archie

28/sylus+jaehyun

[luhuala]

An inkscape

[womanguy]

you should get a second evening for reading fan fiction. And you should get an extra day in the week to do arts and crafts.

[loveridden1999]

in a way i am my own dead wife

[wovi]

[lizzienoodles]

guy who's having gauzy idealized wife flashbacks for the whole adventure but it turns out she isn't dead or anything he just really misses her and wants to get home

[chillycheem]

For you, darling 🌹

[zaynezone]

riding zayne so hard he's the one limping the next day

"Why are you walking like that?" You watch Zayne slip into his office for your usual lunch date. He's limping oddly as he walks over to his desk and slips into his chair.

"It's nothing." He tries to reach for the bag of pastries, but you pull it out of his reach.

"Did you get hurt? If something happened, I wanna know Zayne. Just because you're a doctor doesn't me-"

"I didn't get hurt. I'm just...a little sore." His ears have a hint of pink, and you frown in confusion.

"How could you be sore? You had a rest day yesterday and the day before you did your arm workout. How are your legs sore?" You raise a brow when he sighs, almost embrassed.

"I believe it has to do with...last night." He says pointedly.

"What did you do last-oh." Your eyes go as wide as dinner plates, suddenly remembering the intense night you'd shared, which had mostly involved you on top of Zayne, hips slamming down against his.

"I...am so sorry." Remorse fills you, and you're quick to push the bag of pastries towards him. He pulls out a chocolate croissant, tearing it in half and offering you the clearly larger piece.

"Don't be. I have no regrets." He says it so casually, while you eat your pastry in shame.

"I didn't mean to hurt you. I'll make it up to you, I promise!" You smile, though it falters when the corner of his mouth twitches upward.

"I have no doubt."

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

this and also there’s something very beautiful about watching in progress fics grow. shout out to in progress fics <3

[bish0ps]

The pickler: wanna know how i got these jars

[redstonedust]

crazy how quickly dust accumulates. i should be allowed to put my trinkets on a shelf and not touch them and they remain in perfect condition forever. dont even get me STARTED on the inside of a computer. why do i have to brush your teeth. youre technology.

[mafuyuh]

little guys in ghibli movies

[bingowithleon]

his little "yeah?" when talking to grace ogmygodddd <333 (he definitely talks u through it)

all credit goes to pixel.luvr1 on tiktok ! ✨️

[dr-paint]

lEEONNN

[dogleb]

third myth companions

[oldpaintings]

Emile-Allain Séguy (French, 1877--1951)

[honeypip]

thinkin about sweet southern cowboy!caleb who’s the perfect gentleman, polite as can be, but fucks you harder than the bulls he wrangles… cowboy!caleb who calls you ma’am in public, but honey in bed with that slow southern drawl of his… cowboy!caleb who takes care of his boots almost as well as he takes care of you… cowboy!caleb whose ass looks just a little too good in those jeans and arms just a little too big for that button down he’s got pushed up to his elbows… cowboy!caleb who takes you out dancing every. single. friday. whether he’s dead beat tired or right as rain…. cowboy!caleb who picks wildflowers from the fields at work and leaves them in a little mason jar on your dining room table… cowboy!caleb who always makes sure to kick the dust off his boots before entering your home… cowboy!caleb whose hands, rough and calloused from outdoor labor, feel so so good sinking into your wet heat… cowboy!caleb who rushes home from work, water dripping from the brim of his hat and soaked to the absolute bone in his haste, to hold you through the summer storms… cowboy!caleb who buys you a pretty, little hat to match his then braids your hair all nice, just so he can pull on it later while he takes you from behind like a damn dog… cowboy!caleb who only takes his hat off for one thing and one thing only <3

[applefishing]

medical kink with zayne doctor/patient, dubcon, cum as medicine

You’ve only been seeing him a few weeks when he suggests you have a full checkup. He's calm, composed and professional when he explains exactly what that means, and it should be completely normal.

