#(and probably miss something obvious in the process)

[insociometry]

"Some of the guys would honestly probably get off on jacking off on her thighs or something while she ignores them too so there’s always that as an option" ron!hyunjin would be so willing to do this 🛐🛐🛐🛐

(Referencing this ask!)

NSFW, vaguely post-RON/future fic, ~2k words

You’re lying on the couch on your phone when a shadow falls over you. You ignore it, at first; the summer heat is making you sleepy and lazy, and your boys come to check on you near-constantly as they come in and out, lingering and watching you without any participation needed on your part until something clicks in their alpha brains and they leave you be, satisfied.

This doesn’t seem to be that kind of interaction, though. “Hi bunny,” a voice murmurs sweetly, couch cushion deflating with added weight, “I missed you.”

When your eyes flick up, you find Hyunjin, as expected: kneeling between your legs still in his outside clothes, jeans hanging low on his hips and t-shirt sleeves pushed up to his shoulders. His hands hover loosely over your knees, but when you look at him, they lower, thumbs rubbing loose, light circles into your thighs.

His blockers are wearing off, a smoky, urgent tinge of arousal coloring his scent. When you take a cursory peek, you find a telltale bulge in his jeans.

“Hi, Jinnie,” you say back, smiling at the bashful tinge to his grin, the way he bites his lip cutely. “How was your day?”

“Good,” he murmurs, maintaining eye contact even as he bends down, pressing a chaste kiss to the inside of your knee that nonetheless makes your pulse flutter. “Need you.”

As he speaks, his eyes flick down your body — nearly bare, only covered with Jeongin’s t-shirt and a pair of panties, unwilling to dress further in the heat. The house has air conditioning but you like letting the temperature stay a little high when you’re home mostly alone, and even with this level of proximity, you warm fast from his body suspended above you.

It’s obvious what’s on his mind, especially as his big hands take to kneading at your thighs, moving steadily down. He subtly spreads your legs in the process, kissing your knee again, then just a little higher, then again, lowering himself each time. At this rate, he’ll be on his elbows in no time — and he knows it, too, eyes already laser-focused on your panties, pierced tongue swiping quick over his lip.

He’s so sexy, and you consider him thoughtfully. Minho fucked you to exhaustion this morning before his later schedule, and you’re still feeling a little shaky in the legs, but—

Then your phone buzzes, and he loses your attention, just like that. Automatically, as you start to read your new text, you bend your leg to pull it closer to yourself, knocking off Hyunjin’s hand in the process.

He pauses, cocking his head to the side, voice soft. “No?”

You hum, reaching out to pat his arm soothingly. “Sorry, Jinnie,” you say, still looking at your phone, “I’m kind of busy.”

It’s not really a no; you all have your own ways to communicate varying levels of disinterest. But it does mean you’re not about to have a full-on romp on the couch. Hyunjin lets you go, sitting back on his knees, thinking.

“Can I just,” he breathes, and when you look up, you find him just as hard, his scent just as pressing, biting his pretty lip and looking at you with big, pleading eyes. As you watch, he hooks his thumb in his waistband, fingers hovering over the bulge in his jeans. “I won’t bother you, but can I…?”

His eyes flick again down your bare legs. You hum, watching him: his pretty face, the elegant line of his nose, the way his bangs are just long enough to fall into his face again. As you watch, he takes a break from the baby-doll eyes to blow a lock away — which makes you laugh, which makes him laugh, beaming at you crescent-eyed like he isn’t asking to jack off over you.

“If you want,” you shrug, continuing to grin as your eyes drag slow down his body. He shivers at even that much attention, hands clenching into fists on his thighs.

Then you flop over, almost kicking him in the process, and return to your phone. There’s a second’s pause before Hyunjin adjusts with the change, hovering above your knees.

You really do go back to your text conversation, so you’re not paying much attention to the sounds behind you: a zipper and a quiet exhale, the sound of spit and then a wet slide. You’re aware of it, in a vague kind of way — but you’re more focused on looking up noodle restaurants with Mikyung. You think Hyunjin would pout to death if he knew — but then, you guess he does. He’s just so desperate to get off that he doesn’t care.

Some time passes — enough that it startles you when Hyunjin’s hand lands on your thighs again. “Sorry,” he mumbles when you jump, pulling away — but you just shake your head, peeking over your shoulder at him.

“It’s okay,” you say, taking the opportunity to check him out again — oversized shirt bunched up under his arms to get it out of the way, muscular chest and abdomen exposed, jeans unzipped and underwear pulled down, his pretty cock clutched in his fist. It’s red and weeping, and when you lick your lips without thinking, it twitches, more pre-cum dripping pearly down his knuckles.

Then you turn back around and wiggle your butt. “You can touch a little,” you say absently, returning to your screen. “Just not too much, okay?”

“Okay,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to your tailbone over your shirt before slowly, gently pushing it up. “Thank you.”

You lift to help him bunch it under your waist, exposing your lower back and panties. It’s kind of nice; it’s getting hot quickly with Hyunjin’s body above you and his hand on your skin, settling firm on the small of your back as though to hold you down the way he sometimes does when he fucks you. You arch your back in response as an absentminded, instinctual response. Hyunjin gives you one last kiss — to your shoulder, this time — before returning to his previous spot hovering above your knees.

It’s a little harder to pay absolutely no attention this time, because now that he has permission, Hyunjin is touching you: not excessively, and not even overtly sexually, just the occasional brush of fingers along your thigh, or a hot palm settling above the back of your knee. Still, texts keep coming, so Hyunjin and his lovely hands and lovely cock occupy only a back corner of your mind, even as his pre-cum drips onto your skin, even as little sounds fall from his lips.

It’s taking him a little longer than usual today, made evident by the impatient huff he lets out. Still, his voice when he speaks to you is perfectly sweet and wheedling. “Bunny,” he asks, desperate, nearly shy, “can you talk to me about what you’re up to?”

You glance at him over your shoulder — the sweat on his brow, the pout on his lip, his bangs still falling into his eyes. “It’s really boring,” you say, eyes already straying back to your screen. “Not sexy at all.”

“Everything you say is sexy,” he objects, and you can hear the pout so clearly, even though you aren’t looking at it anymore.

It makes you giggle. “Well, Mikyung wants to hang out soon,” you say absently, “and she has a whole list of places she’s been looking at, so I’ve been looking them up…”

Your voice trails off as a new message comes in. Hyunjin prompts you just a few seconds later, needy and breathless. “Do any look good?”

“They all look good,” you mumble, typing your next message in. “That’s the problem.”

Hyunjin whines at your inattention, but when you continue looking at your phone, he settles down. His hands wander more, though: grabbing at you instead of just touching, taking handfuls of your thighs, kneading at your skin. When he wanders high enough, you jerk — hips jolting up, thighs pressing together. He takes a breath — and at that same moment, you realize, suddenly, that you’re turned on.

It makes sense, you think as you ignore the wandering hands with red cheeks and a bitten lip. A very handsome man that you happen to be in love with is kneeling above you touching you and jerking off. Anyone would be turned on, you decide.

Still, it’s — distracting. Hyunjin never quite goes beyond your ‘not too much’ instruction, but he definitely grows increasingly bold as the scent of your arousal blooms in the air: thumb tucking between your thighs, increasingly high, fingers digging possessively into the flesh, even slipping his fingers under the bottom edge of your panties or grabbing at your ass.

And as a result, it’s harder and harder to focus on your messages. You eventually give in and tell Mikyung your replies might be sporadic, pushing your hips up and back into Hyunjin’s touch. Hyunjin swallows, his scent thick in your throat, hand pushing so high up your leg that it just barely brushes the gusset of your panties.

You gasp, and Hyunjin does, too. “Bunny,” Hyunjin says, raspy and nearly begging, “bunny, can I—”

His hand hovers over your panties, and when you don’t object, he presses his knuckle shallowly into your entrance through the fabric, wet with your slick. You gasp again, head dropping, forehead pressing into the couch — and Hyunjin moans before pulling your underwear to one side and sinking his thumb inside you.

You swallow your moan as best you’re able — but Hyunjin hears it anyway; of course he does. He laughs, breathless and almost disbelieving, the sound of him touching himself growing louder and wetter.

“What about your friend, pretty girl?” he breathes, a teasing, dominant edge creeping over the obedient taffy-pull of him. “I thought you were busy.”

Twisting to glare at him over your shoulder, you say, just as breathless, “And I thought you weren’t going to bother me.”

His thumb crooks inside you like a hook, knocking any thought from your head. His giggle is high and silly, but his voice is dark.

“Is that what I’m doing?” he asks. “Bothering you?”

This time, you don’t bother replying, shakily picking up your phone and unlocking it with the determination that only pure brattiness can supply. Hyunjin laughs again and pulls out of you obligingly, hand leaving you entirely for the first time in a while — only for you to immediately hear the sound of him sticking his thumb in his mouth, sucking on it around a loud, shameless moan.

You’re suitably more distracted for the short period of time it takes for Hyunjin to come, made somehow worse by the fact that he isn’t touching you at all anymore. Instead, you can tell just by the sound that he’s using both hands on himself, and you picture it, because you’ve seen it so many times before: one attending to the head and the other stroking the shaft, wet with his own pre-cum, flushed and thick and pretty. You can picture his expression, the way his brow furrows and his head tosses back, exposing the long line of his neck, his vulnerable throat and bitable Adam’s apple. And you can smell him hurtling towards his peak, especially when you open your mouth to taste it behind your fangs: musky and thick and smoky over that distinct rosy scent, increasingly hot and urgent, making your heartbeat stutter and slick drip down your thighs.

When you’re touching him, you can get Hyunjin so loud it feels like it should be shaking the walls. This time, when it’s just him, he’s quiet; you don’t even realize what that long, drawn out whimper signifies until you feel the hot spill of his come on your thighs.

It’s so much — and it’s always so much, but it surprises you every time, dripping down your skin, pooling where your twitching thighs are pressed tight together. Hyunjin doesn’t even give you the chance to catch your breath before he’s dipping his fingers into his own mess, rubbing it into your skin until you’re absolutely drenched in his scent.

“Mine,” he sighs dreamily, still in that post-orgasm high as he strokes himself a few more times to come down.

And you have a smart reply ready on your tongue — but before you have to chance to actually say it, Hyunjin is yanking your hips up and your panties down, uncaring of the way it makes his still-hot come drip down your legs on its inevitable descent to the cushions below.

“Are you still busy?” he asks, face so close to your now bare pussy that you can feel his breath hot on your skin.

Your pride holds out for about five seconds before you throw your phone to the other side of the couch.

[slimyenemy]

only curses are real booOoO

[rafecameronssl4t]

IM BEGGING FOR MORE FRATBOY!RAFE CAMERON PLEASEEEE💔

Trap Queen || Frat boy!Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

A/n: hehehe missed writing frat boy!rafe also had no idea what to title this so I thought this song kinda matched idk

Warnings: mentions of sex, idk if there’s anything else

Word count: 2,042

MASTERLIST (frat boy!rafe x reader au masterlist)

“I have no idea what her problem is with me,” you mutter under your breath, your eyes flicking toward Jada, who’s glaring at you like she’d love nothing more than to see you vanish. Her gaze lingers, intense and filled with something close to hatred.

You turn back to Rafe, irritation bubbling up as you try to make sense of the tension hanging in the air. Rafe glances over lazily, his eyes briefly scanning Jada before he scoffs, almost amused by the situation. He leans back casually, grabbing a handful of popcorn from the bowl between you and tossing it into his mouth without a second thought.

