derycreme

[derycreme]

pls give me a member to write for!!

[derycreme]

how do we feel about text aus and social media aus ! <3

#txt #wayv #nct #enhypen

[derycreme]

Komori was beautiful💕

gaaaaa idk why this didnt show on my notifs but thank you so much!

#i agree

[derycreme]

hi <3 super busy atm but i have been actively catching up with txt and am so excited for their comeback! definitely getting boy version

[derycreme]

im sooo glad u think so >//< im very busy rn and ur feedback is whats keeping me sane <3 thank u so much!!

My Little Flower (m.)

Soobin is not so eager for the touch of someone else. He is dull-eyed, limp-tailed, and does not have the time for intimacy unless he wants it. He lets the pendulum of his life swing between the fortune of getting what he wants when he wants it and the misfortune of attempting to coat with beauty a life so miserable. It’s much easier to understand the reasons for things that way, and it’s much easier to leave the unknown unknown.

Keep reading

[derycreme]

My Little Flower (m.)

Soobin is not so eager for the touch of someone else. He is dull-eyed, limp-tailed, and does not have the time for intimacy unless he wants it. He lets the pendulum of his life swing between the fortune of getting what he wants when he wants it and the misfortune of attempting to coat with beauty a life so miserable. It's much easier to understand the reasons for things that way, and it's much easier to leave the unknown unknown.

He thinks of people who scour through situations with vigor as almost arrogant; he hates to bear witness of them actively solving their way through life. It makes him realize that one can have actual control. He doesn't like that this control allows for important decisions being made for important futures; the thought depresses him.

You are the prime example, the first introduction of what this control is like, coming to him in the most beautiful, sinful manner. He finally knows of this arrogance that he hated to see in other people, how you ask with your eyes for him to encroach you of your innocence, how he can make important decisions for important results on your body. You make him ambitious, the way he never was before. So clueless and cute to him when you bite back white embarrassment on your lip and say, “S-Soobin... I feel like I’m gonna pee...”

He feels his face go red, almost afraid his eyes would go bloodshot and scare you. He looks at the absence of his middle finger tucked wet inside you, the shadow of his body in a careful hover over yours. He stops moving and watches you catch your breath, the grip of your two hands around his one wrist softening. Twitching, heaving, like a pretty flower being granted life. “Hey,” you open your eyes at his voice, getting a complete once over of his large, fully-clothed frame sheltering your entire nudity. A few strands of his hair stick to his hairline. The corner of his thin but plump lips pull into a deep smirk of pride he wants to hide, all while still looking like a pretty flower kissed by morning dew. “Will you let me keep going?”

You nod, and he follows through. He can tell you are very sensitive. He thinks about how his one finger slowly corrupts you. He breathes with you, almost wants to match his moans with yours. He curses; you tell him again that it feels like you’re about to pee.

“That means you’re gonna cum... baby,” he was never one for terms of endearment. But then again... important decisions. Important results—your whine at the nickname.

Soobin moves his finger faster and watches you twinge. “B-But it’s ne-ever felt like this be-before,” you groan, your stronghold on his wrist almost cutting off the blood that should flow there. His hand has near to no sensation, but that somehow makes it easier for him to go harder.

“Well has anyone touched you like this before?,” he feels brave enough to coo at you, the pace at which he was going making his muscles tense, his breaths hard, and his confidence solid. You shake your head. My little flower, he thinks. “Don’t fight it... let it happen,” he whispers.

You unravel around him with a cry, pushing his hand away instantly, “Stop! Stop... It’s too much for now...”

“Okay, okay,” he obeys, picking up the limp body of his flower to his chest. His clothes soak in your perspiration and every last heavy breath it could keep in memory between the fabric. Warmth follows, and you gain enough energy to return his embrace.

Soobin freezes. He is abashed again when your fingers comb through his sweaty hair, and you pull his cherry red ear to your lips and mutter, “Will you take your clothes off too?”