But he's not just your doctor. The unspoken agreement to ignore the relationship you shared as children during each appointment has suited you perfectly fine. But as he hands you a small thin gown and draws the curtains around the small bed so you can change, you suddenly find yourself wishing you’d faced the elephant in the room before now.

The rhythmic tapping of his keyboard is the only accompaniment to your undressing. And it’s only when you hook your thumbs into the elastic of your underwear that you find your voice. “Do you think… maybe I should see another doctor for this?”

He stops typing. Silence, 1… 2…

A draw slams.

Your nails dig into your hips as you jump, startled.

“That won’t be necessary,” he says. Calm. Matter of fact. Final. “Are you ready?”

You quickly let your underwear drop and slip into the flimsy hospital gown. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m… ready.”

You blink into the light as the curtain is pulled back, exposing you the full glare of the fluorescents.

A large shadow offers you a little relief.

“Lie down for me, please,” he instructs as he snaps a pair of blue gloves onto his hands.

It starts just as you expect, you lace your fingers together across your stomach and stare at the white ceiling and pretend it’s normal to have your childhood friend positioning himself between your legs under bright fluorescents at 10 in the morning, or at all.

He parts your thighs with gentle confidence. “It’s just a quick look,” he says. “Nothing invasive. Try and stay still for me.”

You nod, closing your eyes to seek a little false privacy.

His chair squeaks as he adjusts himself between your legs, but apart from a hand on your thigh, he doesn’t touch you. The air hits you, remining you of your starkness, and it’s unlike anything else, that feeling of exposure.

You attempt to keep your breathing steady, to match his own.

Then his chair squeaks again, and you can feel he’s closer. So close his breath warms the skin of your thighs. “Mm,” he hums, “just a little cold from the gloves now.”

You hold your breath. The chair squeaks. And despite your best efforts, you flinch at the light brush of his gloves. It’s not from the cold. In fact, they aren’t cold at all. You can feel the warmth of his hands through the plastic. But you were expecting something a little more assured, firm, purposeful.

This touch is light. So light it almost tickles.

“It’s alright,” he says. “Just do your best to stay still.”

You suck in a deep breath, and his finger returns. Still far too light. One single, continuous stroke from your mound to your entrance. Feather-light.

That’s how he touches you for what feels like minutes.

It’s long enough that the moment he applies a little pressure to part your lips, you don’t flinch at all—accustomed to his touch. Maybe that was the purpose, you ponder. Maybe this was normal.

“Are you sexually active?” he asks suddenly, his fingers continuing their inspection.

Your eyes blink open into the harsh light. “No,” you mutter.

“Pardon?”

“No,” you answer, loud enough to reach him this time.

“At all?”

You shake your head. A gesture he must catch, because he doesn’t repeat his question. Instead, he hums, continuing his prodding and stroking. He mumbles something too. You’re sure of it. But you can’t bring yourself to question him, and he doesn’t repeat himself, so you assume it’s unimportant.

When the tip of his index finger brushes directly over your hole for the first time, your knees involuntarily snap shut. Or at least, they make an attempt.

He catches your thigh. “Did that hurt?”

“No. Sorry, I—”

“It’s okay,’ he says. “I’m not going inside, remember? Just touching.”

“Yeah,” you breathe, letting your legs relax again.

“Good girl.”

Your breath hitches. Your eyes fix to one spot on the ceiling. Good girl. You have to breathe again. You could breathe. You force yourself to breathe.

You’d misheard him.

This was normal.

His finger prods at your entrance, like he was testing how much pressure he would have to apply to breach you.

Then, “What do you use for menstruation?”

You blink, processing like he was speaking a foreign language you’d just started to pick up.

“Tampons? Pads?” he adds.

“Pads.”

“Have you tried tampons?”

“No.”

He hums. “And have you used any toys?”

You take a shaky breath in. “Toys?”

“Sex toys.”

His warm hand presses against your thigh, holding you spread open before him. “I… No.”

“Fingers?”

Your breathing is uneven now. You can’t control it. You’ve lost the reigns and the only thing you have to ground you is the eye-watering white light above you.