“Probably ‘cause she was trying to get into my pants before we started dating,” he mumbles through a mouthful, barely caring to mask the indifference in his voice. Your body stiffens, eyes widening as you process what he just said. “Are you serious?” you snap, crossing your arms and staring at him, bewildered.

“And you didn’t think I should know this?” Rafe slows his chewing, his brow arching slightly as he swallows. His reaction is calm, almost too calm.“Didn’t think it was worth mentioning. She’s irrelevant babe,” he shrugs, his voice annoyingly nonchalant. “I don’t give a fuck about her.”

You turn to look at Jada again, and this time she isn’t even pretending to hide the jealousy etched across her face. She’s whispering furiously to her best friend, the sorority president, her eyes flicking between you and Rafe with an almost desperate need for attention. The way her eyes follow Rafe, hungry and spiteful, makes the knot in your stomach tighten.

She’s clearly still bitter, and her gaze shifts between you and Rafe like she’s daring you to flaunt what she can’t have. It’s more than just resentment—it’s envy, glaringly obvious, and you can feel her simmering frustration from across the room. Frustration swells inside you, and without thinking, you reach for Rafe’s hand, gripping it firmly.

“Let’s get out of here,” you murmur, not wanting to feed into Jada’s petty game, but unable to shake the discomfort gnawing at you. Before Rafe can say anything, you grab his hand, pulling him up from the couch. His surprise shows for a second, but he follows your lead, letting you drag him away.

~

“Fuck off,” Rafe growls at the sound of a knock on his door, still half-asleep and annoyed as he shifts under the blankets. His arm gently moves you off him, and you let out a soft whine, instantly missing the warmth and security of his body pressed against yours. He sighs as the knocking persists, louder this time, more insistent.

“I’m coming!” he yells, frustration evident in his tone as he clumsily pulls his boxers up his legs, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He’s barely awake, his movements sluggish, but the incessant knocking has him on edge. Just as Rafe reaches for the door, he pauses, his hand hovering over the knob.

A frown crosses his face. It wouldn’t be any of his frat brothers—they’d all gone home for the long weekend. Suspicion sharpens his senses, and he leans toward the peephole, squinting as he peers through it. His gut twists the moment he sees who’s on the other side, Alice, your sorority president, and Jada.

“Shit,” he mutters, backing away from the door. He hurries back to the bed, his hand reaching for your shoulder as he shakes you gently. “Babe, hey. Wake up,” he whispers urgently, trying to keep calm as you groan, still half-lost in sleep. “Jada and Alice are outside,” he says, his voice low but urgent.

The words barely sink in before you’re wide awake, panic flooding your system. “What?” you whisper, your voice strained with disbelief as you sit up, your heart racing. In an instant, you’re scrambling to grab your clothes, your mind spinning. “What are they doing here?” you hiss, pulling your jeans up your legs in a rush.

Your fingers fumble as you try to fasten them, your breath quickening with every second. Rafe’s hands are already on your back, tying up the straps of your top with quick, precise movements. “Fucked if I know,” he mutters, glancing toward the door. The knocking continues, sharper and more demanding this time, as Jada’s voice echoes through the room.“Rafe, open up! We know you’re in there!”

Jada calls out, her tone laced with impatience, as if she’s holding some kind of authority over him.“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, cursing the situation. The last thing you need is Jada and Alice catching you here—especially like this. Your mind races with the possibilities of why they’ve shown up now, of all times. Rafe turns to you, his hands resting on your arms as he tries to steady you.

His eyes are calm but serious. “Just hide in the bathroom. I’ll deal with them,” he says firmly, his voice low and reassuring despite the situation. You nod, heart pounding in your chest, and quickly dart toward the bathroom, quietly closing the door behind you. Locking it, you press your ear to the wood, your breath held as you strain to hear what’s happening.

You hear Rafe sigh heavily before he opens the door, his voice low and tense as he greets Jada and Alice. The muffled sound of their conversation seeps through the door, but it’s hard to make out the words clearly. Your stomach twists as you wait, hoping that whatever they want, Rafe can get rid of them without making things worse.

Rafe opens the door just enough to stand in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a bored, unimpressed look on his face. He eyes Jada and Alice, his expression indifferent as he sizes them up. “Can I help you?” he asks dryly, making it clear from the start that he has no interest in whatever they’re about to say.

Jada and Alice exchange a quick glance, their irritation barely hidden beneath thin smiles. Alice, with her usual fake sweetness, steps forward, her voice dripping with insincerity. “Is Y/n here by any chance?” she asks, flashing Rafe the overly saccharine smile she gives to everyone. He sees right through it—he knows exactly how two-faced she really is.

Rafe lets out a short, amused snort, crossing his arms. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he replies with a smirk, clearly enjoying himself. Jada opens her mouth to say something, but he cuts her off before she can get a word in. “No, she’s not here. Why do you even care?” He raises an eyebrow, his voice sharp with challenge.

Alice, not backing down, continues with the same fake concern. “She wasn’t in her room while we were doing our rounds last night, and her roommate said she never came back,” she explains, though her tone lacks genuine worry. Rafe can barely stop himself from rolling his eyes. It’s clear they’re just fishing for information, and their excuse is weak at best.

“What, you have curfews on a Friday night?” Rafe deadpans, his tone dripping with sarcasm. He watches as the annoyance flickers across their faces, and he takes pleasure in knowing he’s getting under their skin. Alice forces a tight-lipped smile, her patience clearly wearing thin.

“Yeah, to make sure everyone is home safe and sound,” she says, her voice still maintaining that fake sweetness, though Rafe can hear the underlying frustration. “Right, sure,” Rafe mutters, clearly not buying it. He shifts his weight and straightens up, his disinterest obvious. “Well, like I said, she’s not here,” he says flatly.

The two girls stand in tense silence for a moment. Rafe can see a flicker of something—perhaps jealousy or frustration—behind Jada’s eyes, and it intrigues him. He watches as Alice turns, clearly ready to leave this awkward encounter behind, but Jada’s sudden outburst catches her off guard.

“What do you even see in her, anyway?” Her sudden outburst catches Alice by surprise, and she glances back at Jada with wide eyes. Rafe raises an eyebrow, genuinely surprised by her boldness. “Jada, let’s just go. She’s not here,” Alice mutters, her hand gently squeezing Jada’s arm, as if trying to ground her. Rafe can’t resist interjecting. “Yeah, Jada. She’s not here,” he mocks, a smirk playing on his lips as he leans casually against the doorframe.

Rafe’s disdain for Jada is palpable, and he relishes the chance to get under her skin. The flush of anger spreads quickly across her cheeks, her fists clenching at her sides as if holding back an explosion of frustration. The heat radiates off her in waves, her glare sharp and unyielding, her eyes narrowing with contempt.

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” she snaps, her voice bitter, teetering on the edge of desperation. Her gaze burns into him, full of resentment. “You think you can just parade around with her like she’s some prize to be won. What makes her so special?”

Rafe meets her gaze head-on, completely unfazed. He tilts his head slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk. “Why are you so obsessed with my fucking girlfriend, Jada?” His voice cuts through the tension like a blade, catching her off guard for just a second. She falters, her posture stiffening at the unexpected challenge.

“This is clearly between you and me, so leave Y/n out of it,” Rafe continues, his tone sharp and unwavering. He steps closer, his expression darkening with warning. “You got a problem with me? Fine. But don’t drag her into whatever this is.”Jada’s eyes flash with frustration, her lips tightening as she struggles to maintain her composure.

She clearly wasn’t expecting Rafe to call her out so directly, and the protectiveness in his voice stings more than she wants to admit. “You think you can just blow me off like I’m nothing?” she hisses, her voice trembling slightly. “I see how you look at her, how you act like she’s so perfect, like she’s better than everyone else.” There’s a bitterness in her words, a jealousy she’s no longer able to hide.

Rafe raises an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “If you think this is about anything more than your own jealousy, you’re delusional,” he says bluntly. His tone is calm, almost amused, as if he’s thoroughly enjoying watching her squirm. “If you’ve got some fantasy that I ever wanted anything to do with you, that’s on you, not me.”

“Get over yourself. I don’t want you, and I never fucking did,” Jada opens her mouth, clearly intending to argue, but no words come out. For a moment, she’s frozen, her face a mixture of shock and hurt, as if she never expected him to be so blunt. The silence stretches, heavy and uncomfortable. Rafe leans back against the doorframe, crossing his arms with a lazy air of indifference. He knows he’s won.

“Why don’t you take your little jealousy trip somewhere else?” he says with a bored tone, as if she were nothing more than a minor inconvenience. His words only fuel her fury, but he doesn’t care—he’s already dismissed her in his mind. Jada’s fists tremble at her sides, her frustration bubbling just beneath the surface.

She glares at him one last time before spinning on her heel and storming off, her heels clicking angrily against the floor. Alice glances at Rafe for a moment, but she’s smart enough not to say anything. She shoots Rafe a scowl that could cut through steel, her frustration evident. “Leave Y/n alone. Don’t test me,” Rafe warns, his tone lowering to a menacing growl.

There’s no way he’ll allow them to interfere in your life, not when they’re so clearly motivated by envy. Alice opens her mouth, a retort on the tip of her tongue, but she hesitates, measuring the threat in his eyes. After a moment, she seems to reconsider, her expression darkening with resignation. With a heavy sigh, she shakes her head and turns on her heel, hastily following Jada down the hallway. Rafe watches them go, a sense of satisfaction washing over him.

[alisonsfics]

the stupid one

pairing: ex-bf!bucky barnes x reader

summary: your breakup with bucky had all been his fault. he got scared and called it quits. and he regretted more than you knew. but he’d never admit that to you. at least, not while sober.

inspired this lyric ~~ “i know i’m the stupid one who ended it. now i’m the stupid one regretting it. it took me a couple drinks to admit it” (“moving along” by 5sos)

a/n: we’re ignoring the super soldiers can’t get drunk plot point just fyi

word count: 2.3k

warnings: alcohol, mentions of smut

Fuck— Bucky was drunk. When he’d walked into the bar an hour earlier, he told himself he would only have a drink or two.

And he stuck to that promise…until he got a jarring notification on his phone.

1 year ago today, look back at your memories, from his photos app. As soon as he opened it, he knew it was a mistake.

It was photos from one of his date nights with you, at a fancy Italian restaurant he picked out.

The first photo was a selfie of the two of you, Bucky pressing a kiss against your cheek. The second photo was a picture he’d taken of you showing off the specialty cocktail you’d ordered— which you’d only ordered because it came in a glow in the dark glass. When it came out and was the side of your head, Bucky couldn’t stop laughing.

Before he knew it, Bucky felt that tight feeling in his gut. The one that couldn’t help but pop up when he thought about you.

When Bucky broke up with you, it was like he cut off his air supply, and he’d been struggling to survive ever since.

He still wasn’t entirely sure why he did it. All his friends asked him, and he never had a good answer.

All he knew is that if he’d kept dating you, he probably would’ve married you. He didn’t know why that scared him so much. Probably because he’d lost everyone he ever loved. He thought if he could break up with you before he fell deeper in love with you that somehow he’d be spared the heartbreak.

He knew now that wasn’t true.

All of sudden, he’d been at the bar for hours and scrolling through pictures of you the whole time.

His fingers were shaking as he clicked your contact and pressed call.

The decision was entirely fueled by the alcohol swimming through his system and not his brain. He didn’t know what he was going to say, only that he wanted to hear your voice.

On the other side of town, you nearly jumped out of your skin when Bucky’s name popped up on your screen. It rang and rang and rang, all while you were frozen still.

Bucky was starting to think you wouldn’t answer. I mean, hell— he wouldn’t even blame you.

Then he heard a quiet “hello?”

