehow, he’d never managed to hate you. You’d never given him a fair chance.
. . .
Hoseok shrugged the wife beater over his head with a grunt, immediately turning around to see if he’d woken up his sleeping companion, but she remained unfazed, her soft snores echoing into the pillow. 
He lets his eyes linger over her body appreciatively one last time before he slips on his leather jacket and is out the door. For a brief moment, his hand twitches, yearning to reach into his pocket and call Namjoon for old times’ sake, detailing every last detail of his lascivious romp. The thought is abandoned immediately, Hoseok’s mood souring at the thought of his former best friend. Namjoon had no trouble leaving all of them behind, so why should he even bother? Instead, he reaches into his other pocket, his frenzied emotions finally calming down when he pulls out the lighter. Ducking under an awning, he checks his surroundings for anything suspicious before affirming that the coast is clear, lighting up and taking a drag. The smoke drifts away on the nighttime breeze, and Hoseok follows, roaming the city streets. 
It’s lonely at this hour, not another soul in sight, but Hoseok prefers it that way. Gone are the days when he and his friends would run through the city, stealing cars and honking horns at everyone for fun. Now, shit had hit the fan big time, and there was no room for fun anymore. With Namjoon gone, Hoseok, along with Seokjin and Yoongi, had been sucked into the tangled web of duties he’d left behind, each stepping up in their own way.
Holding a gun in his hands for the first time had been a sobering experience for Hoseok. It rattled him that if he pressed down on the trigger, so many things could change in a split second. He’d heard the higher-ups in the organization rave with glee about how much fun it was putting the city’s other families in line, Namjoon’s father at the head of them. And for a brief moment, Hoseok understood what it was that Namjoon had run away from. That didn’t mean he wasn’t still pissed off about it though. 
His lips turn up in a smile when he takes in the graffiti on the building in front of him, thinking back to his younger, more rebellious self, before faltering. Someone else was there. 
He wonders if you’re cold, the thin satin gown doing nothing to protect you from the chill, and he wants to laugh at the contrast between his well-worn leather jacket and the jewels dripping from your ears. They must cost a few thousands of dollars, money he’d never had in his pocket. His eyes scan around for someone, anyone – a boyfriend, or a husband maybe. But you’re alone.
Nobility has never been Hoseok’s forte - Namjoon and Seokjin had always been the womanizers, and poor Yoongi had been in love with the same woman for over ten years, but he clears his throat, prompting you to turn around, eyes widening at your company.
If he catches a glimpse of unshed tears in your eyes, he doesn’t say anything. 
“Kids these days, huh? They’ll do anything to cause a little chaos,” he quips, a sinking feeling building up in his chest when you don’t respond.
“Ma’am,” he grapples with whether he should ask for your name, “do you need me to walk you home?”
“Did you read it?” your voice is quieter than he expects, yet he draws closer, wanting to hear more of it. Coming to stand beside you, he takes in the captivating features of your face, made all the more alluring by the shadows cast across them.
Following your gaze, he looks at the mural on the wall. A giant wave, Hosukai-style, crashing into a set of words. “After me, the flood,” your voice whispers, and Hoseok feels a rush of emotion at the way you say it, his mind circling back to everything that had happened in the past few years - the dark cloud that had settled over all their lives with Namjoon leaving, the city’s underbelly coming to life, crawling out of the woodwork. 
“I have to go,” you interrupt him, heels clacking against the pavement, before Hoseok’s gaze turns sharply on you, the desperation in his eyes begging you not to go. Come sunrise, he’d be forced back into the same grim routine, but right now, it felt nice, standing here with you.
“Will you be okay getting home alone?” he asks, grappling for any chance to prolong the moment.
“My driver is around the corner,” you tell him. “Thank you for keeping me company, –”
“Hoseok,” he fills you in, his chest aching with the desire to ask for your own name, but you’re already gone.
. . .
Hoseok wakes up the next morning to the rattling of the blinds, the sunlight causing him to immediately shut his eyes and bite back a groan. There was only one person who’d have access to his apartment at this hour – and exploit it.
“Eomma?” he rasps, burrowing his head further into the sheets. “What are you doing here?”
“Did you forget Hoseok-ah? Hurry up and get dressed, everyone’s waiting! You have five minutes.”
Forget what? His mother’s fussing continues in the background as she leafs through his closet, no doubt trying to find him a suitable outfit amongst the many pairs of ripped denim and oversized shirts he prefers on a day-to-day basis. Hoseok wracks his brain, trying to remember what could have called for such an occasion, but comes up empty, his mother’s stern warning echoing in his ears. 
As per usual, if it had anything to do with the organization, he’d do best not to ignore it.
Slipping on the stark white shirt and tie she’d chosen, the fabric itches against his skin, and he rakes his fingers through his hair, attempting to comb the mess into something somewhat presentable. He’s sure there was little to be done about the bags under his eyes, and the faint smell of tobacco emanating from him, and hoped that whoever these important guests were, they wouldn’t catch onto his late-night activities from the previous day. 
Stumbling into the hallway, Hoseok hears the faint chatter of voices, his father’s bellowing laugh a stark contrast to his mother’s delicate titter, and is immediately confused. Conversations with the bosses of the organization weren’t usually so… enthusiastic. 
When he rounds the corner to his living room, he stops in his tracks. Sitting next to his mother and father is another older couple he doesn’t recognize. They reek of wealth that his family could never even imagine, he notes, the polished Italian leather of the man’s shoes and the older woman’s massive diamond ring speaking for themselves. But he could honestly care less. Because to their left side, sitting on his favorite armchair, is you. The woman from in front of the mural. You’re clad in a simple sundress today, but you still manage to be nothing short of breathtaking against the backdrop of the sun’s rays. 
“There you are, Hoseok!” his father beckons him over jovially, but Hoseok remains frozen. “This is Mr. and Mrs. ____, and their daughter ____.”
Hoseok’s turns his gaze to his father, watching him recoil at the sharpness present in his son’s expression, a thousand unspoken questions lingering on his lips as to why these people were here, what purpose they had in his home, his space.
“We’d like for the two of you to get to know each other,” your mother speaks up with a smile so wide, he’d assume it’d been plastered onto her face. 
“Why?” he finally manages to whistle out in between grit teeth, looking only at you. But you don’t meet his eyes. Instead, your gaze is looking out his window, at the city beyond, the same loneliness from last night ever present in your eyes. 
“Because,” his father continues uncertainly, fidgeting the glass of wine in his hands, “___ is going to be your wife.”
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You can feel Hoseok’s eyes glaring into the back of your head as he follows you wordlessly down the hallway. Moments pass before you come to a stop outside your apartment, and you hear the faint stumble of Hoseok’s boots as he stops unexpectedly in his tracks. His warm breath fans against the back of your neck for a brief moment before he straightens with a grunt, and you resist the urge to shiver, despite having never stepped foot into the rain.
The lock clicks, and he follows you inside. You can hear him rustle behind you as he struggles to remove his coat and boots, but you look straight ahead, hoping the darkness can hide how your fingernails are digging into your palm. 
“I won’t stay long,” his low voice breaks the silence. “Just until the storm passes.”
“Please,” you manage to muster up your most polite sounding voice. “Have a seat. I can get you something, maybe some water, o-or a cup of tea…” 
You want to curse your voice for wobbling in his presence, hating the way he still affected you even after all this time apart. Your brain bades you to walk away instinctively, and so you pad into the kitchen, wanting to put distance in between you and Hoseok so he can’t hear the rapid fluttering of your heart. The noise pounds in your ears as you rattle around in the cupboards, cursing when you realized you’d forgotten to turn on the light. It seemed embarrassing to do it now, and so you reach aimlessly, looking for some coffee. 
The pot bubbles, and in mere moments, you’re clutching two steaming mugs, finding your way back onto the living room. Hoseok has settled himself onto your couch, taking extra care not to rest his soaked shirt against the back of it, instead hunched over and dangling an unlit cigarette from his fingertips.
“Sorry, I didn’t know if you’d be okay with me…” he gestures to it, twirling it around in his fingers. “I know you don’t like the smell.”