#soobin x reader #warning: smut #this was a little longer than i wanted it to be #but i feel pretty good about it anyway #soobin smut #soobin drabble #soobin scenario #txt scenario #txt drabble

[derycreme]

omg i remember when i made that yangyang text au on stan twt a year ago,, that was kinda good

[derycreme]

self reblog

komori (little forest) — winwin x reader

Komori is a small settlement in a village somewhere in the Tohoku region. There aren’t any stores here, but if you have a little shopping to do, there’s a small farmer’s co-op supermarket and some other stores in the village center, where the townhall is.

[[MORE]]

The way there is mostly downhill, so that takes about 30 minutes, but you’re not too sure how long the trip back takes. During winter, you have to go on foot because of the snow, so that’ll take you something like a good hour and a half. But it seems that most people do their shopping at places like the big suburban supermarket in a neighboring city.

When you decide to go there, it nearly ends up taking the whole day.

The only man you ever expected at your door was the delivery man, who had with him your gas and electricity bill. These were only the ever mail you would receive, save for an occasional letter from your mother. Always asking, about the harvest, about the weather, but never talking about herself apart from a strange repetition of the words ‘going around’ or ‘winding down’.

Today, you were expecting Dong Sicheng.

Sicheng is not the delivery man. He’s hardly even half the old man’s age.

This was the last spring. Sicheng was what followed after the mistake you made of one day thinking you were made for the city. You worked around the clock, lived by the day until you felt the surface of your bones right under your graying skin, and went home to him at night like he was your reward.

Sometimes, he was just like the city you tried so feverishly to escape from by day. Bustling. In his head. So after you would fuck him and fight tears, you would yell at him and leave. It was niche every time.

One night, you booked a one way bus ticket to Komori. That was the last time you touched Sicheng. That was the last time you touched the city.

Today, winter was around the corner, and in your wait for him, this was the first time you were rushed to decide whether you felt settled or felt like you escaped. His knock is soft on the door.

A coat over a shirt and straight jeans. His lips, they must be so cold, pull into a short smile, albeit wider than the moment you opened your door.

“Hi,” he doesn’t move. “I left my scarf at the bus.”

“Your hair’s longer.”

“Ah,” he exhales, a small laugh, brings his hand to the back of his head in an abashed scratch. “I grew it out to this length months ago, and I’ve been having it trimmed regularly.”

“Ah,” you respond. You don’t know how to respond. In your head, you were bruising yourself for even thinking of having him over initally. You don’t meet with his eyes for fear of seeing the bustle of the city there. You don’t want him to think that what you had in your old house in Komori, almost a year after leaving the city, was the audacity to look at him without breaking. “Come in.”

You break a smile. It might be a second too late, but he’ll understand the courtesy. “Hey, it’s okay,” he mutters.

You don’t mean it, but your eyes lock. All you see is yourself under the clean downturn of his eyelashes. Genuine. Handsome. “Will you let me make it right?,” you mean to whisper to yourself, but to no avail. You can tell he heard you.

His lips twitch. A sheepish smile. The one that makes his cheeks puff if you look hard enough. And he doesn’t say a word. You ponder.

“You can keep your shoes on if it means it’ll keep your feet warm,” you walk to the kitchen. It’s not too many steps away. It’s just right across the small lounge by the window, directly straight from the main door. By small lounge, it’s a stout coffee table and two pillows on the wooden floor. “Who knows you’re here?”

You turn to see him taking his shoes off anyway, and you realize why just as you see the soles thicker with hardening mud. His socks are wooly, so it’ll be okay. “My parents. A few friends.”

You put a kettle under the faucet and let the water run. “People get lost on the way here. Are they not worried?”

He’s off his second shoe and is stood straight again. You’re reminded of how tall he is. “They’ll call.”

“There’s barely any service here... but let’s hope they’ll call,” you turn off the faucet and turn to face him again. “Sit. Anywhere.”