“I uhh— oh, hi. I’m surprised you answer.” He mumbled, stunned.

“Bucky, what’s wrong?” You asked, noticing the obvious slurring in his words.

Bucky felt a tear slip down his cheek. Hearing your voice again was like magic. His heart swelled in ways it hadn’t in months. “I just really miss you, doll.” His voice broke in the middle of the sentence.

He waited for you to say something anything. He’d even let you yell at him if it meant he could hear your voice for a little longer.

“Have you been drinking?” You asked.

He stalled. “Just because I have doesn’t mean I don’t mean it. I messed up, doll. I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to realize.” He told you, nervously.

“Do you need a ride home? You shouldn’t drive.” You breezed over the confession.

It pained you to talk to Bucky. He’d broken your heart and never really given you a reason for the breakup. You knew he was scared of getting hurt, but he hurt you in the process.

Despite the aching in your chest from hearing his voice, you still wanted to make sure he was safe.

“You always take such good care of me. I don’t know why I threw that away. God, I’m such an idiot.” He mumbled.

You focused on taking deep breaths. The emotion in his voice tugged on your heart. It’d been so long since you’d seen that side of Bucky. The side that adored you.

“Bucky, promise me that you’ll ask someone for a ride or call a cab?” You asked, feeling your voice get caught in your throat.

“Yeah, I promise I’ll—” his voice got cut off by his phone dying.

Bucky stumbled aimlessly through the bar. All he wanted was you. He wanted to feel the way you clung to him when you slept. He wanted to taste the peach lipgloss on your lips. He wanted to hear you tell him you loved him.

The pit in his stomach only got deeper as he hopped in a cab and headed towards his empty apartment.

He tried to pretend he was heading home to you— that he’d somehow never screwed things up and you were at home waiting for him.

By the time the cab pulled up outside his door, heavy raindrops were thudding against the windows.

He chucked a few loose bills in the driver’s hand before stumbling out of the car.

The rain instantly soaked his body— a cold freezing rain. It coated every inch of his skin and clothing.

He stood there, eyes closed. The cab drove away, and he just stood. Wanting the rain to wash away this nightmare.

His shirt clung to his chest as he felt the cold seep into his bones.

He opened his eyes, slowly— and they landed on you, sitting on his doorstep.

Had he done it? Had his prayers actually been answered? Had he gone back in time?

The familiar warmth of your eyes pulled him in. He felt like he was walking in slow motion as he crossed the sidewalk towards you.

“What’re you doing here?” He yelled over the rain. You stood before him in a rain jacket with your hood up. You’d been standing in the rain waiting for him to get home.

“I wanted to make sure you got home safe.” You told him.

Relief washed over him. He felt around his pocket, searching for his house key. Noticing the look of panic on his face, you grabbed the spare key from under the doormat and unlocked the door for him.

He stumbled inside. Instinctively, you held onto his hips to steady him. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” He slurred, failing to instill any confidence in you.

“C’mere, Bucky.” You said, simply. You wrapped your arm around his waist and led him up the stairs.

He threw his flesh arm around your shoulders, leaning into your touch. “I love you s’much, sweets.” He mumbled into your neck. He nuzzled his nose against your neck, softly kissing your skin.

You fought every ounce of your nature that wanted to melt into his touch.

He was drunk. He wasn’t thinking straight. You reminded yourself.

“Let’s just get you up to bed.” You redirected his affection.

He wasn’t so easily distracted. His hot breath blew against your neck. Reminding you of quickies together in his car. Or even sleepy mornings in bed when you’d both been too tired to do anything. So, he’d just perfectly jut his hips against yours, both of you still completely clothed as he would groan and whine in your ear.

“Perfect, you’re jus’ perfect,” he mumbled, continuing to kiss your collarbone.

You lowered him down onto his bed. You wanted to run out the door. To never see him again. It was certainly preferable to the specific torture of having your ex-boyfriend, who you still had feelings for, drunkenly profess his feelings for you.

But, you saw him lying on his bed in soaking wet clothes from the rain. And you saw the hurt in his eyes. The same one you often saw when you looked in the mirror.

Before you could change your mind, you peeled his wet shirt off of him. Next, you took off his shoes, socks, and jeans.

He watched silently as you ventured into his closet and emerged with a pair of sweatpants and a dry shirt.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he mumbled, as you pulled the dry clothes onto his body.

After you’d finished, he leapt towards you, clinging to your frame. Your arms were pinned to your side as he hugged you. “Can you stay tonight?” He mumbled against your skin.

You wanted really wanted to. To curl into his side under the sheets and drown in the smell of his citrus cologne. To forget about the lonely nights and tears shed.

“I shouldn’t.” You said, trying to pull out of his grasp. But, he was still a super soldier and much stronger than you. “I’m a mess without ya, sweets.” He said, looking into your eyes.

Those damn eyes.

You gave in immediately. “I’ll sleep on the couch, but only to make sure you’re okay.” You resigned. He pressed a chaste kiss to your temple before whispering goodnight.

After he got into bed, you retreated downstairs to the couch. Part of you was hoping that when you woke up, it would be a dream.

You woke up to the smell of fresh coffee brewing. You sat up, stretching the sleep out of your muscles.

“Morning,” Bucky entered the room holding two cups of coffee.

“Good morning,” you mumbled, the events of last night coming flooding back to you.

He sat down beside you, this thigh brushing up against yours. He handed you one of the mugs. His fingers brushed against yours in a way that made you jump and nearly spill your coffee.

“I only remember bits of last night, but I feel like we should talk.” He said, nervously.

“I should probably go.” You tried to excuse yourself.

Bucky placed his hand on your knee. “Please, stay,” he begged softly.

“This is too much for me, Bucky. I can’t go through all this again.” You said, looking up at the ceiling trying to will away the tears.

As soon as a tear rolled down your cheek, he brushed it away with his thumb. “Please, don’t cry, doll.” He whispered. Heartbreak was written all over both your faces.

“I need to apologize for last night. I crossed a line, but I want you to know that everything I said last night was true. I meant it all. It wasn’t drunk nonsense, I swear. But I know that I shouldn’t have dumped that all on you. I’m really sorry.” He said, genuinely.

His eyes were trained on your face— watching for any reaction. Any hint of a smile or a frown.

You felt a chill run down your spine. You didn't know what to say. Of course you still loved him, but getting hurt again haunted you.

He sensed a rejection coming. He leaned his head slowly onto your shoulder. It took everything in his power to not fall apart. “I know it’s not fair, but I just need to know, doll. Have you missed me the way I miss you?” His voice creaked.

“Why should you be allowed to miss me? You called it off. Cause yeah I’ve missed you like hell, but that’s because you decided you didn’t want me in your life anymore.” You finally snapped.

“I swear on my life, that’s not why I ended things. Of course I wanted you in my life and of course I loved you. That’s not why,” he defended. As much as you didn’t want to, you believed him.

“Then why? Please just tell me because you’ve never given me a straight answer.” You begged him for the closure you’d chased for months. You couldn’t even grieve your relationship because you still didn’t know why it ended.

Bucky’s eyes turned glassy, and he bit the inside of his cheek. You could see how much these past few months had weighed on him.

He reached over— slowly, hesitantly— and interlaced his fingers with yours. “I don’t know how to be a husband— or, a dad. I barely knew how to be a good boyfriend.” He confessed.

You gently squeezed his hand. “I wasn’t asking you to do those things yet. We weren’t even at that point.” You told him.

“But I knew how much I loved you. I fell harder for you everyday. I knew if I stayed, I would end up marrying you. Which sounds like a dream, like a beautiful dream— but a really fucking scary dream too. I didn’t want to disappoint you and have you resent me. I figured it would just be easier to end it before we got to that point. It would be so much harder to lose you when there’s a ring on this finger.” He said, looking down at your hand in his.

You pressed a soft kiss to his lips. His eyes fluttered closed, not having time to kiss you back before you pulled away. “You were never going to lose me. You said you weren’t a good boyfriend, but you were. You’re the love of my life, and you made me feel so special and seen. I know you feel all these expectations, but those aren’t mine. I just wanted you.” You promised him.

“I’m not enough for you.” He admitted, weakly. You shook your head, cupping his cheek with your hand. “You are all that I need.” You said.

He closed his eyes, a few rogue tears rolling down his cheeks. The relief was written all over his face. Forgiveness. Finally.

He felt your lips press against his cheek, kissing each one of his tears away. “To answer what you said last night, I’m a mess without you too.” You told him simply.

He smiled at you before leaning down to kiss you. There was familiarity but also a little bit of exploration. He didn’t waste a second before letting his hands roam your body. You melted into his touch like the first time.

Your bodies jumped back to old habits as you laced your fingers through his hair and he pulled you into his lap.

His lips still fit perfectly against yours. Like you both were built for each other— and no one else.

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[sturnioz]

fratboy!chris uses shy!readers tummy to sort out his edibles and package them, but when one thing leads to another...

based off this ask.

you're lying still as you possibly can, your body pliant beneath chris' touch as your gaze stays fixed on his hands, watching as he sorts the colourful edible gummies scattered across your tummy, acting like some sort of human countertop.

one by one, he groups them by colour—reds with reds, greens with greens, oranges with oranges, and so forth—before carefully sealing them into small plastic bags only for him to start the process all over again.

earlier, you had been far too energetic for chris to deal with; something about today just put a spring in your step, leaving you happy and buzzing as you bounced around the room—feet thumping against the floor and words tumbling from your lips in an endless stream until chris snapped, forcing you to remain still and quiet in promise of a treat later.

it worked.

you had laid down and stilled instantly.

those sweet, strawberry-flavoured lollipops that you love so much—the ones that he refuses to tell you where he gets them from—was enough to keep you obedient for the time being, but now, you're beginning to get a little fussy.

"stay," he warns you as you shift slightly, causing a few gummies to roll out of place. you let out a huff, but his eyes snap to yours, narrowing. "watch it."

"i don't want to do this anymore," you murmur, your lips pushing into a pout, yet despite your words, you don't actually move—apart from your eyes which flit back down to the gummies scattered across your tummy. "what flavour are the red ones?"

"raspberry." he answers flatly, not looking up from his task.

"why not strawberry?"

"'cos they're raspberry."

you pause for a moment before asking another, "what flavour are the green ones?"

"watermelon." he says, not missing a beat.

"why not apple? greens are usually—"

"bun." he hisses at you through clenched teeth, glaring at you.

the warning in his voice makes you press your lips together into a tight line, silencing yourself on instinct. you're left in the quietness of the room again, the only sound heard is the faint rustling of the bags that chris fills and moves to the side.

you can feel yourself getting antsy again, and before long, you're lightly wiggling your foot and toes, trying to shake off that stuck, heaving feeling of staying still for so long.

chris doesn't speak, but he notices, and he shuffles forward, his waist pressing down against your foot to pin it in place. the weight is firm, and it stops you immediately, but the pout on your face deepens—your brows knitting together as you peer down at him again.

the question slips out before you even realise it, "what flavour are the yellow ones?"

"lemon." his tone is flat again, like the answer should've been completely obvious, but you don't take the hint of the annoyance in his tone.

"do you think they make banana ones?"

"probably."

"i like bananas."

"i know."

for a moment, you're quiet again, now staring up at the ceiling. usually, you're fine with quietness, you didn't mind it every now and then. but for whatever reason, this time you didn't like it—it was strange.

was it because he was doing something, admittingly so, intimate? of course he wouldn't see it that way, he never will. to you it felt intimate—having to lay here, completely still, letting him use a part of your body to 'help' him do something.

well, it wasn't exactly to 'help' him—you were just irritating him with your energy, he wanted you to calm down. it should make you a little upset, but the thought of the treat he promised to give you after all this is completed makes you feel a lot better, a smile finding its way across your face.

however, the smile falters when you feel something wet and warm graze across your tummy, and your attention shoots down, the muscles in your core tensing as you watch chris mouth at the leftover gummies—his tongue flicking across your skin in his path.