“A little.”

His finger prods, still not breaching. “A little?”

“Mm,” is all you can offer in response.

And then you feel it. His finger moves just enough to spread a little wetness across your skin.

Oh god.

Your eyes squeeze shut.

“It’s okay,” he soothes. “It’s healthy.” He’s only used one finger from the start. And it’s the same index finger that now works to spread your own humiliation up from your entrance to your mound, where he started. “It’s perfectly healthy,” he says again. “Do you know what it’s for?”

Yes. Of course you did.

You’re silent, focusing on breathing. You take a few shaky breaths. He waits.

Then, without yet understanding why, you shake your head.

His finger pauses. A heavy moment of silence. Then his chair squeaks. His breath brushes against the top of your thigh.

“It’s to reduce friction,” he says as his finger works up and down your slit. “Keeps you nice and comfortable…” His voice is different now, you realise. Distracted. “So it’s very good that you get so slippery,” he continues. “So, so healthy. Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

There’s one press after that: one you are sure will push past that little cushion of resistance and slip inside.

He rolls back right at the moment you’re sure he’ll enter, separating himself from you with such a suddenness you are laying there spread wide for an embarrassing long moment before pulling your knees together.

He walks across the room. You don’t dare watch him directly, just track him through your periphery. His gloves snap off and fall into a bin.

He clears his throat.

Then he’s at your bedside. He blocks the light from above you, towering—his normal stoic expression gracing his pretty features. “Sit up for me,” he instructs, all confident professionalism again.

You tuck your knees up into your chest as you pull yourself up.

Then he reaches for his chair and tugs it around to the bedside. “Legs over the edge.”

They hang between his knees like this, and you have no escape. You’re facing him directly now. So you stare at the I.D tag on his chest as he speaks.

“Just a quick breast check. Alright?”

You immediately regret the way your eyes flash up to meet his, dropping them back to his chest as you nod.

He leans forward, right into your space, and it takes you a moment to release he’s reaching behind you to untie the flimsy little string holding your only form of protection against your body.

You grab his forearm, fingers resting against one of his many smooth scars.

His green eyes flick between your own, waiting.

Your arm drops.

His finger brushes against your bare skin as he gently pulls the thin fabric down over your shoulders.

There’s a poster on the wall behind him. A childlike drawing of a boy and a girl playing together on a swing set. You can’t make out the text. But as your doctor’s ungloved hand cups your breast for the first time, you're thinking of the last time you saw him, before all this—not as your doctor, as your playmate.

Your breathing is harder to disguise now. It’s almost more exposing than when he was between your legs. You have nowhere to hide. Your chest rises and falls as he squeezes and gropes–-examines you.

“Do you do regular self-checks?”

You shake your head.

He looks up at you. You keep your eyes fixed over his shoulder.

“You can do it when you shower,” he says. “Just like this.” His fingers press into your skin, each hand working at one breast each now. “Okay?”

You nod.

“Good g–-” His lips press together. Your eyes had snapped to his face at the word good. Quick enough to catch him stop himself.

When he stands, you assume it’s all over. You’re tugging at your gown when he settles his large hand over your wrist to stop you. Then he sits on the bed and shuffles back a little, arranging his long limbs behind you.

“Not quite done,” he says. “Lean back.”

You don’t move, unsure, despite his clear instructions. Lean back… into him?

He applies gentle pressure to your shoulder, guiding you back against his chest. And after a moment of tension, your muscles relax. This was better somehow. You couldn’t see him—weren’t forced to avoid his gaze.

But then his hand falls to your stomach, and his breath hits the shell of your ear as he looks over your shoulder at your exposed breasts. “Easier to show you like this,” he says. His large hands cup you, lifting their weight entirely from your chest. “Just wash as usual,” he starts as his thumbs brush past your nipples. “It’ll be easier when you’re all soapy and slippery. Less friction. Like I explained before. That way you can be nice and thorough. Take your time.” His grip tightens, squeezing in a way that forces you back against him. He lips brush the shell of your ear. “You can do that, can’t you?”