You’re unsure whether to be touched that he remembers, or uneasy at the way he says it so monotonously, as if you’d still judge him for something so mundane when so much else had happened in between you.
“Here,” you set down the coffee in front of him, taking the seat directly opposite. “It’ll help take the edge off.”
The warm liquid burns your throat as you rush to take a sip, and you nearly sputter trying to keep it down. Over the rim of your cup, Hoseok remains frozen, his own mug steaming and untouched. His dark eyes bore into you, studying your face, and you feel your cheeks begin to burn.
If he notices the bags under your eyes, he says nothing. The same way he says nothing when he probably remarks at your simplistic clothes and lack of jewelry, a far cry from the expensive dresses and diamonds he’d been used to seeing you in. 
“Were you about to go out?” Hoseok asks, and the question catches you off guard. “I’m sorry if I stopped you from going somewhere.”
“Or meeting someone.” The last part is a hushed whisper, mumbled underneath his breath, in the hopes that you wouldn’t catch him. But you had. You wish he’d stop apologizing. It makes you feel guilty when you shouldn’t be, like he’s trying and you’re shutting him out, when in reality it’d been the exact opposite. 
All of a sudden, your phone buzzes to life, a text message lighting up the screen. You freeze when you see who it’s from, quickly snatching your phone and cursing in your head. Minghao was a friend of a friend, the two of you running into each other a number of times over the past couple of weeks, before he’d finally plucked up the courage to ask you for a coffee date.
You’d told him you’d think about it, and now here he was, lighting up your phone to ask you about your decision. Of course, how was he supposed to know that the reason you’d been holding off was the very man sitting in your living room, whom you’d almost married, and still couldn’t seem to let go?
Clutching your phone to your chest, you turn it to silent, setting it down beside you. Hoseok’s eyes are alight with curiosity, his lips turned up in a faint smirk, as though he’s remembering his statement from earlier. 
You take another sip, willing the caffeine to give you some strength, to rein in the bare threads of this conversation back to your control.
“How are your parents?”
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Hoseok is taken aback by the question. He hadn’t expected it from you. There had once been a time where you’d been bright eyed and eager, wanting to know everything about him, bombarding him with question after question every time you were together. And yet somehow, he’d never managed to give you the time of day, always giving brusque answers and half-hearted excuses that there were other things that needed his attention.
He knew it was just a poor attempt to fill the silence, but his heart lurches at the thought that there’s so much you don’t know anymore. Namjoon coming back, Seokjin running away, the life that Hoseok knew being turned inside out. What’s more unsettling is the fact that he yearns to tell you, despite knowing he’d lost the privilege to do so.
“They’re okay. Doing well,” he lies through his teeth. “We all are. How about yours?”
He thinks it’s an innocent question, but he watches your fingers blanch as you grip the mug so tight, he thinks it’ll break. 
“I wouldn’t know,” you whisper out softly, and his heart stops. “I haven’t spoken to them since– you know.”
Hoseok feels dizzy at your confession. What do you mean you hadn’t spoken to them? Suddenly, it all begins to make sense in his head. The fact that he hadn’t expected to run into you tonight, because he hadn’t expected you to live alone, with your austere clothes and hair tossed up into a messy bun. It was so different from the woman he’d known, the dazzling one he’d written off as hollow in his mind, the one he was incapable of forming a real relationship with. 
And here you were, living the exact opposite of the cozy life he’d painted for you in his head. He thought you’d be fine, that you’d move on, your family offering you up to the next prospect that came along. And you’d accept them, like you’d accepted Hoseok with all his flaws, not caring that he could barely give you what you deserved.
His thoughts flash back to the last conversation you had, tears streaming down your face as you sobbed.
I can’t live like this anymore.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, and he watches annoyance flash across your face. He knows he’s done nothing but apologize this entire time, but it probably isn’t even worth a damn. No consolation would ever make up for losing someone that meant everything to you. He’d known that when Namjoon had run away.
“Hey,” you set the mug down, leaning over the table. For a brief second, he sees your hand reach out blindly in the darkness, almost as if it’s searching for his, but you withdraw just as quickly. “I’m okay. I really am.”
“I wish you’d stop pretending,” Hoseok blurts out, and he watches you jolt in surprise. “Why do you always have to pretend like everything’s okay, like nothing affects you? Is it the society training? Or do you really just not care about what happened at all?”
You chew the inside of your cheek, mulling over Hoseok’s words in your head.
“The same way you can pull the trigger on someone and be able to lie in your bed and fall asleep,” you seethe, a venom that Hoseok has never heard in your voice. 
“I knew who you were Hoseok. I knew what kind of man I was marrying. You think it didn’t affect me? You think I wasn’t scared out of my wits because of what you did, what other people could do to you?” 
You rise up, palms quivering as you open and close them, strolling over to the window. Hoseok watches your shoulders shake before they slump completely, and he knows that you’re crying.
He’s up before he can stop himself, feet ready to walk out the door. He’d fucked up the moment he’d stayed in the elevator with you, all the ugly feelings between you coming to a head, ones he’d struggled so hard to keep buried. 
But his body betrays him, instead leading him right behind. He pauses until he’s just close enough that if he reaches out, he’d be able to grab your arm and turn you around to face him. But he waits instead.
“I did what I did because I realized I was chasing a ghost,” you huff out, resignation in your tone. “I wanted you to be someone you weren’t. I wanted you to care so badly. But you didn’t. I don’t want any part in whatever you’re caught up in, Hoseok. Whatever has a hold on you so badly that you couldn’t even look beyond your cynicism to give me a chance.”
“I just want to survive.”
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Hoseok grips the bathroom sink, knuckles turning white. His cell phone clatters on the counter beside him and he has to keep from heaving. This whole thing was a mess – no one had counted on Namjoon coming back. Even less so on him refusing to take up his father’s mantle. And so the threats continued – the words from the anonymous phone call still ringing in his ear, your name echoing across the line.
While he didn’t know what he felt for you, or whether he could even marry you, Hoseok knew you were an innocent person. You didn’t deserve to be the victim of your parents’ greed, them using you to bury their secrets in the hands of even more powerful people. You deserved gardens full of flowers and meals together every night, not coming home to an empty bed. Or a fiancé who couldn’t spare a moment during the entire night to even dance with you. 
He’s so lost in his brooding that he doesn’t hear the door the click behind him, the soft tapping of heels on the floor coming up behind him. 
“Is something wrong?” you ask him gently, and he feels the bristle of your hand on his jacket. 
So much was wrong. You couldn’t even begin to understand. 
“It’s fine,” he clears his throat, straightening up to adjust his jacket. “I’ll need to leave soon. I can have the car stay behind for you.”
The farther away he got from you, the better. That way no one could hurt you – or him. 
“I can go with you,” your voice echoes from beside him, “I was getting tired anyway.”
Hoseok turns to face you, watching you recoil at the red rimming his eyes, the bags underneath them becoming even more prominent in the dim lighting of the bathroom.
He doesn’t know what possesses him to reach for the single strand of hair that has managed to escape your polished bun, but he watches you suck in a breath, lips parting in surprise.
Before he knows it, your face is drawing in closer, and he can smell the rosé on your breath. Your lips barely ghost against his, and he has to fight every nerve ending not to grab your hand and run away from here, somewhere where he wasn’t Hoseok, and you weren’t ____, and you didn’t need protecting from everything around you – most of all him. 
His paralysis slowly melts away and he’s pushing you away without realizing, the door to the bathroom suddenly materialising in front of him. 
“Like I said,” he doesn’t bother turning around, knowing his heart would twist at whatever expression he found on your face. “I’ll have the car stay behind for you.”
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Before you can wrestle with the weight of your confession to Hoseok, a hand is clamping over your mouth. Caught in a silent scream, you turn your eyes to see Hoseok lifting a finger to his lips, willing you to stay quiet. And that’s when you hear them. The voices.
Raucous laughter echoes through the hallway, tinged with malevolent glee. The air around you feels cold, a breeze at the base of your spine, and you instinctively curl into Hoseok.