"w-what are you—"

"shh." he interrupts you, hovering over another gummy before taking it into his mouth, his warm breath causing goosebumps to rise.

you squirm beneath him, your own breathing quickening as his lips brush against your navel, using his tongue to lick at a stray gummy resting over your belly button—chewing it slowly as he makes his way further down.

without warning, as usual, chris shoves his face between your thighs, his nose pressing against your underwear and you gasp, a strangled noise following as his tongue darts out, licking a slow path along the already damp fabric of your panties.

your hands fidget at your sides, fingers twisting in the bedsheets, your broken whimpers filling the room as he hooks his fingers beneath the band, pulling your soaked panties—all thanks to his tongue—to the side to expose your puffy pussy to the cool air, causing you to shiver.

he dives in, mouth attaching to your slick folds, tongue working its familiar magic over your clit, his arms curling around your thighs to keep you still for him to feast. your hips jerk involuntarily, uncontrollably noises seeping past your lips as your head falls back.

you're lost in the sensation already, tummy sucking in with large gasps of air, your spine arching off the bed as your toes curl in your socks—thighs trembling beneath his hold as you squirm again, unable to control the movement of your body as his tongue dips in and out of you, slurping you up so loudly that you throw your arm over your face to cover it.

"don't hide from me, bun," he speaks against your pussy, the vibrations making a whimper fall from your lips. "y'know i don't like that shit. watch me."

divider credits. @issysh3ll

© STURNIOZ

[flicker-fly]

the eightfold word/way

Why Jod Called It That

(spoilers for The Locked Tomb up to & including Nona the Ninth.)

So I was desperately trying to get a grip on quarks for unrelated reasons, and to my utter shock:

The Eightfold Way????

Okay, so the obvious referent for the Eightfold Word in TLT is also the Buddhist Eightfold Path. The Lyctoral Megatheorem is an eight-step process pitched to the Lyctors as a path to ascension, so it seems super likely that's the allusion Jod is making.

However!

As much as Jod's propaganda & image is so spiritual/religious, he and the Lyctors were, at heart, theoretical scientists trying to crack the fundamental energy relationships between the components of soul & body.

How like Jod, the megalomaniacal scientist, to co-opt the term Eightfold exactly like a real-world physicist already did when studying elementary particles. (Also Jod would probably know what a quark is lmao.) An allusion to an allusion, maybe?

Some notable similarities:

^^ The real-world eightfold way was an almost-there model, short of the complete solution--just like the Lyctoral Megatheorem that produced the Lyctors, but failed to achieve the mutual immortality of a Grand Lysis or whatever tf Jod and Alecto had going on! Speaking the Eightfold Word is actually where Jod claims Anastasia tripped up, when in fact she was so close to achieving perfect Lyctorhood that he had to stop her.

^^ the eightfold way is an incomplete model in which one of the key failures was not incorporating a NINTH particle into the meson organizational scheme!! Instead, they were arranged as a group of eight and one isolated meson. There's something there about Anastasia being the only failed Lyctor, (and maybe a missing ninth step), but just in general, come on, the Ninth???? Underestimating and neglecting the Ninth House is like, a lethal oversight over and over in the books.

Now, if I were Tamsyn this would all be more than enough for me to use the term, but if anyone who knows more about physics can think of any other similarities I'd love to hear about them!!

[yoongihan]

Services Rendered - BC - 1/3

pairing: escort chan x femreader

genre: smut, with little plot, a lot of talking, fluffy,

word count: ~ 10k

warnings: sex work, smut: pentrative safe sex, fingering (fem rec); a lot of kissing, older reader, chan goes by chris, use of 'baby' and 'yeonin' (don't ask, just writing him required all the endearments), the most ethical escort service ever; a little alcohol imbibed, but no one's drunk., some discussion of insecurities on both chris's and reader's parts. if i've missed something, let me know.

rating: 18+/M

summary: seeking a solution to your lack of experience, you assume the process will be business-like. you're entirely wrong.

a/n: vaguely based on the film Good Luck to You, Leo Grande. decided this couldn't be a one-shot they way it was going. so since the time frame is a weekend, they'll be another part for the second day, then perhaps an epilogue. thank you for the interest on the teaser. this is probably the softest sex worker au known to man.

Part One

The knock on the door startles you. It shouldn’t. You’ve known that he’ll be showing up at seven pm since you received the confirmation email; after the survey, the video interview, and the background check.

You look down at yourself at the knock, an immediate and instinctual check. There isn’t anything you can do in two seconds to change how you look, who you are; but the quick look is years and years of the world reminding you that you are not what the world wants. Which sometimes you can pride yourself on. But today, you can’t muster up that bravado.

But it’s been seconds since the first knock, so you hurry as the second rap sounds against the wood. You don’t look through the peephole because you’ll lose your nerve, and unless there are serious red flags with the person on the other side of the door, you are doing this.

It’s past time after all. 

You open the door, smile on your face even if it’s the fakest you’ve ever pasted on. 

The answering smile is far more sincere and confident than yours. And includes dimples. 

Oh god, they’d taken you seriously about often liking younger men. 

“Hi?” He starts when you don’t utter a word, shell-shocked. He says your name with a similar question mark at the end. 

“You have a beautiful smile.” You’re frozen, eyes sweeping up and down, taking in his casual air, amplified by the soft cardigan, shirt, and nice jeans. Then you actually hear what you’ve just said. “Sorry, I’m sorry. Um, please come in…Christopher?”

The confirmation email hadn’t given you a lot of details, but it did have his name. 

“Thank you and Chris is fine.” He’s still smiling as he walks in and you close the door behind. You watch him scan the room, taking in the couch, the view of the city beyond it. It’s the nicest hotel you’ve ever stayed in, but neutral territory had been recommended. “This is stunning.”

Your brain kicks back in, your eyes admiring the picture he made against the city lights. “You’re…your accent…Australian.”

He turns from taking in that spectacular view, his grin wider. “Good ear.” He sets his two bags, one messenger and one overnight (the implications of that second one sends another wave of anxiety through you) on the couch before seeing the two wine glasses on the coffee table. “Will you think less of me if I don’t drink?”

“Oh. No, not at all.” Your hands are clasped in front of you, like a caricature of an anxious woman. “There’s sodas in the minibar. Would you prefer me not to drink as well?”

He stands between the sofa and the window, eyes on you. “Will it help you relax?” He’s in profile, and you gaze at him, the strong nose, chin, and as you let your eyes travel down, the absolutely gorgeous ass.

You didn’t even know you had opinions about mens’ asses until this very moment. 

You cough a laugh, focusing back on his question. “Obvious huh?”

“It’s pointless of me to say not to be nervous, but I hope you know that you’re safe.”

You take a deep breath, walking over to the minibar and searching for two bottles of water. You force yourself to walk over to him, offering him one. 

“I know your company is reputable.”

He takes the water bottle from you, letting his fingers lightly touch yours. It’s nothing more than that, but you suspect it’s intentional. 

“It is. You did your research.” He tilts his head to the side, endearingly like he’s going to see you differently by just that change of angle. “Four months, wasn’t it?”

“You watched the interview?”

“Of course I did.”

If one of your hands wasn’t still holding a now sweating bottle of water, you would cover your face in embarrassment. You resist the impulse, just barely.

“Do you think I’d come here without doing my own research?” He’s amused, voice still warm with his accent and what you would normally categorize as fondness, but that’s impossible just meeting him seconds ago. 

“But I know nothing about you, just the company. They were very cryptic.”

“Well….isn’t that the fun of a date? The getting to know someone?” He gestures for you to sit on the couch before he untwists the cap and takes a swallow of water. He sits down once you do, leaving several feet between you. 

“Is that a better choice of word than assignation?”

He chuckles, pointing at me. “Smart. That was apparent pretty early on.” He seems completely at home even though you’ve been in the room since early afternoon, and are sitting with your back ramrod straight. “Didn’t even have to mention your job situation to know you’re smart.”

There is no natural segue into this, but you have to know. Even if he lies to you, you have to know. “Do you have a choice? I mean, do they assign you clients who fall under certain types, or do you have a quota?”

“You want to talk about my work?”

You take a breath, setting down the bottle on the table. “I guess not. I hope this isn’t horribly unwanted. I know it’s work for you, but I hope you–”

He shakes his head, immediately straightening up from his relaxed position, hand falling to your knee, not bare because you couldn’t see meeting him in a dress, even if that was encouraged for ‘heightened romance’ and ‘efficient disrobing’. Despite that you’re wearing a blue jumpsuit, his hand is so warm through the fabric. 

“This okay?” He nods to his hand placement. 

“You have carte blanche to touch me, Chris. I’ll tell you if I’m not okay with it.” That’s something you feel sure about at least.

His eyes widen and his smile grows. “Okay then. Same, by the way.”

There goes your confidence running out the door; that you can touch him in any way you want. 

“Back to your question. I chose you.”

“Excuse me?”

He laughs and gently squeezes your knee before drawing back. You’re somewhat befuddled by the simple touch and you remind yourself that you’re in for a lot more than that and to stop being so sensitive. 

“I watched your video, read your survey answers…and said yes.” He puts down the water bottle and leans forward a bit. “If no one had said yes, you wouldn’t have gotten that confirmation email.”

“You can choose?”

He nods.

“And you were okay with me?”

“Wow.”

You recognize it, the immediate words of chastisement that come when you say things like that, so you continue quickly. 

“I know, I know. I should be confident, right? Love myself, blah blah blah. I don’t hate myself. I just also know that I’ve never had someone interested in me enough to make me think that anyone would choose me.” 

He doesn’t say anything at first. And you realize you’ve just made this all the more awkward and put words into his mouth, which is highly presumptuous of you. 

“I’m sorry.” It’s easier to stare at the city lights than at him, no matter how beautiful he is. 

“Why?”

You look at him. “I…I was rude.”

“You were honest.”

You scoff. “That’s not usually a problem for me.”

“Good.”

You tuck your feet under you, leaning one elbow on the back of the sofa, eyeing him like he isn’t real.

He’s not. You’ve paid a lot of money for an illusion. 

“Really?”

“I like honesty.”

“Even if you’re playing a part for me?”

“You did not mention roleplay on that survey.” His smirk is delighted when you drop your gaze. “I’m not playing. Yes, I do what I do, but I’m going to be myself.”

“Even if all I want is so vanilla it barely qualifies for your line of work?”

He shakes his head. “Even if that’s all. But I don’t think that’s entirely true.” He reaches out, hand hovering over yours. “Okay?”

“Carte blanche.” You nod. You’re pretty sure you mentioned that you were touch-starved in the application process. 

He slots his fingers with yours, his focus on the meeting of your hands. “Do you want to talk about why I’m here?”

You wish you could say no, but that’s cowardly. And you do want to be brave. 

“That I’m a virgin and have so little understanding of sexual pleasure so I hired an expert to do what I can’t even do for myself?” your voice breaks and you hate yourself for it. 

“Why are you a virgin?” he asks. “Sex is not difficult to find if you really want to.”

“I said all this in my–”

“I’d like you to tell me anyway.” He doesn’t do more than hold your hand and his warmth, the lyrical quality of his voice seems to calm you just a touch. “Please?”

He has beautiful eyes. He probably knows that, and knows how to use them. But you can’t help but get lost in them when he says ‘please��� just like that. 