This is the first time you were actually making Sicheng tea in your home. You recollect the moments you had called yourself stupid, lonesome in the same kitchen, for having made tea for two, in an effort to forget you were alone. His arrival makes all those efforts futile, and in the coming days you will be yet again lonesome in the same kitchen, you will call yourself stupid for trying to make tea for two. This means a part of you wishes you hadn’t asked him to come at all.

You put the kettle above unusually high heat, in nerve that it’ll take too long to boil and you’ll have to sit doing nothing, without the excuse of a sip to satiate silence. You take a glass from a rack, and a pitcher of water from your fridge, make your way toward him. “Have water. It’s always freezing here; you don’t figure out when you’re thirsty,” you hand him the glass, sitting adjacent to him. While he gulps, you decide to break the ice. No, stab it. “I’m sorry I left.”

He sets the glass down on the table, but he keeps his hand around it. “It’s okay.”

“I’m at peace now... if you wanted to know,” you’ve become too aware of which eye of his you wanted to keep contact with. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too. We are both sorry.”

You’ve given up trying to catch his eye and bring your line of sight to his hands. His veins look blue, and you think about the coming winter, your skins thinning just like autumn’s leaves in preparation for the cold. Were his palms as warm as last spring’s? “I’m sorry, Sicheng.”

He likes the use of his name on your voice. “It’s okay.”

You bring your sight to his throat, unmoving if you don’t look close enough to see the very lethargic heave of breath. His lips. He looks at you with apologetic eyes, but for what when it was you who felt like having everything to be sorry for. Now would be the right time for that kettle to whistle. His jaw. You lean in, your body heavy, a knee over the corner of the table, knocking the empty glass aside, and so he doesn’t say another It’s okay, you kiss him after you say another I’m sorry, Sicheng.

You kiss him with the prospect of breathing his breath, with the scrunch of your face that wants to solicit his tears. He leans back, his frame resting against the cold window ledge, head pressed against the glass. Your neighbors don’t live fairly near, but they bring candied chestnuts around this hour, and if they were here, they’d see him. See him on the frosted side of the window, your blurred silhouette in front of him, so near, asking for warmth by a kiss, asking for warmth by a kiss.

He hums against your lips, moans perhaps, the same second you sheath your fingertips under his shirt, cold and heavy with the promise of frostbite on the warmth of his abdomen.

He breaks away, not harsh enough that you don’t deem it safe to kiss elsewhere. You missed the chisel of his jaw on your lips. Your fingers inch higher up his skin. “Cold,” he flinches. “Coldcoldcold—“

“Sorry,” your voice is muffled. You put your hands on the floor next to where you’re knelt. You back off him by the inch, yet another “I’m sorry, Sicheng” leaving your throat.

In the summer, the air was thick with humidity, enough so you could say you’re better off with gills and webbed limbs to swim across the wind. Now, it was freezing, and your throat itches with the healing gills. Your throat itches with the urge to whisper another apology.

In your attempt to keep your distance, he snatches you by the arm and brings you to his chest. You palpitate for fear of hearing busy AM highways where his heart beats, the sound of money’s tyranny in his breath—vices, fastfood...

But none of it is there. Where he holds you is just his heartbeat and his inhale and his exhale.

“Will you let me make it right?,” you mumble. He’ll hear no matter how soft you keep your voice.

The kettle starts whistling. His phone rings.

You find that in the chorus of his ringtone and the whistling of steam, it seemed like the world was telling you that that wasn’t a question for him to answer.

He’ll be here a while.

#angst #inspired by little forest #winwin #winwin drabble #winwin fic #winwin scenario #dong sicheng #sicheng #wayv #wayv fic

[derycreme]

hello ! ik i’ve been super ia, but i’m certainly getting back into writing. have a little problem tho because fanfiction is a beautiful community to write in, but do u think uploading works with my own characters will gain the same traction and praise? not that it matters for the most part. anyway ! i am hoping for support <3 

#nct #wayv #txt #nct fic #wayv fic #txt fic

[derycreme]

komori (little forest) — winwin x reader

Komori is a small settlement in a village somewhere in the Tohoku region. There aren’t any stores here, but if you have a little shopping to do, there’s a small farmer’s co-op supermarket and some other stores in the village center, where the townhall is.