“Come out, come out,” the disembodied voice cackles from the hallway. “Are you hiding from us, Jung? Found some poor rich girl to use as a body shield?”
Your hand seizes Hoseok’s wrist clamped against your mouth, nails digging into his arm, the fear taking over. Slowly, his wrist lowers, slipping to take your hand in his, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
“I won’t let anything happen to you. Do you trust me?” 
He’s so quiet you almost can’t tell he’s said it at all. You nod reluctantly, eyes continuing to dart to the door.
“Go hide underneath the bed. Lock the door. I may or may not come back but please stay inside. Don’t come looking for me.”
His voice is clipped, the faint hint of nerves colouring his tone, but his eyes are filled with a resoluteness you know all too well. You’d spent the better part of over a year staring into them, hoping they’d look back. And now they finally were. 
“Be safe.” Your voice comes out louder than you’d intended, but there’s no anger in Hoseok’s expression. All he does is nod, and then you turn, stumbling down the hallway to your room, never bothering to look back until you hear the door click behind you.
. . .
Hoseok’s heart pounds in his chest, a strange pain settling in his ribs – he never expected to be in this position again. His sense of duty had always been his biggest downfall – and while you were no longer his, he owed it to you to make sure he gave you exactly what you’d asked him for – the chance to survive, to come out on the other side of this. That’s why he had to settle this once and for all.
Choi’s cronies linger at the other end of the hallway, too dumb to notice Hoseok slipping out of your door, reaching for the revolver he’d kept hidden in his coat pocket. A chill settles in his bones as he runs his fingers over the metal.
The brief events of the night play over in his head – the rain pounding against the pavement, the ding of the elevator, the now-cold mug of coffee that sat on your coffee table. And then there was you – your eyes, the softness of your skin, the faint smell of gardenias that lingered on your skin.
And it hits Hoseok that while he was very much alive – he’d been in mourning. Mourning for the friendships he’d never be able to recover, for the youth that had been taken away from him. But most of all, Hoseok’s heart mourns for the relationship he’d never gotten to have with you. The glass walls he’d so carefully put up around himself shatter, making way for a torrential deluge. 
After me, the flood.
He remembers the first night you’d met, how he’d been drawn to you without even trying, the portrait of the wave. He remembers the months that passed afterwards, where you drew closer to him and he drew back. He remembers the regret he’d buried deep in his heart for not kissing you back the night of the gala, not knowing he’d never get another chance.
But most of all, he remembers the somber expression on your face the day you’d ended things, pressing the engagement ring back into his hands, the very same ring that was still sitting in the first drawer of his nightstand. 
Choi’s men finally perk up, noticing Hoseok’s solitary figure lingering at the end of the hallway, smirks twisting on their grotesque faces. A shot rings out, and Hoseok thinks of you now, hiding under your bed. And then he charges.
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The alleyway was grim at this time of day, the sunlight barely able to reach beyond the towering skyscrapers, the clouds casting everything in grey. Rain fell softly from the sky. You clutch your coat tighter around you, unable to stop looking at the mural of the wave.
So much had changed since you’d first seen it. And yet it was still the same.
You know Hoseok from the thud of his boots against the pavement, coming up beside you. His head turns, an eyebrow raised in your direction, wondering why you’d asked to meet him here of all places.
You avoid his eyes, fingers clasping around the blue velvet in your pocket. His eyes widen with surprise when he sees the box, confusion marring his handsome face. 
A knot forms in your chest when you watch the confusion turn into alarm as you press the box into his hand, the dazzling diamond no longer on your left finger.
“I don’t understand,” he grunts, breath visible in the cold air.
“We can’t do this anymore, Hoseok. I can’t do this. I can’t live like this.”
“Was it something that I did?” he questions you, desperation creeping into his voice.
You scoff, watching him flinch, pain on his face. 
“No, it’s the opposite. It’s what you haven’t ever been able to do. It’s been an entire year, Hoseok. I’ve watched you answer every phone call that comes your way, disappear into the night to do god knows what, run whenever your friends call. And in that entire time, have you ever thought about us? About the future?”
You take a deep breath.
“I know that neither of us chose this, but Hoseok, we were engaged. Did that mean anything to you?”
He squares his shoulders, fists clenching at his sides, a tick in his jaw.
“You don’t understand. I-I’m not good for you, ___. I dont think I’ll ever be. There’s too much that’s happened, too much I’ve lost. But please don’t walk away like this.
“I thought it’d be enough,” you whisper, and Hoseok freezes. You didn’t know he’d heard you.
“I thought me loving you would be enough for the both of us. But it’s not. I need more. I need someone who I know will come home to me every night. But what I need even more than that, is for you to let me walk away so I can breathe again. So I can be myself.”
Your eyes are just as sad as the first time Hoseok saw them, and all of a sudden, you remark at how stagnant the two of you had been together.
“Hoseok please, I know I can’t ask you to do it if you love me, but if you’ve ever cared about me, even the tiniest bit, let me go.”
You watch him open the box, gazing at the ring. Moments pass by before he slips it into his own pocket, his eyes flitting to the wave as he gives you a small smile, the most genuine one you’d ever seen.
“Goodbye, ____. 
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Hoseok’s fist rattles against the door, before he slumps over, heaving for breath. The pain in his side licks at him like the flames of a fire. He hisses when he presses a hand to it, eyes widening when it comes away covered in blood. Those fuckers had managed to get him. Shit.
His eyes are about to close when the door springs open, the wide eyes of Kim Namjoon taking in his battered figure. 
“Hobi, what the fuck?” Namjoon seethes, offering him an arm and pulling him inside. Slinging an arm around Hoseok’s shoulder, the two of them hobble to Namjoon’s kitchen, the burning in Hoseok chest causing him to let out a loud groan.
“Hyun is sleeping,” Namjoon chastises him, and Hoseok bites his tongue, remembering that this Namjoon was dealing with a pregnant wife and a toddler. “You gonna tell me what the hell happened, or do I have to force it out of you?”
“I made a mistake, Namjoon. I went somewhere I shouldn’t have tonight. I fucked up, but I-I didn’t mean to I swear…”
Hoseok feels himself shake as the words pour out, the ruined mission the furthest thing from his mind. He tells Namjoon everything – from being tailed to running into to you, to how he’d left, not knowing whether you were okay or not. 
“That was a dick move,” Namjoon huffs.
“Excuse me?” Hoseok looks up at his best friend, who looks more pissed off than he’s ever seen him. 
“I said what I said. That was a dick move, just leaving her like that.”
“I don’t need a lecture on running away from you, Namjoon-ah.”
Namjoon wipes away the blood on his side, and Hoseok bites his tongue at the sting of the alcohol, before slumping into the chair next to him. 
“You’re an idiot, Jung Hoseok. You’ve been so afraid of letting yourself feel things for so long, and I know it’s because you think that everyone around you is going to leave, or that you’ll lose them. But I’m telling you right now, that’s the stupidest thing you could ever do.”
“You have to let yourself just be, Hobi. Just let go. Enjoy things - life, your friends, your family. Be open to the possibility of love. It’s the only thing that can keep the darkness away.”
Namjoon’s voice shrinks when he says the last line, and Hoseok knows his friend is far off in his own mind, battling the demons that plague him. 
“I think I’m too far gone for that, Namjoon,” Hoseok tells him. “Maybe some of us weren’t meant for happiness. Maybe some of us needed to make sacrifices so others could live the lives they wanted to.”
“That’s a damn lie if I’ve ever heard one, Hoseok.” Namjoon striaghtens, rising up from the chair. “I know you’ve been angry at me for leaving, for keeping you all in the dark. I know how much it hurts to not be able to share your happiest moments with people you love. And I’m sorry for that. But you have a chance to change things.”
“Listen Hobi,” Namjoon crouches down to his level. “I want to be the best man at your wedding – I want to be there for you in all the ways you didn’t get to do for me. This is my way of making amends, but you need to fix whatever this is between you two.”
“What makes you think she’ll even take me back? I was awful to her… god, she didn’t deserve that Joon. She deserves so much better.”