“I’m…I think or I thought that it should be something special, you know? I get that maybe I idealized it a bit much, growing up, eyes all starry with thoughts of romance and being intimate. But even recognizing that, I didn’t want to just…say yes to the drunken proposition at a bar. And…well, I’ve never been in a relationship, so being with someone I trusted wasn’t on the table either.”

“And why haven’t you been in a relationship?”

“It’s not just on me…the other person has to want to as well.” You’re beginning to sound like a petulant child and that’s not ideal. 

“You’re telling me no one wanted to?”

You stare at your combined hands. “If someone wanted to, I didn’t. If I wanted more than just a moment, he wasn’t interested.”

He says your name and you look up. You aren’t sure what he’s thinking, but it’s not pity in his eyes. That’s nice at least. 

“Why now? Why the company?”

“I’m…” You let out a heavy breath. “You saw my information. You know how old I am.”

“I do.”

“I’d like to know what an orgasm feels like before I get any older, because time seems to be running so fast and I’m frustrated that this part of life, of the human experience, is blocked from me.”

“It’s not.” He loosens his grip, turning your hand so it’s open, face-up, on your knee. He starts to trace along the lines there. “You can have an orgasm any time you want.”

“You think I haven’t tried?”

“What’s the problem?” There is no judgment in his tone, nothing but consideration. When you don’t immediately answer, he continues. “This wasn’t in your application or interview.”

“I get scared.”

To his credit, he doesn’t stop the light touching of your hand, even if admitting this feels like the quintessential ‘walking into your classroom naked’ nightmare. 

“Do you know why?”

You shrug, completely focused on the chaste and sweet brushes of skin on skin. “I haven’t been to therapy in a couple years, but I can speculate.”

He waits, a quirk of a smile when you don’t say anything. 

“I’ve probably built it up, in my head. Made it such a big deal that the anticipation is insurmountable. Or…I hate that it’ll just be me. That my first one will be on my own. I don’t know.” 

“Or societally-taught shame.”

You laugh. “Or that.”

He finally draws away after your hand feels thoroughly seduced. He leans back, waits before speaking. He doesn’t seem to rush anything, which is both nice and absolutely maddening. 

“Will it still be special if you’ve paid for it?”

That is the question, isn’t it?

“Maybe not. But at least, you’re contractually obligated to make sure I enjoy it, right? That seems pretty special after hearing everything from women I know about the men they sleep with.” The stories you’ve heard. It’s enough to question whether sex is even what you hope it might be. 

“And that’ll be enough?”

You want to reach out and touch him. Trace the lines of his face; the strong nose, the dimples, the curves of his eyebrows and lips. Touch the dark hair, wavy and messy that contrasts with the striking facial features. 

You could, you suppose. You paid for such access, right?

As beautiful as he is, as lovely as his voice is, and perhaps it’s because of those very things that you cannot be bold physically. Even if all you want is to be held. 

“I guess it has to be.”

He nods and opens his mouth to speak, but your stomach decides right then to make the most egregious sound. He laughs, a full session of giggling as you heat in mortification. He stands and offers his hand. 

“Let’s have dinner then?”

“Oh but.” How do you word this? “Is that good to do before–?” You’re an adult but you can’t for the life of you say ‘making love’ which isn’t even accurate. But ‘fucking’ feels incredibly crass.

He rubs his thumb over your knuckles. “You’ll need your energy, right?”

He’d know of course.

Some of the tension, the awkwardness, dissipates when you both look at the room service menu and order. Chris admits that spicy food is not his thing and you think it funny that this is the first thing you both have in common. 

“Do you…do you abstain from alcohol because of struggling with it?”

He has poured you a glass of the sparkling sweet stuff you’d picked up for yourself. You were pretty sure he wouldn’t like it, most men don’t or don’t admit that they do. The wine, like this entire experience, is for you. 

Your mind likes to tell you that you’re being selfish, but you’re choosing not to listen closely. 

He sets down the bottle before gesturing that you should sit again on the sofa while waiting for dinner. He waits until you sit before doing the same. You note mentally, in all capital letters, that he sits closer to you. 

“I generally don’t like it. Nor is it something I ever want to rely on…” He watches you take a sip and you find that a skill you tend to do well (drink something) is hindered by such an attentive gaze. You wipe your mouth quickly and set the glass down, looking away. “It’s my job. And I don’t want to do it with an inhibited mind.”

“Oh.”

“Can you do something for me?” he asks softly, reaching out once again to take your hand. You let him, hoping he will as successfully seduce this as he’d done with the other. 

“What?”

“When you have a thought, like you just did? Just tell me.”

“Without a filter?”

He grins, wide. “Absolutely without a filter.”

“Why?”

He chuckles and starts tracing the lines of your palm and fingers. “How am I going to get you to let go if I don’t know what is going on inside that head of yours?”

“I was hoping you’d just shut it down for me instead.”

It’s a glint. A quick, but potent change in his eyes. “Gotta know how it works before I render you senseless.”

His voice has changed too. No longer warm, but hot. No longer lyrical, but sharp. 

“It’s noisy,” you say slowly. “My brain rarely slows down or gets quiet. I went to a concert once, one I was super super excited about, and I kept telling myself to enjoy the moment, being present right then. But just telling myself that…”

“Means you weren’t. Present.”

You shake your head. “I’m going to overthink this.”

He nods. “Understood.” He lets his touch carry up the inside of your forearm and elbow. You shiver. He meets your eyes with a smirk. 

“How long have you been doing this? With the company?”

“A few years,” he says, fingers still lightly brushing your skin. “It’s not my only job. It’s just the better paying one.” 

“What else do you do?”

“Act. Or try to. I go to quite a few auditions, but the results aren’t great.” His lips twist as he thinks. “But I like it. I like the process of character work.”

“Do you do community theatre?”

“Some.” He grins. “You a theatre kid?”

“Once upon a time.”

He opens his mouth to say more, but there’s a knock at the door. “I’ll get it.”

“Oh but–”

He stands, hand out to keep you where you’re at. “It’s your weekend, right? Let me serve you.” The emphasis on ‘serve’ is left hanging as he goes to the door to retrieve dinner. You take a big gulp of your drink, unbidden images in your mind. You have no practical experience, but your imagination is as active as the rest of your brain. 

He returns with a large tray, setting down the dishes with ease.

“Worked in food service?”

“Who hasn’t?” He returns to the spot next to you and rests his hands on his knees. “You?”

“Food service? Yes. I was terrible at it.”

He laughs before removing the lids of each plate. He offers you one, silverware in his other hand. 

“Here you are, madam,” his grin is unburdened, very playful and bright. You could stare at it for hours. “Why were you terrible at it?”

You set your plate down, waiting for him to get his own food before you start. “Too many things to remember. And trying to interact with people like that? It was just…awkward. I'm decent with people, but for whatever reason, having to take their orders, bring them food and drink, figure out when is the appropriate time to bring them their check, just makes me awkward.” I shrug. “Also, murder on the feet.” You take a bite and chew, enjoying the flavors. 

“It really is. Which is why I prefer to do my work lying down.”

You can feel the immediate heat in your face at his words and he laughs so hard, he falls back on the couch. 

“I’m sorry, I'm sorry. It’s such a bad joke, but your face.” He squeezes your knee again, before taking a bite of his own meal. When you don’t say anything, he swallows and looks back at you. “What? Cheesy jokes aren’t your thing?”

It’s the smile. The crinkling of his eyes and scrunch of his nose. 

You lean close to kiss his cheek. “I just wanted to do that,” you say softly before pulling back and trying to focus on your food. You can feel his gaze as you take a few more bites. You know your embarrassment is more than obvious if he’s looking at you. 

Finally after several seconds of silence, you make eye contact. 

He smiles once you do, not saying anything, but returning to his meal. You both concentrate on that, the conversation mostly paused for sustenance. He refills your glass, but you’re careful not to drink too much, recognizing that you are a lightweight and you want to remember whatever happens. 

“We can order dessert?” he prompts when each of your plates are more empty than full. 

You lift your glass. “Plenty of sweet right here.”

“Can I try?” He doesn’t go for the extra wine glass still on the low table. He reaches for yours. It’s familiar, the drinking after someone else. You know it’s dumb to focus on it as you hired him for sex, but as you watch him sip it and stare into nothing as he ponders if he likes it or not, you feel the intimacy. 

“Well?”

“I like it.” He hands the glass back. “Doesn’t taste like alcohol.”

“Which makes it dangerous and this should be the last for me.” You look back to your plate, not completely done, but you’re thinking too much again and you can’t stomach any more. 

He stands and starts to clean up, shaking his head the moment you move to join. 

“I’m not good with just…not doing anything.” 

“I can see that.” He doesn’t have to seem so amused. “Makes it fun.” 

Mock-annoyed, you take your glass and walk to the windows so you can take in the view. The sun has been set for at least an hour now, and the lights from the city buildings are plentiful. You take a few deep breaths, realizing that now dinner is done, there is nothing hindering the ‘just do it’ portion of the night.

You hope he’s okay with a lot of foreplay because you, in the little you know about your body, need a lot of build up.

The door opens and shuts with him setting out the dishes for hotel staff to retrieve and soon you hear him rustling through his bag. You turn to see him pull out a zipped pouch. He winks at you.

“Gonna brush my teeth?”

“Oh. Oh sure.”

He chuckles at your response, and you force yourself to look back out over the city. Then in an almost panic, you finish the last of your wine, set down the glass and hurry to your overnight bag by the king-sized bed. You dig through to find your own toiletry bag, and tug it out. He comes out of the bathroom, glances over to see you’re no longer by the window. 

“I thought…” You feel so stupid. “I’d do the same.”

He smiles and gestures toward the bathroom. You hurry past him and shut the door behind you. You regret looking in the mirror as your face is decidedly not a poker face. Your nerves show in your eyes, the swollenness of chewing on your lips, the sheen of perspiration on your skin. 

You wipe under your eyes as your makeup is smeary before quickly brushing your teeth. You soak one of the pristine white washcloths and twist it so it’s damp and not dripping. You press it lightly to your face, hoping the cool will calm you down. You fiddle with your necklace, pulling the clasp to the back of your neck as though that will make any difference in how you appear to him. 

When you open the door, he’s standing by the end of the bed, hands in his pockets, looking at the two books you have on the nightstand. He points to them before speaking.

“Planning on doing a lot of reading?” He’s teasing, and that helps you calm down a little bit.

“I can’t go anywhere without at least one book. Even if the chances of getting to read are slim to none.” You mirror his posture, sliding your hands into the pockets of your jumpsuit.

“You okay?” he asks, voice gentle.

“Theoretically? Absolutely.” Your tone does nothing to confirm your words.

“Wanna sit with me?” He sits at the end of the bed and pats the space next to him. You hesitate. “Or we can sit on the couch?”

Dumb, you are dumb. The bed is the obvious final destination, but for whatever reason, the couch feels safer right now. 

“Please. The couch.”

He gets up and walks over to where you are still standing. He slips his hand in yours. 

“Come on, yeonin,” he says as he leads you back to the couch. He tugs you down next to him and you sit stiffly, hand still in his, other hand on the edge of the cushion like you’re about to escape. You force yourself to take a deep breath. “That’s better.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

You look at your hands entwined. His are, like the rest of him, really attractive; bigger than yours, veins prominent in the way that epitomizes sexy. 

“We don’t have to do anything tonight. We don’t have to do anything the entire time,” he reassures you, making you look up to his face. “This is for you. It can be on your timeline.”

“But…but if I don’t do it now…I don’t think I ever will.”