[[MORE]]

The way there is mostly downhill, so that takes about 30 minutes, but you’re not too sure how long the trip back takes. During winter, you have to go on foot because of the snow, so that’ll take you something like a good hour and a half. But it seems that most people do their shopping at places like the big suburban supermarket in a neighboring city.

When you decide to go there, it nearly ends up taking the whole day.

The only man you ever expected at your door was the delivery man, who had with him your gas and electricity bill. These were only the ever mail you would receive, save for an occasional letter from your mother. Always asking, about the harvest, about the weather, but never talking about herself apart from a strange repetition of the words ‘going around’ or ‘winding down’.

Today, you were expecting Dong Sicheng.

Sicheng is not the delivery man. He’s hardly even half the old man’s age.

This was the last spring. Sicheng was what followed after the mistake you made of one day thinking you were made for the city. You worked around the clock, lived by the day until you felt the surface of your bones right under your graying skin, and went home to him at night like he was your reward.

Sometimes, he was just like the city you tried so feverishly to escape from by day. Bustling. In his head. So after you would fuck him and fight tears, you would yell at him and leave. It was niche every time.

One night, you booked a one way bus ticket to Komori. That was the last time you touched Sicheng. That was the last time you touched the city.

Today, winter was around the corner, and in your wait for him, this was the first time you were rushed to decide whether you felt settled or felt like you escaped. His knock is soft on the door.

A coat over a shirt and straight jeans. His lips, they must be so cold, pull into a short smile, albeit wider than the moment you opened your door.

“Hi,” he doesn’t move. “I left my scarf at the bus.”

“Your hair’s longer.”

“Ah,” he exhales, a small laugh, brings his hand to the back of his head in an abashed scratch. “I grew it out to this length months ago, and I’ve been having it trimmed regularly.”

“Ah,” you respond. You don’t know how to respond. In your head, you were bruising yourself for even thinking of having him over initally. You don’t meet with his eyes for fear of seeing the bustle of the city there. You don’t want him to think that what you had in your old house in Komori, almost a year after leaving the city, was the audacity to look at him without breaking. “Come in.”

You break a smile. It might be a second too late, but he’ll understand the courtesy. “Hey, it’s okay,” he mutters.

You don’t mean it, but your eyes lock. All you see is yourself under the clean downturn of his eyelashes. Genuine. Handsome. “Will you let me make it right?,” you mean to whisper to yourself, but to no avail. You can tell he heard you.

His lips twitch. A sheepish smile. The one that makes his cheeks puff if you look hard enough. And he doesn’t say a word. You ponder.

“You can keep your shoes on if it means it’ll keep your feet warm,” you walk to the kitchen. It’s not too many steps away. It’s just right across the small lounge by the window, directly straight from the main door. By small lounge, it’s a stout coffee table and two pillows on the wooden floor. “Who knows you’re here?”

You turn to see him taking his shoes off anyway, and you realize why just as you see the soles thicker with hardening mud. His socks are wooly, so it’ll be okay. “My parents. A few friends.”

You put a kettle under the faucet and let the water run. “People get lost on the way here. Are they not worried?”

He’s off his second shoe and is stood straight again. You’re reminded of how tall he is. “They’ll call.”

“There’s barely any service here... but let’s hope they’ll call,” you turn off the faucet and turn to face him again. “Sit. Anywhere.”

This is the first time you were actually making Sicheng tea in your home. You recollect the moments you had called yourself stupid, lonesome in the same kitchen, for having made tea for two, in an effort to forget you were alone. His arrival makes all those efforts futile, and in the coming days you will be yet again lonesome in the same kitchen, you will call yourself stupid for trying to make tea for two. This means a part of you wishes you hadn’t asked him to come at all.