“Do you love her?” Namjoon asks him, and Hoseok is shocked when he doesn’t even have to pause to think about it. He wants to start over, to be by your side, to have a chance to love you properly this time around. 
“Second chances come when you least expect them, Hobi. Think about what would have happened if you hadn’t stepped out into the rain last night. And don’t let it happen again.”
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The knock at the door startles you, your phone clattering to the floor. Swearing under your breath, you pick it up, perusing the message from Minghao once again. He was nothing if not persistent. And Hoseok was never coming back. You’d convinced yourself of that.
It’d been over a week since he’d left you that night - the promise to keep you safe burrowing its way into your heart. And then radio silence. You’d heard the gunshots in the hallway, but when you’d opened the door, no one was there, the only evidence of the showdown being the faint splatters of blood on the wall. When the police had questioned you, you’d left Hoseok’s name out of it – those words echoing in your mind, instilling a false sense of loyalty in you.
Why did you think things would be different this time around? It’d been foolish to assume that Hoseok thought anything more of you. But you couldn’t forget the look in his eyes, the gentle touches, the way he’d promise he would never let anything happen to you, and you fell for him all over again.
Throwing your phone aside, you grumble as you make your way to the door, making a mental note to respond to Minghao later, agreeing to the date.
Swinging it open, you freeze when you see who’s on the other end. Hoseok, looking worse for wear with bruises on his jaw and a nasty cut on his forehead, nervously twirling a tiny bouquet of flowers in his hand.
You’re dumbfounded - unable to speak as you take him in, his dark, inquisitive eyes gazing into your shocked ones. 
“You better let me in, ____,” he says with a grin. “Or the neighbours are gonna think I did something really bad this time.”
Wordlessly, you open the door to allow him to enter, watching as he slips off his coat and shoes, an exact repeat of a week ago. You watch him, trying to open your mouth and say something, ask him anything, but nothing will come out. 
“These are for you,” Hoseok nearly shoves the bouquet in your hands and you watch him rub at the back of his neck, his ears reddening.
“Are you okay Hoseok?” you finally manage to ask him, setting the flowers on your coffee table. Your concern wins out over your confusion once again, but the whole scene is odd – him, smiling in your apartment, the late afternoon sunlight casting half his angular face in a mysterious shadow.
“Just a little nick to my side,” he lifts his shirt up, your eyes widening at the bandages on his abdomen. “But actually, I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay since the day I let you walk away, and I can’t live with it anymore.”
You take a step back, unable to breathe. The space in between you seems to have lessened considerably, and you can make out every delicate detail of his face. Dizzy, you put some distance in between the two of you.
“Everything hurts, ___. It hurts because I look at you and I feel like I can’t breathe anymore, knowing how much pain I put you through. It hurts knowing that you’re so kind, so understanding of someone like me, when I don’t deserve it at all. And what hurts the most is knowing that I love you, and I’ve been lying to myself this entire time because I’m afraid you’ll leave just like everyone else, but I lost you anyway.”
Hoseok’s voice cracks on the last words, and you watch him sway, gripping onto your counter for support.
“I thought it was just me this entire time,” you finally manage to look him in the eyes, tears spilling out of your own. “I thought I was crazy, because ever since you walked out that door a week ago, all I’ve been doing is waiting for you to come back.”
“I’m here,” Hoseok closes the gap between you, arms wrapping around you. You breathe in the faint scent of tobacco on his leather jacket, mixed with the spice of his cologne. “And I’m not leaving. Not this time.”
You grip his lapels, before your arms come up to wrap around his neck, running your fingers through the soft hair at his nape. 
“What if it’s not different this time around?” you whisper into his neck. “What if nothing changes?”
“What if it is?” his low voice rumbles into your hair. “Can you trust me, ___? One more time?”
You take his hand in yours, bringing it to your chest, his lips parting in awe at the fluttering of your heartbeat.
“Only you can do that to me,” you say softly, a smile gracing your lips. 
Before you know it, Hoseok’s lips are crashing against yours, and you can feel him release a euphoric sigh, groaning into your mouth. It’s slow, tentative in the way he waits for your body to respond, never pushing more than you’re comfortable with. Eventually, even the small bit of distance in between you becomes too much to bear. You card your fingers into his hair, pulling slightly at the strands, warmth blossoming in your chest.
It feels too short when he pulls away all too soon, lips tinged with red and eyes dark with something that sends a shiver down your spine.
“I’ve wanted to do that ever since the night of the gala,” he rasps, warmth blooming in your chest at his confession. “You were—, I mean you still are, breathtaking.”
You can feel the rapid beat of his heart, his pulse point right there below your fingertips, and you reach for his hand, watching his entire body soften at your touch. 
“Come with me,” you ask him, eyes turning down the hallway to your bedroom. “We have a lot of lost time to make up for. 
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Hoseok tries to ignore the rapid rushing of blood in his ears, his focus narrowing to your head resting on his shoulder, the two of you looking out at the city together for the last little while from your bed. It’s somewhere he never imagined he’d be, but he’d felt the ice around his heart melt the moment he’d finally kissed you for real, warmth filling his veins.
And despite relishing in your presence, it was spiking to a fever pitch. He’d tasted you, and now he couldn’t get enough. All it takes is a brief moment for you to look in his eyes, and he’s pulling you into him once again, mouth hard on yours, unable to resist the desire for more, more, more. 
You whine into his mouth, hands fisting at the edge of his shirt, struggling to pull it over his head. He uses one hand to pin both arms behind you, reaching over with the other to hike your dress up to your stomach, finally peeling it off, and you lie back, eyes alight with desire as you take him in. 
He kisses you again, his lean body hovering over yours, hands roaming everywhere – your arms, up your neck, and on your thighs. He inches higher and higher, fingers ghosting over your core.
“Hoseok please,” you whimper, digging your nails into his shoulder blades. “I can’t wait anymore.”
You part your thighs for him, and he wastes no time, pulling your soaked underwear to the side and dipping his fingers into your arousal. He presses another hard kiss to your lips, catching your moans in his mouth while he works you open, leaving you trembling underneath him.
You whine when his fingers leave you, clenching around nothing, coming up to cup your exposed breasts in both hands while he licks and sucks at your nipples.
“Fuck,” he groans against your chest. “How are you so perfect? How are you even mine?”
His voice breaks, and you mouth at his jaw, mirroring his actions until purple bruises begin to bloom in the spots where your lips previously were.
“I’m yours,” you nip at his bottom lip. “Whether you like it or not.”
“Believe me,” he smirks. “I like it. I like it a lot actually. Let me show you how much.”
With adept skill, he manages to remove your panties in seconds, throwing them to the wall. The clinking sound of his belt drives you mad, and your hands join his, the two of you awkwardly fumbling to remove it.
You feel your mouth go dry when his cock springs free, and he chuckles at the depraved look in your eyes.
“Some other time, love,” he whispers, voice lowering a few octaves. “Right now, I need to feel you.”
You gasp when he pushes in, and he pauses, wondering if it’s too much, but you nod, letting him know it’s okay. He thrusts shallowly, before pushing in all the way, watching you squirm underneath him while rutting your hips.
“Move, please,” you beg him, and he obliges, hiking one leg up over his shoulder to open you up for him, the wet sounds of your pussy accompanying the fluid snap of his hips. His knuckles grip the headboard, turning white while he pins you underneath him, unable to take his eyes off the way your tits bounce with every thrust. His hands grip at your ass, every jerk of his hips an excuse to hold you tighter, until he can see your skin redden underneath his fingers. 
“Oh my god, Hoseok, I can’t–, it’s too much,” you groan, rocking against him in an attempt to quell the sparks underneath your skin, lighting you up like a livewire.
“Come for me,” he grunts, trapping your clit in between his fingers, rubbing tight circles until you snap, seeking his lips once again, your orgasm flooding your entire body like a wave. Hoseok speeds up his thrusts to join you, roaring when he feels himself explode, before slumping against you, chest heaving with the weight of his breaths. 