He lifts your hand to his lips, presses a kiss to your knuckles, causing you to stare at him. “I think you’re psyching yourself out.”

“Oh, I am absolutely doing that,” you agree. “I can’t seem to stop it.”

He purses his lips in thought, then draws your hand against them again. He has to hear the catch in your breathing because he smiles. 

“Let’s start with what you are comfortable with. What you’ve done previously. What you want to do. With me.” His voice drops at the end, and you feel it pulsate through your body. 

“Okay.”

He waits, patiently. You pull your hand out of his and turn toward him, trying to relax yourself enough that you don’t look primed to run away. You tuck one leg under you before taking his hand again. He smiles as you do, slotting his fingers with yours, watching you as you watch how your hand looks in his. 

“I like your hands,” you say softly.

“Yeah? Why?” 

You like how his voice doesn’t betray any judgement at your words, or offense. Just curiosity. When you meet his gaze, you can see the top of his cheeks are a little pink.

Is he blushing?

“Well, one, they’re very warm.” You laugh. “I like the way they’re shaped.” You trace his index finger as you continue. “I know masculinity and femininity are products of our society, but they’re very masculine.” You shrug before shivering.

“You cold?” he asks quickly, letting go of your hand to tug off his cardigan. He has it on your shoulders, pulling it closed, before you can even protest. His white t-shirt underneath stretches taut across his chest and shoulders, catching your attention for a good few seconds. 

“I…thank you,” you reply, burying yourself more in the soft fuzzy material. “I like this cardigan.”

“I thought you might.” He’s gone back to holding your hand, other arm propped against the back of the sofa. 

His words spark something. “Wait…do you pick your clothes based on your clients?”

He grins, leaning his head on his hand, eyes sparkling. “You really want me to talk about work?”

“Okay, I shouldn’t, but I’m really fascinated.”

“Well…yes. It’s a costume. Some clients want a type of escort who’s very put together, like in a suit.”

The image of him in a well-tailored suit pops into your head immediately. “I imagine you look stunning.”

The pink spreads in his cheeks and you are beyond amused that this man, with the job he has, could at all be embarrassed by something as simple as a compliment. 

“I…I have a few nice suits.” He clears his throat. “But dependent on what a client is looking for in an…encounter, dictates outfit as much as persona.”

“I wouldn’t have minded seeing you in a suit.”

He chuckles, squeezing your hand before letting it go and tapping a random rhythm on your leg. “I speculated, from your interview, the way you looked at the camera, that you probably prefer authenticity over any sort of glamour. Someone a bit more real.”

“And that’s a cardigan?”

“For me it is. I was grateful I didn’t have to use anything in my hair.” He laughs now and you reach to touch his hair instinctively, caught up in the coziness and comfort of him and the simple conversation. His hair is soft, without any hair product. You can feel his eyes on you as you let your fingers brush through the strands. 

“So…you’re telling me,” you ask, drawing back after another minute. “You are being yourself, right now?”

“As much as a person can be with someone they’ve just met. And hope to–” He looks up, searching for the word.

“To fuck?”

His eyes dart back to you. “Simply put. But I would like to imagine it’d be a bit nicer than that.” Neither of you say anything and you’re back to second-guessing yourself. “Hey,” he begins. “Come here.”

He takes both of your hands, pulling you so you are almost in his lap. He lets your hands fall to his shoulders, his own holding about the waist. The position means he’s looking up at you. 

His thighs are warm between your legs, his eyes accented by dark lashes. You draw one finger down the length of his nose. He scrunches it at your touch. 

“It’s big.”

You laugh at his self-deprecation and the underlying innuendo that was probably unmeant but who cares?

“It’s a very nice nose,” you reply, cheeky grin. He responds with his own smile. “It fits your face, so it works, right?”

“We all have our insecurities, right?”

You brush back his hair, thinking. “Some of us have so many it’s hard to see what’s not tainted in dislike.” 

His hands tighten at your waist. “Tell me something you like about yourself.”

“Oh my god, you sound like my college counselor, who had me write five good things for every bad thing I said about myself.”

His smile is softer and one hand slides up your back, under the cardigan. “I’m asking for just one.”

“As much as it gets me into trouble,” you state slowly, your own hands mapping the journey of his shoulders to his neck and back again. “I like that I’m honest. That’s my default.”

“Another.”

“You said just one.”

“I did, but I’m greedy. Another and it has to be shallow.”

“Shallow?”

“Your looks.”

You frown at him, but he’s so pretty like this, looking up at you like he has all the time in the world, that he’s not on the clock. That this entire experience isn’t funded by your savings account and a plan months in the making. 

“I…”

“You can do it.”

You slap his shoulder and he laughs. “Do not patronize me.”

“I’m not. I’m encouraging.”

“Please.”

“Another good thing, about you.” His hand that had slid up your back has now drifted down, resting right at the curve of your ass. 

“My eyes?”

“What about them?”

“God, you are my college counselor.”

His smile is unrepentant. 

“They’re nice.”

His expression morphs into mild annoyance. “They’re beautiful. I like the color. And how much they show. You’d be shit at poker.”

“I’ll have you know that I mask my feelings decently well in everyday life. I’m just tired.”

He nods. 

“You’re not going to ask me to say another nice thing, are you?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

You lean down slightly, lessening the distance between your faces. His eyes don’t flicker away. 

“Are you trying to distract me?”

“Maybe?”

“I like when you’re like this.”

“Like what?”

“Confident. It’s sexy.” His voice drops lower with these words and you belatedly realize that in your effort to evade having to say another nice thing about yourself, you’ve invaded his personal space (not that he looks like he’s bothered by it) and if this was a movie or any type of story, your next move would be to kiss him. 

Which means now you’re looking at his lips. They, like everything you’ve seen of him so far (oh my god, you are going to see all of him at some point if this experience is at all successful) are beautiful, perfectly-shaped, enticing. 

He says your name in the same low voice, a promised whisper. “Kiss me.”

You swallow nervously. “It’s been a minute.”

“All the reason to practice on me.”

He’s good at this. Softening a moment that feels like too much for you. Making you smile when you feel overwhelmed and doubtful.

“Use you?”

“Please.” His hand slips farther down and there’s no denying that he has moved to less than appropriate places. 

You let your eyes close as you cover the last bit of space between you and him, your lips touching his so lightly it feels like a wisp of a daydream. He doesn’t let you get away with it though. Hand cupping the back of your neck, he keeps you there, the kiss lengthening and lingering in a way that brings back the shivers you thought the cardigan had dispelled. 

When he draws back, your breathing is a bit labored. He caresses where his hands sit, neck and ass, watching you carefully. You expect him to say something, maybe about you needing some practice for sure, but he doesn’t. He just watches before moving back in.

“Open up, yeonin,” he whispers, and your lips part instinctively at his words. Eyes close and you feel his tongue trace the inside of your lips before sliding in to stroke yours. 

You whimper and his hand tightens its grip on your ass. You run your fingers through his hair before moving closer. It shouldn’t surprise you that he’s good at kissing…it’s probably a requirement of his job. But where so many can use their tongue to excess, he’s found the perfect balance of tongue, lips, and teeth.

When you decide to be a bit bold and nibble on his lower lip, his hand tightens, a sharp exhale. 

“Confident,” he murmurs against your mouth before leaving it to press kisses to your jaw line, down to your neck. There’s a light nip and you gasp, your own fingers digging into his shoulders. He squeezes the back of your neck gently. 

“Chris,” you breathe, and he draws back, looking up at you. His lips are swollen, pink and plump. The color high on his cheeks, his hair even more tousled. 

“What is it, baby,” he asks softly, the quiet of the hotel room overwhelming. Should you have put on music? Isn’t that often the precursor to a night like this? His kiss on your lips is quick and almost careless. “Stay with me. I can see you thinking too hard.”

You half-laugh, embarrassed, loosening your hands and starting to sit back on your heels practically. He holds you firm so you can’t put any distance. 

“Don’t. Don’t move away.” He rubs your back, soothing. “What is it?”

“I just…you’re right. I’m thinking again.”

He smiles, leaning in so your noses touch. “Kiss me again. You’re good at it.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” His smile widens when you swoop back in. He lets you lead, eager to taste him, eager to enjoy this moment without thinking it’ll end in minutes. You play with his hair, while he kisses you back, tongue curling with yours. It takes you a moment or three, realizing that his hold on your ass, tightens ever so much, ever so slowly closer until when you break from his lips to suck a mark on his neck, his hips buck right up against you. 

And you freeze. 

“Hey, hey,” he says, still in that soft soft voice. 

“Sorry, sorry,” you breathe. 

“Scared?” You’ve tucked your face into the curve of his neck, breathing him in, trying to relax. 

“It’s dumb. It…you feel good. It’s just…surprising. I’m sorry.”

He kisses the side of your head, the hand again rubbing circles on your back. “Don’t apologize.” He waits. “Look at me.”

You lift your head, your face burning with humiliation. He cups your face in his hand. 

“Your pace, okay? If you’ve never been with someone, it would be a little scary.” He holds your chin with his thumb and forefinger. “But if it worried you at all, I do want you.”

You take a deep breath, watching his face as though there might be something to tell you he isn’t being truthful. 

“You’re way too nice.”

He chuckles, kissing you softly. “I like being nice. I like being nice to you. I like listening to the sounds you make when you’re excited, how you move closer when turned on.” He stares at you with no shame. “I like that it’s me making you do those things.”

Your cheeks burn. 

“Come on,” he says, and without any sort of visual effort, he lifts you. You squeak, legs wrapping around his waist. He’s laughing at your shock, carrying you toward the bed. You can feel your breathing shorten as he lays you down with ease. He regards you, rubbing one hand on your thigh that starts to relax, his other against the mattress, so his entire weight isn’t on you. 

You stare up at him. 

“What are you thinking now?” 

“That I’m warm.”

His grin is infectious. “Probably ought to get rid of that cardigan.” He rolls to his side, gently tugging the garment off your shoulders, down your arms. You push yourself up so he can pull it from under you. You fall back, the bed bouncing. He waits for a second. 

“Still warm?” he asks, fingers tracing the buttons in front of your jumpsuit. His eyes flick to yours. “We still good?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not entirely convinced by that,” he teases, leaning to kiss you just as he undoes the top button. You focus on the feel of his mouth, the wet heat, even as it leaves your lips, trailing down to your neck and then the middle of your chest as he undoes the rest of the buttons. “Pretty,” he comments when your bra is revealed by the unbuttoning. He looks up at you through his lashes. 

“Pretty,” you repeat, tugging on the shoulder of his t-shirt. He laughs as he sits up and does the very attractive guy thing, of pulling it off from behind his neck. “Oh.”

He raises his eyebrows, looking down at his half-naked state. “I mean, I did have dinner, so…” There’s humor, but you hear the self-deprecation. 

It’s instinct, you sitting up and reaching out to touch him. “The ‘oh’ was pure admiration, Chris. Like, you are stunning.” Your hands trace down his arms. “I…it’s a little intimidating, honestly. I know that for your job…both jobs probably…you need to look perfect…but perfection is daunting.” You don’t think that your hands are boldly caressing his bare skin, until you feel the top of his jeans at your fingers. Your eyes widen and you pull away as though burnt.

He’s giggling, grabbing your hands and placing them back on his shoulders. “Carte blanche, remember. God, you’re cute.” He keeps his smile even when the giggles subside, carefully nudging your clothing off your shoulders. He draws one finger up the valley between your breasts. 

“I am not perfect-looking.”

He doesn’t look away from you, eyes heating at your bare skin, his hand resting on your arm. You start to pull away, fidget at the quiet and his lengthy perusal. His hand tightens, keeping you still. 