You nod. Then, “Yeah.” It’s a pathetic little sound. A squeak more than anything.

“Does this hurt?” he asks as he fondles you. There’s no precision in his movements now. Not like there was when he was between your legs.

“No.”

“That’s good,” he says with a hum, and you’re sure his lips brush your neck.

“I’m healthy?”

He inhales deeply, his lips touching your bare skin again. “So healthy,” he exhales. “Perfect.”

Your eyes flutter shut, and your head falls back, and you go limp. You thought you’d let your muscles relax before. You’d thought wrong.

His breath continues warming your skin as he speaks—as he gropes and presses you firmly against him. “I should do one more check without gloves,” he mutters. “Just wanna make sure.”

“Mm,” you hum, feeling entirely docile now—pliant. A passenger.

One of his hands leaves your breasts and works at the fabric bunched up at your hips, so he can slip his bare hand between your legs. He barely touches you. His entire palm ghosts over your entire cunt, cradled between your thighs. Then a finger drops down, right at your hole, tapping at your slick—playing with it. Like tapping at his keys.

“Feel that?” he says from his position over your shoulder. Tap, tap, tap. “You have such a soft, healthy, drippy little hole.” His lips press against your neck, confident now. No plausible deniability. No accidental brushes. He’s kissing your neck.

Then, without warning, he dips inside. Thick and warm, guided by all your wetness. “I know you’ve never had anything in here. But you’re made for it.” His breathing is heavy. Hot against your skin. “Feel the way it sucks at my finger?” His prods you, dipping in and out, just at the entrance. “It’s all empty. Not good for you to let it get all desperate like that.”

“I—I didn’t know.”

“I know,” he soothes. “You’ve always been so good.”

His other hand lifts from your breast to your chin, then his fingers are against your lips. He almost fumbles around a little before his thumb tugs at your fuller lower lip.

“I can help you,” he mutters, breathy. “I can get it all nice and full, warm and sticky and full. It’ll be so good for you. Like medicine.”

“Medicine?” The word comes out a little wonky, distorted from his continued exploration of your lips.

“Mm,” he hums. “Medicine.”

“Mm, ‘Kay.”

He inhales again, deep and long, with his nose pressed into your skin. Then you’re being manipulated—rearranged onto your back with a scratchy pillow beneath your head. His warm hands, one wet from slick, the other from saliva, press your thighs back so you are exposed beneath him. It’s nothing new. Your eyes meet the familiar white ceiling and you cradle one breast in your palm for comfort as his large body settles between your legs.

It’s the first time you’ve seen his face since he was sitting in front of you. It’s all different now. His lips are pinker—wetter. They rest a little apart, relaxed. All the controlled stoic professionalism has been replaced with… something else. Less tension. Less control. His movements aren’t careful and precise. He fumbles with his belt. He tugs a little at his tie, like it bothers him. And the entire time his eyes don’t move from your pulsing cunt.

You’re long past shame.

You ache.

And when he rests his heavy cock on you, you’re consumed. “Medicine,” you whimper.

His eyes snap to yours.

You nibble on your knuckle, unsure what to do with your hands.

When it’s clear you aren’t repeating yourself, he grips himself. “Pardon?”

Your hand snakes down your stomach, haulting at your mound, and curling into a fist before going slack. “Medicine.”

He leans forward, touching his leaking tip to your hole and applying the slightest pressure. “That’s what you need? You need your doctor to fill you up with medicine?”

His eyes fix on your lips as he nudges at your entrance, as you nod, as you suck your own finger into your mouth. “All right, sweetheart. Your doctor will make sure you stay exactly like this… just this perfect… give you lots and lots of medicine.” He slips up between your folds a few times, playing in all the wetness he’d worked so hard to tease from your hole and spread over you.

And when he’s worked himself inside, it doesn’t take long before he’s falling over you, before he’s muttering something about checking your mouth, before he’s mumbling about how healthy you taste around tangled tongues, before he’s grinding his hips into yours and telling you how important it is he gets the medicine nice and deep.