You put the kettle above unusually high heat, in nerve that it’ll take too long to boil and you’ll have to sit doing nothing, without the excuse of a sip to satiate silence. You take a glass from a rack, and a pitcher of water from your fridge, make your way toward him. “Have water. It’s always freezing here; you don’t figure out when you’re thirsty,” you hand him the glass, sitting adjacent to him. While he gulps, you decide to break the ice. No, stab it. “I’m sorry I left.”

He sets the glass down on the table, but he keeps his hand around it. “It’s okay.”

“I’m at peace now... if you wanted to know,” you’ve become too aware of which eye of his you wanted to keep contact with. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too. We are both sorry.”

You’ve given up trying to catch his eye and bring your line of sight to his hands. His veins look blue, and you think about the coming winter, your skins thinning just like autumn’s leaves in preparation for the cold. Were his palms as warm as last spring’s? “I’m sorry, Sicheng.”

He likes the use of his name on your voice. “It’s okay.”

You bring your sight to his throat, unmoving if you don’t look close enough to see the very lethargic heave of breath. His lips. He looks at you with apologetic eyes, but for what when it was you who felt like having everything to be sorry for. Now would be the right time for that kettle to whistle. His jaw. You lean in, your body heavy, a knee over the corner of the table, knocking the empty glass aside, and so he doesn’t say another It’s okay, you kiss him after you say another I’m sorry, Sicheng.

You kiss him with the prospect of breathing his breath, with the scrunch of your face that wants to solicit his tears. He leans back, his frame resting against the cold window ledge, head pressed against the glass. Your neighbors don’t live fairly near, but they bring candied chestnuts around this hour, and if they were here, they’d see him. See him on the frosted side of the window, your blurred silhouette in front of him, so near, asking for warmth by a kiss, asking for warmth by a kiss.

He hums against your lips, moans perhaps, the same second you sheath your fingertips under his shirt, cold and heavy with the promise of frostbite on the warmth of his abdomen.

He breaks away, not harsh enough that you don’t deem it safe to kiss elsewhere. You missed the chisel of his jaw on your lips. Your fingers inch higher up his skin. “Cold,” he flinches. “Coldcoldcold—“

“Sorry,” your voice is muffled. You put your hands on the floor next to where you’re knelt. You back off him by the inch, yet another “I’m sorry, Sicheng” leaving your throat.

In the summer, the air was thick with humidity, enough so you could say you’re better off with gills and webbed limbs to swim across the wind. Now, it was freezing, and your throat itches with the healing gills. Your throat itches with the urge to whisper another apology.

In your attempt to keep your distance, he snatches you by the arm and brings you to his chest. You palpitate for fear of hearing busy AM highways where his heart beats, the sound of money’s tyranny in his breath—vices, fastfood...

But none of it is there. Where he holds you is just his heartbeat and his inhale and his exhale.

“Will you let me make it right?,” you mumble. He’ll hear no matter how soft you keep your voice.

The kettle starts whistling. His phone rings.

You find that in the chorus of his ringtone and the whistling of steam, it seemed like the world was telling you that that wasn’t a question for him to answer.

He’ll be here a while.

#slice of life #angst #inspired by little forest #winwin #winwin drabble #winwin fic #winwin scenario #dong sicheng #sicheng #wayv #wayv fic #wayv drabble #wayv scenario

[derycreme]

#hello? #//$/&/@//?/!/!&/&

[derycreme]

200521 mapsworld_seoul instagram update with WayV (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7)