“Chris.”

His eyes move up to yours. “Stunning.”

You don’t believe him, why would you when he looks like he does? But there’s something in his gaze that makes you think he believes it, and in matters of whether or not someone is beautiful, it really is in the eye of the beholder, right?

And he is beholding, currently. 

It’s too much for you at this point, his acute focus on you, so you move in to kiss him again, more than happy to get back to the familiar. He returns kiss for kiss, and you fall backward into the mattress and pillows, his body on yours, a pleasant weight. When he leaves your lips this time, you think you’ll feel him against your neck, leaving marks; but the wet heat of his mouth encases your covered breast. The gasp you let out is barely audible, the sharp inhale of air. It sends a frisson through you, as his hand slips under the still open fabric covering your hips. The combinations of heat from his mouth and his hand overwhelms, and you can’t stop shuddering. You make some nonsensical sound when he proceeds to lavish the same attention on your other breast. The wet lace and satin scratches in the most indulgent way. 

“Do something for me?” he whispers, his breath chilling your damp skin. 

“What?”

“Since it’s new, use the stoplight system? Red means full stop. Yellow means a pause, perhaps take a break, and green means you’re good, not scared, not hurting.” His eyes zero into yours without flickering away.

You nod, breathless. “Okay. I…I can do that.”

“Cause I’m gonna touch you now, and you gotta tell me what works and what doesn’t.” He kisses your nose. His fingers sneak under your underwear, slowly like he believes you’re still skittish (you are, but you also want something down there). He’s so gentle, kissing you as he drags the pad of his finger along your entrance. “Color?” he says against your mouth.

“Huh?”

He lifts his head a bit more, smiling down at you. “What color?”

“Oh. Oh! Green.”

He chuckles, murmuring, “Cute,” before going back to kissing you. His thumb presses on your clit and your hips buck. “Easy,” he says, his other hand on your hip to hold you down. 

“Chris…that…that feels good.”

He does the same movement again, your hips try, but his hand is heavy to keep you steady. “That?”

You narrow your gaze, even though you’re quivering with his touch. “You’re making fun of me.”

He leans in, smile as wide as can be, dimples deep. His nose brushes yours. 

“Absolutely.” 

You raise up to meet his lips, fingers seeking his hair. He hums, his fingers playing with you, as though seeking the destination immediately isn’t the point. You trace down his neck to his shoulders and arms.

“You know,” you begin, gasping when he slides one finger into you. His smile is so arrogant. 

“You were saying?”

“I…” 

He circles your clit with the barest of touches, his other finger curling up inside. Your breath hitches.

“Breathe, baby. Yeonin, you’re okay, just breathe.” His gaze is soft on you as you can’t help but close your eyes tight as the liquid pull of pleasure grows. You feel like a band drawn tight, seconds away from breaking. You feel his lips on yours, careful before speaking. “Don’t be scared, just let go.”

It ramps up, the tension building and building, and you are gasping, opening your eyes to see that his gaze is resolute on you.  

When his second finger slips in, curling with the other, you shatter. 

He licks into your mouth, as you have no voice to make a sound. You’re only aware of the sensations; his tongue on yours, your fingers biting into the skin of his arms, how your legs tremble. 

How the quiet and ease flickers back into your brain after the quivers lessen, and the muscles ease. 

His fingers are still in you, still touching you and you shake your head. 

“Too much?”

“Yellow.”

He pulls his hand away, quietly adjusting your underwear. The hand that held your hip slides up to your stomach, warm and comforting. 

You take a deep breath, finding his eyes. “Wow.”

He laughs, falling down next to you, no longer propping himself up. If your face was hot with exertion and arousal earlier, it’s now hot with embarrassment. 

“That’s the best feedback I’ve gotten,” he says, his hand cupping your waist, so he can roll you toward him. 

“I doubt that.”

He leans in to kiss you quick. “How do you feel?”

“Both exhausted and energized. I think.”

“Sounds about right.” He rolls to his back, looking up at the ceiling. You push yourself to your elbows, unable to look away from him. He eventually glances over. “Yes?”

“That’s not it, is it?”

He snorts, trying not to laugh too loudly. “Not at all. But I thought you might want a break.”

Your gaze moves from his beautiful face to his arms. “I remember what I was going to say before you…”

“Before I…?”

“Shut up.”

He’s snickering. 

“I was going to say how it’s wrong that they only talk about curves in regards to women. Men have curves too.” You smooth your fingers along his arm, wrist to shoulder. “Just as beautiful.” 

His snickering fades. “Really?”

“Arms…jaw line.” You trace each as you speak. “Lips.” Which part when your finger makes contact. You meet his eyes for a second before hoping it’s an invitation, slip your finger in. His lips wrap around it, his teeth dragging against the pad of your finger. “Oh god.”

He smiles before sucking then releasing. He sits up, finger under your chin so you’re facing him. He kisses you lightly, before toying with the last button on your jumpsuit. “I think we should remove this.”

As much as you’d like to see more of him, completely baring yourself is something you haven’t done outside of your own bedroom, and in a doctor’s office. But you can do this. “Okay..if…” You gesture to his jeans. “Equality and all that.”

“For equality,” he teases, moving to stand at the end of the bed. You follow, reaching for the button on his jeans. “You want to?”

“Yes.” You focus on your fingers working properly, though you’re still a bit shaky from your…orgasm. At some point, you are going to have to process through that. His hands cover yours. “I can do it, I’m just a bit jumpy.”

You feel his lips on your forehead. “You know, we don’t have to do this tonight. I could just eat you out.”

Your head shoots up in surprise. He seems unbothered by how casually he talks about oral sex. 

“But you’re…” With your hands near and your attention at the fastening of his pants, his arousal is more than obvious. 

“Yes, I am.” He doesn’t let go of your hands, even as you undo the button and pull down the zipper. There’s a strain to his voice when your fingers unthinkingly brush him. There’s a twitch and you find yourself fascinated by it. “But this is easily dealt with if you want. You’re still a virgin, but you know what an orgasm feels like. So, we could just stop–”

“No,” you interrupt, looking up at him, letting your hand stroke him through his underwear. There’s another twitch, and his face tenses slightly. After being so completely undone by his touch, you want to ‘return the favor.’ See him undone. “Please?”

Your hands are bolder, tugging down his jeans so you can cup him easier. He breathes sharply through his nose, head dropping slightly. 

“You do not have to say please, I’m more than willing.”

You peer up at him. His eyes are half-mast, another edged inhale. You push down his jeans completely, letting him step out of them, kicking them away. He wears black boxer-briefs that are straining currently. You reach for them, but he wraps his hands around your wrists, halting you. 

“No?”

“Equality,” he says, the amusement back in his voice. 

Right, you still have your jumpsuit on, well, half on. 

He lets go, moving a step closer so you can feel his body heat, smell whatever fresh cologne he wears, heightening his natural scent. He slides his hands between your skin and the jumpsuit, hands so warm you shiver despite not being chilly. Your clothing falls, following the journey of his hands, hips to thighs to ankles. He’s at your feet, looking up at you; those eyes so dark, you can’t see the warm mahogany. 

You step out of the pile of fabric and he tosses it over the back of the chair several feet away. 

You are essentially without clothing, your underwear (hand-picked for this weekend as you figured you might as well try something pretty) covering enough, but not enough. If he senses this, he doesn’t indicate, walking back to you and cupping your face in his big hands, tipping your head up for a kiss. You welcome this, the heat of his mouth. It’s been only minutes since he’s kissed you, but you crave like an addict who’s going through withdrawal. 

Stroking his bare back has you humming against his lips (how could a back feel so good? But here you are). You can feel his smile, his tremble and goosebumps as the room isn’t exactly at temperature for as little as you two are wearing.

“Cold?” you ask softly. He pecks your lips before drawing back to make eye contact. His hands stay on your face, and you feel cherished, which a voice in your brain tells you is stupid as you’re paying this man and his company to make you feel like that. 

He’s a really good actor.

“A bit,” he replies to your question. He brushes his nose with yours. “I’ll grab a condom.”

Your eyes widen, but you nod, immediately colder when he lets go. He sits at the end of the bed, rummaging in his bag. You grab something out of yours, your face hot with embarrassment. He looks over at what you offer. 

“I…uh…did research and a friend recommended this.”

“Lube?” he asks, taking it and glancing at the label. “Okay.” He’s smiling at you, like you’re funny, which might be true even if you aren’t trying to be. 

You sit on the bed, in the middle, a bit at a loss now that you have nothing in your hands. “I would have bought condoms, but there’s so many kinds and sizes and I was worried I might offend you with getting the wrong size. I wouldn’t even know.”

He looks over his shoulder, still smiling. “Tends to be a required thing I bring.”

“Of course.”

He, having retrieved said prophylactic, crawls to where you’re sat (the bed is king-sized and it feels monstrously large). He sits next to you, cross-legged like you are. 

“Again, we don’t have to. I can get you off as much as you want without–”

“It’s weird,” you say, glancing at him. “Just talking about this. I’ve talked in theoreticals about sex my whole life and now, it’s just…it’s such a normal thing, right? Just this thing a lot of people do but I haven’t.” 

He bumps shoulders with you. 

“I’m sorry. I’m going off on a tangent again. I’m sure it’s annoying.”

He links his hand with yours, resting them on his knee. “I’m not annoyed. I like talking to you. And I want you to be comfortable and have a good time, not feel pressured or coerced in any way. We can talk all night.”

“No. I mean, that actually sounds like fun with you.”

His answering smile is brilliant.

“But…I want to. I’m just nervous.” You lift his hand, still wrapped around yours, to your lips. You meet his gaze. “I’m so glad you chose me.”

The fondness melts into something hotter in his eyes, pupils dilating. He eases you onto your back, kissing you softly, mouth at your mouth, then your neck and collarbone. You squirm, as he hovers over you, raising up to check on you. It’s criminal how good he looks, hair messy (from your hands), lips swollen (from your lips). He toys with the clasp of your bra, his fingers brushing the edges of your curves. 

“Can I?”

You nod, your breathing hindered by how easily he’s wound you up again, with only kisses. He undoes the clasp without difficulty, gently peeling off the lace from your breast, exposing them to his regard. 

With a glance at your face, another check in, he lowers to suck on one nipple, the feeling entirely different without fabric hindering. You hiss out his name, hands scrambling to grab his arms, something to ground you. His chuckles vibrate against your skin and you moan more wantonly than you believed you were capable of. He moves to your other breast, giving it the same treatment. Your fingers dig into his arms; you’ll leave marks.

You hope you leave some sort of impression on this man. 

Once he’s done twisting you up, he removes your bra, tossing it aside before snapping the band of your underwear, causing you to jolt.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Please. Yours too?” Your words aren’t more than whispers. He smirks, before shedding his and tugging down yours. You stare, openly and blatantly at his nudity. 

“I’m debating on telling you whether I’m average or not,” he teases, making you look away from his cock to his face. 

“Does it matter? Really?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“I think you’re beautiful,” you say, prompted by the visual you have. 

His cheeks, already pink from arousal, deepen all the more and you laugh. He makes a face at you before moving back to kissing you. 

“Aren’t you just trouble,” he murmurs, slipping the foil packet into your hand. “Put it on?”

You push yourself back up to rip open the packet, and roll it on him. You don’t draw back, fascinated by the immense heat he radiates, how delicate the skin is, even under the latex. He twitches at your exploration. 

“It feels okay?”

“Feels great,” the words on a heavy exhale. He does, however, take your hand away, assisting you back onto the bed. “So…there’s a lot of ways to do this, and I would like to try them all with you, but this is probably the easiest for your first time.”