Moments pass like this, him remaining inside you while he burrows into the crook of your neck, his warm breath fanning your damp skin. Eventually he pulls out of you with a soft whine, brushing away the sweat-soaked strands of hair at your temple, before rising. 
You trap his wrist in your hand, panic settling in. He watches your expression change and immediately stiffens, cradling you against his chest.
“That expression you always talk about, the flood. I-, I looked it up. And I know the life I have isn’t ideal, and maybe things will only get harder, but I promise I will do everything in my power to keep you safe. I don’t want to live out the rest of my life not caring anymore.”
“Do you know what I was thinking of that night, looking at the wave?” you mumble in his ear, and he gazes at you inquisitively, watching the way your skin glows under the moonlight as you take a breath.
“My whole life, people have forced me into this box, this image, of someone they want me to be – the perfect daughter, the perfect wife. It’s been suffocating. All I wanted that night was a taste of freedom - that feeling of happiness you have on a beach, feeling the waves crash at your feet. And then I saw you.”
Hoseok leaves a kiss in your hair, his fingers intertwining with yours. Briefly, his heart drops at the absence of the ring he’d given you on your finger, but he knows when you’re ready, it’ll be waiting for you. He’ll be waiting for you. And the two of you will step into the flood, together. 
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a/n pt. 2:  Okay long ending note here. First, please visualize this Hoseok with the undercut ;) Second, I don't normally say this but the writer's block really got me good with this one, so I apologize if it's not up to my usual standards (pls be kind tho). And third and last, this fic definitely would never exist if it weren't for the wonderful Guarded series by Ana (@xjoonchildx). I think about it more than is necessary and this is definitely my tribute to the impeccable Captain Jung.
As always, any comments or feedback are much appreciated, but I appreciate you all anyway. Lots of love, Isi &lt;3
taglist (pls let me know if you want to be removed): @jalexad @secfir @hobi-love @back2bluesidex @temptingempress
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veryinnovative · 27 days
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@jegulus-microfic | march 1, prompt: rugby | word count: 1.080 featuring motion-sick regulus. this is mostly comical / partly crack. tw he does throw up but there's no graphic detail.
Exploiting what Regulus assumes to be the surviving remnants of a bewitched bloodline, James had, at long last, managed to magically convince the notorious ‘Young Sir Black’, as Horace would have it, to join him on a three-hour-long drive to the ancestral Potter manor to informally meet his parents.
Informally indeed because the first time he met Mr. and Mrs. Potter was during a fundraiser event held in Somerset House organized by the Black family to launder money under the guise of charitable benevolence. Regulus had been sixteen then. Sixteen and trying to mask the lingering scent of weed because somehow Barty had convinced him to ‘smoke a quick one’ before being subjected to the horror that was the annually rehearsed speech of one of his phony relatives. Not that Regulus remembered much of it, not when he had been too laser-focused on James Potter’s brilliant smile and his rugby-appropriate wide shoulders and height. 
And it’s not that Regulus isn’t excited to meet James’ parents, not at all. Euphemia often demands Regulus show his face when James takes the time to video call her and Fleamont is very invested in the growing rare enamel pin collection he has going on. 
The reason for his uneasiness is simply—
“Hey, Reg, you okay?” James asks, gently nudging him in his side. Emphasis on gently.
 “Mhm,” Regulus hums, his gaze glued to the window instead of its usual hyperfixation: his boyfriend’s face. He had read, long ago, that finding a fixed point would help. The writer of the article fucking lied.
The problem is that Regulus gets motion sick very fucking easily and avoids cars, busses, and a majority of moving vehicles like the bubonic plague. 
“Fifty years I have driven the Fleamont junior’s family. For fifty years!” Horace had proudly announced when Regulus clambered into the backseat with begrudging acquiescence. “You worry not, Young Sir Black. Mrs. Potter was as squeamish as you, but my driving simply cured her motion sickness!”
Regulus didn’t have the heart to tell him that he barely survived a bus ride of thirty minutes on a good day.
“Yeah,” Regulus rasps when James pokes him again, worry creasing the skin between his eyebrows. “No, I’m fine.” The lane switches got him good, but that would be an insult to Horace’s otherwise seamless driving skills. Curse Regulus for being so sensitive to it all.
“We got like another hour and a half left,” James tells him, to which Regulus tries not to groan like a toddler on the verge of a tantrum. “You need a break?”
Regulus definitely needs a break, but they have already stopped at a gas station three times and he is out of excuses that won’t inevitably upset Horace. First, James had to go to the bathroom. Then, Regulus needed to use the loo. The third time, he had lied through his teeth he’d fancy a snack, and no, not the ones that Horace had stockpiled in the little mini-fridge nestled between seats. 
The overpriced pack of mini Party Rings rests unopened in his hands. Unopened because he will die if he so much as gets a whiff of food.
This discomfort, of course, doesn’t elude Horace.
“It’s—It’s the sun!” He exclaims. “The sun is hanging quite low today, making the asphalt expand so inconveniently like this. Terribly sorry, Young Sir Black, you know how it goes with this country’s tax money and road improvements…”
Regulus hums in response and lets his head fall back against the headrest. “Sorry, James. You were saying?”
“Just about the evening’s plans but never mind that. Are you okay?”
“Young Sir Black is mighty fine,” Horace replies in his stead. “No such thing as motion sickness exists when it is I who drives, sir Junior.”
Horace remains faithful to his promise for a whole whopping three minutes until a twist in the road intervenes, and Regulus's stomach lurches, betraying his efforts to quell the rising nausea after a record time of suppression. 
“James,” Regulus groans.
James looks thoroughly alarmed and starts shifting in place looking for the bag he had been entrusted with. “Oh, shit. Bag? Fuck, do you—”
Unfortunately, he jostles Regulus in the process. Regulus, who has been fighting for his life.
“James,” he wheezes out, weakly flailing his arm. “The bag—I—”
“I’m looking for it! Fuck, which pocket did I put it in—”
“Is everything alright back there?!” Horace asks, his eyes wide in the rearview mirror. “Oh, oh no…”
Ignoring the loud lamenting of his driver, James almost flings the plastic bag in Regulus’ face. “I found it!”
“That is it then,” Horace whispers. “I take this as my sign to officially resign upon dropping you and Young Sir Black off, sir Fleamont junior. It has been my greatest honor to serve you and the Potter family for fifty years.”
“Horace, please.”
“It is the age, is it not? This vocation, it’s knighthood, sir Fleamont junior. One does not retire so easily—”
All else is drowned out by Regulus painfully emptying his stomach with a retch. Had this not happened before, shame would have flooded him in the multitudes. He still wonders how James had convinced both himself and Regulus to admit to a long car ride. Something something about the pastures being a healing balm…
“Horace,” James pleads again as he rubs circles on Regulus’ back. “I can only really comfort one of you. Baby, you okay? That— okay, no you’re not. Please stop kicking me in the shin, I will apologize profusely when you can breathe.”
There are tears welling up in Horace’s eyes. “Oh, now I’ve done it, made Young Sir Black sick. I am a failure, I do not deserve the title and honor of driving you or your parents. I must hand over the keys the very instant I arrive. Do allow me the opportunity to part from her, sir Fleamont junior.”
Regulus thinks he’s going to lose his mind. James might be on the verge of losing his too. “Horace, please, I need your eyes on the road.”
“I could drive this car blind, sir! For fifty years—”
“Please do not drive the car blind.” James sounds utterly exasperated now.
It takes him a solid couple of minutes but Regulus eventually manages to come up for a fresh breath of air and the damp press of a scented baby wipe against his jaw. He lets James coddle him, for now.
“Fuck… You.”
“I deserve that one.”