#me when i love them sm

[derycreme]

can you seriously imagine being at johnny suh’s house party politely refusing the nasty white claw he offers you and trying to inch past taeyong who is cleaning up another beer spill and picking cheese out of the carpet with horror to almost bump into slightly tipsy and very ready to argue politically about just about anything doyoung and making excuse so you don’t have to and running up the stairs passed a worried mark who shyly asks if you’re ok, if you need anything and when you smile and thank him he nearly trips over himself but you don’t notice because you’re distracted by a sad looking jaehyun sitting at the top of the stairs with his phone in his hand typing up another poem about how being unloved in a room full of people hurts and you’re like ok weirdo as you make past him and down the hall where jungwoo is in the bathroom being convinced by yuta that this manic panic pink is going to look sooooo good on him and you think you should stop that before it happens but you feel a hand tap your shoulder and whisper “just let it happen” as haechan strolls away from you and waves his solo cup in the air and finally you make it to a quiet nook at the end of the hall where you want to sit down and collect your thoughts but it’s already occupied by taeil whose fallen asleep with a half eaten slice of pizza by his foot and you’re like well i guess ill just make myself at home as you slide down on the wall beside him and are happy to use his abandoned flannel as a impromptu blanket for your cold knees and you’re like let me have this peacefulness as the sound of the party rages downstairs

#jungwoo #with no hesitation #we’ll be a mess #but thats exactly what i want

[derycreme]

im gonna cry i love beomgyu sm

[derycreme]

no thoughts, just Hendery’s smile.

[derycreme]

To have been so in love — lee donghyuck

a rum-induced conversation with the ex you had never been in love with 

“What was it like?” 

What colors was he using painting you in his head? They were in chrome; the strokes were vivid to him. Haechan had you in a number of frames, and it was never in indignation he used to imagine even your ashes together. 

“—to have been so in love?” 

“Fuck you,” he has the sound of rum in his chuckle. “Ask someone who never had anything to do with you.”

“Why?”

“You’ll hear more of the good bits.”

The alcohol sitting in his blood makes him consider your stripped audacity to ask. You had broken him a year ago, and in your exit made it so utterly humane, he had no one to condemn but the god he didn’t even ever believe existed.

“I wanna hear the bad bits.”

“You don’t.” He doesn’t. Speaking it into the air makes it real, and he loathes himself when he’s grieving. “You don’t want to see me relive that.”

You like his hair, a silky black unkempt the closer it is to the back of his head. He looks like he’s been taking care of himself. 

“You don’t wanna hear it,” he repeats.

“But I do. If you don’t wanna relive it, say it like you’re giving it to me,” you set down your glass, the dance of the ice on the bottom halting. “What was it like to have been so in love?”

He had been a dip in waters, ecstasy until you felt you were submerged for too long. The taste of your old lipstick is something he doesn’t see recollecting, but now, he remembers how he’d kiss it off you. You would look at him with love, and it would make him feel minute, but that was because he was the only one falling. Further away. Into place. He was good playing field. He could have been a good boyfriend, but to you, he could never be the one you wish to see in your last blink. To have been so in love with you was drastic. It was pressing his back against his wall to mimic your embrace, to try and map out what your love felt like at the end of the day. It was the intimacy of silence between conversations and trying to tell you he knows exactly what your laugh sounds like soothed under his. It was the eye contact that he could have shared with someone who could have fallen for him if he wasn’t so captivated by you—you, who loved him for what you had with him, but never for him. To have been so in love with you was the urge to hate you, to paint you evil in his head, but now he looks at you—

Age plays itself well on the skin around your fingers. Your eyes look like it knows of the love he had so wished he could have had received from you. To know that it wouldn’t appear that way if you hadn’t ripped his heart apart. Your drunken flush looks healthy. 

In all his strung-out will to tell you having been so in love with you was tragic and self-deprecating, Haechan spares a look at your eyes again and says, 

“Beautiful.”

#haechan x reader #donghyuck x reader #warning: alcohol #haechan scenario #haechan drabble #donghyuck scenario #donghyuck drabble #nct scenario #nct drabble #nct #haechan #donghyuck #lee donghyuck #lee haechan

[derycreme]

about me

hello! i go by One (any pronouns), and this is a new nct  and wayv and txt writing blog! pls be nice 

#nct #nct writing #nct fic #nct drabble #nct scenario #nct blurb #wayv #wayv writing #wayv fic #wayv drabble #wayv scenario #wayv blurb #txt #txt writing #txt fic #txt drabble #txt scenario #txt blurb