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heteromerous-rhyming · 2 months
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i think that i've figured out why i don't like show sally.
ok like don't get me wrong, virginia kull?? she ATE with that interpretation. her acting?? amazing. like i could truly get the core of her character.
it's just that i don't like the character the writers give us.
cw: discussion of abusive relationships, of toxic family dynamics, probably a good bit of generational trauma. I don't really get into details except with stuff shown on the show and written in the books but i wanted to be safe.
as someone from an immigrant household, as someone whose mom works a part time minimum wage job, as someone whose seen and been there as my parents fought, i just really really dislike sally's portrayal in the show. and it's partly because of poseidon and partly because of gabe (mostly because of her character in general but yeah, lets get the men out of the way first)
I feel strongly about poseidon in his relationship to sally very specifically. i don't mind his relationship to percy either books or show. but it's pretty damn clear to me that this show was written by someone who's never experienced sally's situation, of being the single working parent with an absentee partner (or in gabe's case a partner who literally ahHHHHHh). because from the beginning, from sally's reaction and snark to gabe, I felt like something was wrong or off, and it was Specifically the show because i read the books and i watched (some) of the musical and i never felt that way towards either of those. i'm not saying that my family situation is sally's (don't have a god for a father for one), but. by all accounts sally knows that this is an abusive relationship, the only reason that she's with gabe is because of the protection he offers percy. i have to assume that this is true because sally jackson turning gabe to stone is something i'm assuming is staying in the show, and i remember this being mentioned by grover? or someone in the first few episodes. and the cord that struck in me was not the traditional (that is, visible, defined, i don't like this word but i don't have a better one) abusive relationship but relationships in my community, of women staying with husbands because of their children, women outright saying this, women who know the world is cruel to single women and to single mothers specifically. sally, to me has never been under any illusions that gabe is any sort of relationship material. she has never been under any illusions that poseidon would be able to help in any way.
and that crux of sally's relationships made her first scene in the show all that more jarring. but it's not anything specifically that i can put a finger on. and maybe i'm wrong for this or maybe i'm expecting too much. but. sally doesn't have the resentment or the quietness or the bitterness or even the loudness that i expected. you have been the only true caretaker for your child, the only one in the house that really puts food on the table and on top of that is expected to do emotional labor? to cook and clean or at least pick up the food?
but she treats gabe like he's an annoyance. someone to brush off. and you see the manipulation tactics from gabe, you do, but.
its not that i want sally's spirit to be crushed. my mother's spirit wasn't crushed. the women in my community, they laugh, they cry, they watch silly tv shows, they have lives that they live, and in many cases they live well.
but the women that i know are also angry. they are either on fire or they used to burn. when they banter with their partners it often turns ugly because they are tired of the same damn argument day after day, because often the trivial things that are asked are compounded and compounded and compounded because you live in the same house, there is no escape, there is no private space, not really.
it's new york and sally works a job to support an apartment and her family. they are not well-off. sally has no support network we can see, and how could she? poseidon mentions that she has no one to talk to about these things, her parents are clearly out of the picture. all this to say. there is a certain understanding of class that exists within the books that was excised, i believe unknowingly, from the show, and it is the worse for it. there is a tiredness, a worn-down-ness from being low income that sally had in the books, but in the show i only see a struggling first time single parent. i don't see the complexity of a woman who literally gave up on finding a fulfilling relationship to be with a man for her child. i don't see the complexity of a woman working fulltime and still getting demanded from at home. and i didn't realize that I wanted to see that until I saw the show. i didn't realize that that was what i loved about the books.
i hate that they tried to bring poseidon back into sally's life as this perfect man who through cosmic forces can't help. i hate that sally calls him, i hate that he says he'll listen. but most of all i hate that sally just accepts him, falls into him. it's really hard to be a mother when your partner doesn't seem to help you parent in any way, even if he cannot help you. he's a greek god, there's no way in hell that he can begin to understand the lengths that sally has gone through to sacrifice and survive, the very human things that she's done. sally in the books thinks of poseidon as a sweet memory, almost a fairytale, and it's clear that this story is the one that brings her comfort. poseidon is a one night stand, a sweet stranger, she understands he's not coming back. but this poseidon comes when sally calls, and that i cannot believe. i cannot believe that she still thinks of him as the fairytale man, that she accepts him so easily if there isn't that distance. i cannot believe that there is no resentment, that she still puts faith in him as her god (the first episode when she talks about him just felt so wrong to me) if he's not a memory, but a recurring figure. this is not a story of star-crossed lovers, sally feels too real as a human being for that.
sally finds trust, finds contentment, in the books after percy leaves home, after she no longer has to put up with gabe for his safety. she does not find poseidon again. she marries a human man, a very ordinary human man who cares for her. poseidon visits after she is in this relationship and its an amicable one. he is percy's father but also distant memory all in one. sally has the strength to survive a terrible relationship and still find a way to heal and live fully after that.
but the anger. the fire was there. she turned gabe to stone. she reclaimed her life with her two hands.
you don't kill a man for no reason. you don't kill a man without emotion.
but it's that reason and that emotion that i don't get from the writer's room. and it just makes me deeply sad.
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hashtagcaneven · 3 months
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Kuro's Advice for Awesome Fight Scenes
So I heard you want to write a cool fight scene. Rock on.
Running into some trouble though? No sweat, I got you covered.
I compiled this list of 8 Rules I personally use for Kickass Action Scenes for a Discord group of writers and thought it might be useful for others as well.
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Rule #1 Fight scenes MUST tell an emotional story.
A fight is just an argument but with physical violence instead of words. Just like how in a musical people talk until the energy and emotion goes so high they burst into song and then when that keeps building, they all start dancing. Same concept. People argue and disagree until the emotion is so high they start throwing hands.
Fights act like any other scene where it starts with one emotion and ends with another. Emotion should flow through each move. They should ebb and flow from start to finish, raising and lowering tension to keep a reader engaged and guessing over who is going to win.
This is the bedrock of fight scenes. No amount of “rule of cool” is going to save the scene if there is no emotional heart beating through it.
Rule #2 You need personal stakes
Goes kit and parcel with Rule #1. Your POV characters have to have something on the line to tell an emotional story.
What happens if they lose? What happens if they WIN?
Go beyond JUST “oh if they lose, they die”. What happens to the character’s world if they lose. What will happen to the ones they love when they’re gone? What are the TRUE long term consequences for failure?
Even if it's a friendly (ie non lethal) competition scene, what are those stakes? Bragging rights for a proud character? Or perhaps taking their opponent down a peg?
Avoid vague generalized stakes and find what makes it personal. A knight may fight for his king and country but he also does it because he has his pride as a knight on the line if he walks away or loses.
Rule #3 Pacing is key
Action is fast paced in real life. It should be so in writing.
I personally think of my fight scenes as if they were a movie/show/play fight scene. Partly because that’s my own personal experience and partly because it helps me with pacing, especially with multiple POV characters.
Don’t spend too long on one action. Keep it flowing but have moments of pause. Real fights have moments where someone needs to pick themselves back up or two opponents need to steady themselves for the next round of assault. Use those moments to dig into the introspection of the POV. Your reader is also gonna need a breather from time to time.
With multiple POVs, I flip through them like I’m switching shots on film. We cut away from one thing to see what another character is up to in the flow of things. I flip the camera at moments of triumph or tension to keep building that emotion.
Rule #4 Let your heroes take some hits
Show off those stakes by letting your big bad character get his ass kicked a little bit.
Let ‘em get knocked around a bit to build that tension within a reader. Make them wonder how they’ll pull this off.
Superman fights are so easy to be boring because he’s basically invincible. We all yawn because we know he’s gonna win. Then along comes someone with kryptonite and suddenly it's Superman getting the beat down. Now we’re emotionally engaged because how is he going to get out of this one?
Show their competency in a fight by how well they can take big, painful hurts and keep going anyway. Show it in how they fight back or stay standing, despite the effort.
And don’t be afraid to let your heroes lose a few times. It makes their eventual victory sweeter.
Rule #5 Be clear and concise with your descriptions
Now ain’t the time to pull out your best Tolkien describing a meal impressions.
Action is fast. There are a ton of moving parts which can be severely complex and hard to follow. You want to avoid this confusion at all costs.
Use clear, specific language so the reader can visualize what is happening in their head and not get lost. Once they get lost, they will get frustrated and disengage.
Ditch the heavy metaphors. Let the movement speak for itself as the allegory. If you want to sprinkle in some flowery language, do so separate from the actual action happening in a fight.
Rule #6 Learn the basics of movement
You don’t need to know how to swing a sword with proper technique to write a sword fight (though, let’s be real, it helps). As long as you understand the fundamentals of how the weapon moves, you can write a good sword fight.
Because what makes a fight good is the EMOTION in the fight. Not just the fancy flourishes.
However, if you go too crazy and it becomes unrealistic, your readers can easily disengage.
So you don’t need to know the difference between a riposte and an ochs stance. You just need to know that arms don’t swing that way. You need to know if someone gets pushed, it can throw them off balance.
Learn the basics of human movement, and if there are weapons involved, learn at least the basics because if I see one more person say they’re wielding a longsword like it’s a small sword, you people will kill me inside even more.
Rule #7 Every action has a consequence
When someone attacks, someone has to defend (or get hit). But when someone moves their body one way, it can open them up to a counterattack.
If I lunge too far forward and overextend, I’ve left myself open for attack. If an opponent turns around, their back is now my next best target.
Pay attention to how your characters are moving. Are they opening themselves up for easy counterattacks when you don’t want them to? 
Thinking about what opening a move gives their opponent can help you write your fight scenes, as it will lead to a natural flow and chain of events.
Rule #8 Don’t be afraid to add sound
Fights are vocal. People grunt and groan and shout when they’re hit. They also make noise when they attack. The more wrapped in emotion, the louder and noisier people tend to get as they get lost in it.
During those moments of pause you add from Rule #3 is a great moment for characters to continue the verbal part of their argument
 If one character temporarily overpowers the other, let them brag. If one character gets punched in the mouth, describe the sound of the blood they spit on the ground. 
Just, for the love of the gods, don’t go all Marvel and be quip central. Don’t undercut your own tension and emotion for a quick laugh or to sound cool.
Some examples of great fights:
youtube
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I've been wondering if I should make this post for a while, but I'm just gonna come out and say it: the Sonic movies are not pro-military just because Tom is a police officer. I'd argue that the movies are pretty anti-military, actually.
So, let's talk about Tom first, since he's kind of the elephant in the room with this discussion. Tom is the sheriff to a small town where he rarely has to deal with any real crimes; he usually deals with more trivial problems like people's cars breaking down, and we see him help a family of ducks cross the street.
He's an officer partly out of a sense of obligation (reportedly his family has held this position in some way for over 50 years), and partly because he wants to be in a position where he can protect people in serious situations. His goal at the start of the first movie is to start working in a bigger city where he can be more helpful.
I won't say that Tom isn't something of an idealized vision of a cop, and that in the wrong hands, he could easily be used as a form of military promotion. But I think Tom is like this for a different, more specific reason: to be used as a sharp contrast to literally every other government official we see.
Question: who exactly is the villain in the first Sonic movie? Robotnik, yes, but who is he? What does he represent?
Well, he's pretty much the face of the military.
Robotnik is under direct orders from the government to look into the power outage incident, and that turns into a mission to capture (and experiment on) Sonic - and regardless if Robotnik was authorized to use lethal force, he does so anyway.
And the thing is, all of the higher-ups know he's unhinged and dangerous, but he keeps his job because he gets results regardless of his methods. Heck, the first thing we see him do is lie to Tom about who he is and what he's there for so he can get inside his house to search it. Not exactly the most flattering portrayal of military investigations.
(He even gets punched by Tom after forcing his way into the house anyway)
Tom then proceeds to spend the rest of the movie on the run from the government, going out of his way to protect Sonic (who is quite literally an illegal alien) at the risk of his own livelihood. Clearly, adhering to his job description is not something the movie views as morally correct here.
Second question: who's the villain of the second movie? Still Robotnik, but he's not employed by the government anymore, so he can't really represent them anymore, right?
No, but considering Sonic's adopted family was actively manipulated by a government spy, who was meant to marry his new aunt in order to target him, and Sonic proceeds to get tased and thrown into a cage along with Tails by the other military personnel present at the fake wedding... I think it's safe to say that they are, once again, a central antagonistic force in this series.
(Yeah they do a funny where the spy turns out to have fallen in love for real, but I think we can all agree that was done for the sake of keeping a whimsical tone and not to endorse what was actually happening with the government there)
Which brings us to the third movie, which is still unreleased at the time of writing this. And one final question: how exactly do you think they're planning to write an adaptation of Sonic Adventure 2?
They've already set GUN up as the villains. That alone is central to Shadow's backstory, and the writers have clearly done their homework on Sonic lore. And even if they've somehow wildly missed the messaging of the franchise they've made two successful movies off of, the fact of the matter is that there is no adapting SA2 without anti-military sentiments. Like, they would have to work pretty hard and completely butcher both the game and their own movies up to this point for that to come out being pro-military.
This part's more in speculation territory, but here's a thought: what do you think Tom is going to do when he finds out what happened to Shadow?
Remember, Tom is an idealized small town sheriff who has this job out of obligation. He hasn't had to deal with the darker side of all this stuff until he started protecting Sonic, which - just as a reminder - has led to his house being searched, his car being cut in half, Sonic almost getting killed at least twice, his sister-in-law being manipulated, Sonic and Tails getting locked in cages... I'm probably even missing a few things.
Once everything that happened 50 years ago comes to light (especially if the theorists are right about Tom's family having been involved in it), I honestly wouldn't be surprised if he just. quit being a police officer. or got into activism. or both.
But even if we limit the analysis to just the two movies that are out right now, I struggle to see how "Tom shirks his duties to protect an alien child from being experimented on by the government" is in any way a pro-military sentiment.
In conclusion: basically every problem in the Sonic movies is the fault of the government in some way, so can we please stop talking about the series as if Tom is singlehandedly making them pro-military, now. Thanks
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nobodyfamousposts · 10 months
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Do you think that a lot of the bad moments that people salt Marinette for are more due the "Marinette must commit a mistake and learn a lesson" Episode Writing Rule than things that she would actually do?
Partly. To be fair, part of it does seem to be based around the cringe moments that the writers threw in because they thought that somehow a teenage girl being embarrassed is what amounts to "humor". These humiliating moments that nobody BUT Marinette seems to experience and have played for laughs. Certainly not to the extent she does.
Not helped is that not only does no one else have to suffer such moments, but when others actively inflict this embarrassment onto her, they're never called out or really even acknowledged for their part. And when any of them experience similar treatment, it's narratively portrayed as sad and something to sympathize with them for.
Chloe pulled a lot of horrible stunts, and the fact that she's not even given so much as a slap on the wrist only further pushes this horrible narrative that it's supposed to funny and no big deal when Chloe does bad things and when Marinette suffers. And especially when Adrien or really anyone else does just as bad if not worse only to have any lesson be actively avoided.
So I think a major aspect of the salt towards Marinette is the narrative around her and how her suffering is portrayed as a joke and as if it's somehow deserved or warranted.
The very first episode had it end on a humor note of her losing out on a modeling chance with Adrien and the ending acting like she deserved it somehow. Let's bear in mind it was Alya pushing her to join and Marinette herself hadn't done anything to really deserve losing out the way the episode did compared with if she'd been actively ignoring Manon or acting like a jerk. As a result, I don't know what the lesson was supposed to be there other than that Marinette can't have nice things.
Reflektdoll was a major episode that showed this issue. ALYA was the one who pushed Juleka out to force Adrien and Marinette together. Even though Marinette told her she didn't want Adrien there in the first place. And yet even though ALYA was the one who caused the situation and MARINETTE was the one who at least TRIED to help Juleka and hear her out, Marinette ended up the one getting the full blame for Juleka being upset and the ONLY ONE who apologized by the end for apparently not doing enough to help Juleka despite her actively having attempted to and being cut off by Alya each time. She also ended up the ONLY ONE who WASN'T in the picture with Adrien. ALYA was in the picture, despite being the one directly responsible and the one who wanted Adrien and Marinette to have pictures taken of them together. All of this together gives the impression the narrative is punishing Marinette and that Marinette is somehow supposed to be the one in the wrong in the situation. Meanwhile, Alya and her actions and her part in the whole mess are simply forgotten.
There are at least four separate instances I can think of off the top of my head of Adrien throwing tantrums in the middle of akuma fights and even going so far as threatening to quit, refusing to work with Ladybug to stop the akuma, and even actually quitting. And each time, either HE was portrayed as the wholly innocent party and/or SHE was portrayed as being in the wrong and needing to apologize to him for...(checks notes) not giving him what he wants: whether that be a date, her identity, Fu's secrets, or not being dependent on him.
Then there's Chloe and Lila. Do I really need to get into them at this point?
And remember the comic and how Marinette ended up naked in New York thanks to a stunt Chloe pulled and instead of ANY punishment for Chloe for theft and leaving Marinette without any clothes, it's used to teach Marinette a lesson about racism? No, I will NOT let that go. Even if they did an "official New York episode" to try and replace it, it showed the depths that the writers would put Marinette through and how they would go out of their way to make it be more of a point to make HER wrong somehow even if they had to make it up and disregard the implications and the person responsible.
It all comes down to this common tendency Miraculous has to make light of the things Marinette goes through and having the treatment of her be their go-to joke.
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hii ! even though i write fanfics and don't plan to stop, i would like to write a book one day. now i know the writing style differs from professional published books, but i don't really read much or know how to tell what makes a book good, so i was wondering if you could recommend books to read with prose, pacing, etc that as a writer you find would help "defanficise" me? maybe any book would work and this is a stupid question but i thought i'd ask😅
Fan-Fiction Writer Transitioning to Original Fiction
So, some quick things to start off...
Merriam-Webster defines novels--what you're referring to as "professional published books"--as "invented prose narrative that is usually long and complex and deals especially with human experience through a usually connected sequence of events."
The only real difference between fan-fiction and novels is that the subject matter is borrowed partly or fully from existing narrative material (aka "canon"), but when you write fan-fiction, you're still using prose narrative that (typically) deals with human experience through a connected sequence of events.
My point is, if you write fan-fiction, you already have most of the skills you'll need to write original fiction, including novels. It just takes some time and practice to learn how to invent your own characters, worlds, and plots.
As far as what books to read, every reader has their own preferences for the kinds of stories that interest them. It's very difficult to recommend books to a total stranger because just because I like a book doesn't mean you will. But what I can tell you is all novels contain "prose, pacing, etc." so you can go to the library and choose literally any novel that sounds appealing to you, and you're off to a good start.
In other words, read the books that sound interesting to you. Try books in a variety of genres by a variety of authors. See what genres you're drawn to the most... that may be a genre you'll end up writing in. If you have a genre interest now because of the fan-fiction you enjoy writing, try Googling "best [genre] books" only where it says "genre" put in the genre in question. Like "best sci-fi novels" or "best fantasy novels." That will help you find lists of book titles and summaries to read through so you can start to put together a "to be read" list.
Have fun with your reading and writing adventure!
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dulcewrites · 9 months
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I’m actually curious to see if, and honestly hope, in s2 (whenever that may come out. Studios pay your writers and actors) we get some sort of callback or allusion to the rumor that Jacaerys tried to convert Cregan from the old gods to the faith of the seven.
Not because I care about the gods, outside the religious symbolism they bring. I only want to see people’s reactions. Namely the ones who act as if Alicent is the first woman to ever openly practice the faith. Because I have a feeling those same people will paint Jace possibly doing that as endearing versus Alicent who gets painted as a monster for her connection to the faith. The most we see Alicent doing a redecorating her home. Mind you, not even every room because you can clearly see the tacky tapestries in Viserys’ room in ep 8. Plus we see her praying and wearing religious iconography. Things that are not out of the ordinary… at all. She’s honestly your textbook highborn noble woman during that time. She was born and raised in Oldtown ffs. What is she supposed to follow if not the faith💀
She gets seen as this horrible zealot out to destroy the Targaryens through the faith, and to me that is just indicative on how badly people misinterpret Alicent’s feelings/motivations.
People can have their problems with the writing in hotd. I know there are certain things I have problems with myself. But when can we start being honest about how a lot of the conversations that are regurgitated and argued about day after day have less to do with the writing, and more to do with bad faith viewing. People are watching to see what they want to see, not what is actually in front of them.
Anyone with an objective view of Alicent would be able to tell how much she clings to the faith for salvation and hope. She does it to feel close to her mother, and very kindly/cautiously tries to help Rhaenyra with that too. She then reaffirms her faith after 1. She (imo justifiably) loses her shit at Driftmark and feels guilty about it, and 2. Has to marry her children to each other. Something she expresses thinking is immoral in the past. We even see her cut her hair, more than likely as a means of punishment and repentance. She’s miserable and has very few lifelines to hold onto.
How that gets twisted into her being a bigot because she doesn’t want to see dragons having orgies on her walls is beyond me.
Also the idea she is trying to bring down House Targaryen is nuts, but also laughable. Because between her and her actual Targaryen husband, Alicent is the one affirming her childrens’ Targaryen heritage. She makes sure Aemond knows he will get a dragon one day. She makes sure Aegon gets Blackfyre and his namesake’s crown. It seems like Aemond, and more than likely her other kids, know Valyrian. Ironically, the most anti targ (and frankly valid) sentiments we get are from Viserys. He speaks on the doom, fears what is to come, and how they never should have messed with dragons.
Alicent ‘let the people remember the ancient strength of House Targaryen’ Hightower is not the Baelor y’all want her to be. And if she was, it would’ve worked in her favor more. People tend to leave out the part where the most beloved Targaryens (by their people) were partly that because of their connection to the faith. Ya know the thing Targaryens also practice.
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poughkeepsies · 11 months
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Okay actually after thinking about it for a couple days I have what might be called a hot take. I think what 615 did and the response to it is actually very similar to 510. I wasn't a part of the fandom when 510 aired but just from reading the fics that were written during that time in the post-5A hiatus I can tell that a lot of people were putting a very strong and misguided emphasis on Buck's reaction to Eddie leaving the 118. At least from what I read, it seemed like everyone expected Buck to be hurt and feel abandoned by Eddie's choice and, frankly, have a reaction that I would've hated, which is to make that decision that Eddie made as a clear trauma response about himself. Sure, I'm absolutely sure that Buck felt hurt by the fact that Eddie didn't talk to him about it and continued to push him away after the fact, and Oliver certainly played Buck as feeling wrong-footed by how Eddie was acting, but his main concern was never, ever about himself - it was about the fact that he could see that Eddie was struggling but couldn't figure out why or how to help until Eddie's breakdown.
That's exactly what's happening in the graveyard scene. Yes, Eddie is absolutely hurt by the fact that Buck, his best friend, his person, is talking as if a stranger he just met sees him better than Eddie does. But his main takeaway from that conversation isn't to hang his head and walk away with a sack tied to a stick like goddamn cartoon. It's because he knows Buck that he can tell whatever feelings he thinks he has for Natalia are completely misguided and stem from a far more serious issue, which is that Buck is more affected by his death than he previously realized. That realization and upset expression that you see on Eddie's face mostly and most likely isn't heartbreak for himself - it's almost exactly a parallel to the kitchen scene in 511, when Eddie tells Buck to move on and Buck looks devastated but also mystified. In both 615 and 511 it's Eddie and Buck going "Oh. Something is wrong. This is worse than I thought."
So what I'm trying to say is that while all the speculation about Eddie majorly pining and being heartbroken and this scene compounding his loneliness (which, Eddie's loneliness is a whole other thing that does exist on it's own I absolutely agree with that, I'm just saying this scene wasn't that big of a factor in it) is valid and probably at least partly based in truth, I don't think that's the direction the writers will take the story. Specifically this sentiment I've been seeing all over my dash about how Buck doesn't know he's hurting Eddie and when he finds out he's going to be so devastated and apologize and I just?no? That's simply not realistic or fair to me. Buck's trauma response to his death is the culmination of a lifetime of trauma and just like Buck supported Eddie through his breakdown, Eddie will continue to be Buck's pillar through his once he stops running from it and no apologies will be owed because they love and understand each other enough to know that any hurt caused is not intentional.
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