“Missionary?”

“A classic,” he jokes before his expression smoothes into something more serious. “You can tell me to stop at any time.”

“Green, yellow, red.”

“Exactly.” Moving himself, so he’s kneeling between your legs, he squeezes out the lube into his hands, warming it before sliding it onto his cock, and then to your cunt. You jump at the feel of it, but his hands haven’t forgotten how to play you and that build that you felt not that long ago, starts its climb yet again. 

“Chris,” you reach out for him, shuddering as he toys with your clit. He leans down so you can grab him, feel that smooth back. His mouth attaches to yours, as his fingers circle, press and increase the anticipation. You reach for him, wrapping your hand around his dick, intent because even with no experience, you clench; your body instinctively craving something to fill you. He curses at your touch. “No?”

“You’re good, baby. Hand feels good,” he reassures, lips and teeth sloppily moving against yours. “Still green?” You tense when you feel him at your entrance.

“Yes. Green, please.” You want so desperately. 

He pushes in, incrementally. “Breathe through it. You have to relax.” He’s watching you so carefully as he continues. You stare back, he seems blurry right now. The stretch is borderline painful, but you still want it. Your hand slides to his hip and then his ass, where you grip hard. 

“Color?” He seems so calm, but his voice is labored, tension coloring it. 

“Green.” Can he even hear you? You don’t know if you’ve even given voice or just mouthed it. “Fuck. I’m so full of you.”

He curses again. “You can’t say shit like that.”

You blink away some of the haze, to focus on him. Veins bulging in his neck, and arms. “I can’t?”

“I mean…” He takes a deep breath, expression softening slightly. “You feel so good, but I need to be careful with you.”

“I do?”

He laughs brokenly at how pleased you sound. “So fucking cute,” he mutters. “I’m gonna move, okay?”

“Okay.”

He pulls back, not as slowly, but still with patience you can’t fathom. The stroke, how he slides against your core is delicious and strange and wonderful. He pushes back in. 

“Feels good,” you sigh. 

He hums in response, repeating the motion before chuckling. Your eyes shoot open as he looks down at you. 

“What?”

“Helps if you move too.”

You’re already very hot from everything, but you can feel the blood rush to your face. He’s still giggling and moves to kiss you.

“You’re okay, I’m just giving you a few pointers. You can absolutely just lay there if you want. It’ll probably feel better though if you move.”

“I guess I’m a bit rubbish at this.”

“Nah, just learning.” He brushes his nose against yours. “No one is an expert their first time.” 

As you clench and try to find a rhythm with your hips that matches his, “I bet you were.”

He laughs, strained but joyous. “I definitely wasn’t.” He keeps himself propped up with one hand on the bed, but his other returns to your clit, the mere touch pushing that climb again. There’s a moment when your hips align and you just know you did it right, but it’s half a second and you find you’re off again, especially with his attention on your clit. 

“Chris,” you whine. 

“You can let go, yeonin. It’s fine.”

When you break, it’s different than the first time, not as intense, but lovely and shattering. The rolls through you, tremors and muscles relaxing. 

No wonder everyone does this. 

“Stay with me,” you hear him. You open your eyes to see that he’s still moving, his thrusts more erratic. You squeeze him, out of some instinct you didn’t know you had. He groans. “Yeah, that’s good.” You don’t feel like you have much strength after a second orgasm, but you roll your hips and clench as best you can as he speeds up. 

It’s fascinating to watch him climax, the tension in the neck veins, the jaw muscles tight, the furrow in his forehead. It’s a different kind of beauty, heightened by the knowledge that you, or your body at least, did that. He falls on top of you, his hands trying to keep his weight off, but you wrap yourself around him as he shudders from release. 

After several minutes, when it seems like his trembling has ceased, you nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck. “Color?” 

He chuckles. “Fucking green.” He kisses the top of your chest before lifting up to see you. “You?”

“That was really…yeah.”

He grins, boyish charm. “Good.” He stares at you for a few seconds. “You look a little sleepy.”

“Yeeeeah. Maybe.”

He laughs before rolling off and out of you. You wince at the loss. He disposes of the condom before tugging you off the bed. 

“Did we ruin the comforter?” you ask, standing but a bit wobbly. 

“Probably not,” he says, pulling the comforter off and onto the floor. He wraps an arm around you, at ease in his nakedness (your brain is foggy still and you just now are realizing how naked you are too). “Pajamas?”

“Yes…” you slur a little, exhaustion from all your nerves today, anticipation and worry catching up. He sits you down on the sheets before going into the bathroom. He returns with a wet washcloth. “Oh, I can…”

“Hush,” he admonishes, cleaning you up reverently. He tosses the washcloth on top of the discarded comforter and then goes to your bag and pulls out your faded t-shirt and soft flannel pants. 

“I…I have a…lingerie nightgown in there.”

He shakes his head, coming to kneel in front of you. He slides on the pants, then the t-shirt over your head. 

“Something comfortable. You can show me the nightgown tomorrow night.” He pulls back the sheets and gets you settled in. You curl to your side, eyes closed against the pillow. You hear him move around the room, the few lamps that were on turn off. It feels like seconds or days until he slides in next to you. He touches your side lightly, saying your name. 

“Hmm?” you reply, before reaching to grab his hand and wrap it around your middle. There’s a half-laugh. 

“Guess you like cuddling, too?”

You make an affirmative sound as he curves around you, his lips touching the back of your neck. You shiver and lace your fingers with his. 

“Chris?” you say a few minutes later, the threat of sleep looming.

“Yeah, baby?” 

“Thank you. I want to make sure I say it.” 

He doesn’t say anything, but kisses your shoulder. “You’re welcome, yeonin. I’ll see you in the morning.”

You can’t wait. 

---

part two

---

© yoongihan 2025. please do not steal, translate, repost, or whatever. stray kids belong to themselves and all idols used in this piece are just the inspiration for characters and do not in any way reflect the actual humans. 

[freakaszoyd]

Missin' You Already

Synopsis: You're finally getting the time to spend with your girls after you all planned a long-awaited trip away for the weekend. But how will ony take being away from you?

pairings: semi-clingy!ony x black reader

warnings: nsfw, more suggestive, use of the n word, not proofread fr (lemme know if I missed something)

"Onyyy!!" you whine, irritated, while pacing around the room. where the fuck did you put it? You JUST had it no way it could be gone just like that.

"hm?" he says more interested in the game than you. this just makes you more irritated. You have somewhere to be in not even 30 minutes.

You and your girls have been planning to go on a weekend getaway after you all agreed to the stress of jobs and life. This was the one time you could see all your girls in one place and relax all at the same time.

"Ony did you see my phone? imma be late!" you say flipping the sofa cushions up and down.

"Nah ma, i ain' seen it. did you check the dresser?" ony asks nonchalantly while still keeping his focus on the games screen not even sparing a glance. Of course you checked the dresser, that was the first if not second most obvious place to check.

You let out a sigh knowing he'd be no help in your search. You end up finding it in the bathroom on the sink. "how'd it get here?" you think, but you have no time to fully process it and give ony a quick, "I found it." before rushing back to the bedroom to gather the rest of your things.

Rolling your suitcase out to the living room you ask "Baby can you take me over to shy's place? I don't wanna be late." he looks over at you while removing one side of his headphones. "Yea ma don't worry bout it. I'll take you over there... just after this match" placing his headphones back on and refocusing on the game.

He cannot be serious. You've told him about this trip for weeks and now he's making you late.

"Baby please! everyone's probably already over there and im gonna be the only one that's not!" you pout in hopes of him immediately taking you to your destination.

"cmonn mama. just sit on my lap here" he pauses the game and pats his thigh and you hypnotically make your way over and place your self on him. He was dressed in his signature black sweats and his black compression shirt. Dont know what it is but it gets you everytime. "you're gonna be gone all weekend just give me 5 more minutes witchu baby. I know you're gonna miss me too" he gives you a peck on the cheek. you sigh and say,

"but I don't wanna be late" you whine hoping he'll just get up and take you.

He gives you this confused look while saying "but baby you're always late. it don't make a difference now." you look at him shocked. "fashionably late" he's quick to save himself.

"I know that's right, don't try to play me" you both laugh at each others antics. "but for real let's go, you know how long this has been planned I wanna go like now ony." you tell him as you start to get up but he wraps his arms around your waist to keep you on him.

"but maybe I don't want you to go mama." he teases. damn he's too cute. how can he switch up so fast? what happened to 5 more minutes?

"ony" you say his name in seriousness. nows not the time for this you gotta go he promised to take you.

"I'm serious mama, I don't want you to go" his tone is whiney but alluring all at the same time. he leans up to kiss you pouty glossed lips. it'd almost be sensual if it wasn't for how quick it ended. "you don't love me no more so you tryna go away wit yo friends for the whole weekend?" he says smirking. he knows what he's doing. "I know what yall doin there anyway, bouta be flirtin wit other niggas n shit tss" he shakes his head and pushing you off jokingly. "I guess I can take you."

You smile "Baby I'm not. you know you my only one" you bring your finger to brush his nose, a little habit you developed to show your affection towards him, and kissed it right after.

"yea I believe you ma" he chuckles. You stand up out of his lap and start to gather your things again to get ready to leave.

"wait baby, shit. why you in such a rush? s'not like they gonna leave you here. damn" hes gripping his arms around you harder to keep you in place but now he's kissing up on your neck. you know he's trying to be slick and get you to stay. "how can I let my pretty baby go when she looks this good hm?" he breaths into your neck and keeps kissing on it.

you let out a soft moan and started to lean into his affection forgetting all about your plans. he starts to tease you, kissing you everywhere but your lips. he knows exactly how to get to you.

"cmon mama, just let me say goodbye to her." rubbing on your clothed pussy. ony whispers in your ear, "just a quickie I promise." you're hesitant. you know it's never a quick fuck with him. he loves to make you feel good inside and out. so there's no way he'll ever leave you dissatisfied. which is why you say:

"Fine." with a playful smirk on you lips.

Because what would he do without you?

[letoasai]

Will work for food ~part 3

Part 2 ~ Master Post

Tim was beyond irritated. He could have been on a date. Okay, he wasn’t sure if they were dates but they could have been. Damn it. He’d continued to summon Phantom weekly and they’d gone to lunch every time. Pizza. Barbecue. An amazing ramen place. They went to a music festival and visited all the food vendors. 

Things had been going smoothly. He’d been learning more about the Infinite Realm and about Danny himself and was having a great time despite his meddling siblings trying to butt in at every turn. Dick was a repeat offender but Duke, Cass and even Damien had all attempted to ambush him. It was lucky Danny thought it was hilarious and helped Tim avoid them. 

The last two weeks had been a disaster though. He’d had a four day mission with his own team, and had to deal with his friends poking fun at him while trying not to get shot at. Superboy had vastly exaggerated his interaction with Danny to the others! 

By the time he’d gotten back to Gotham, he’d had a small backlog of cases to get through. It was really cutting into both his CEO work and his freaking lunches with a really cute guy who just so happened to be an immortal king of a realm. 

Just when he thought he’d have a little time in the next day or two, Scarecrow was back on his bullshit with his fear toxins. Hadn’t they just done this recently? How had he gotten out of Arkham so fast? 

Tim was woozy, having taken a breath of the toxins and gotten a swift injury to his leg in the process. He’d say it was luck that he already had an antidote on him to fear toxins, but they all carried one with them at all times. He wasn’t freaking out but he could have done without the lightheadedness. It always briefly had him wondering if he’d gotten a concussion, but it was just a side effect. Usually. 

“You good, babybird?” He heard Nightwings voice through comms. He probably thought he was whispering and had no idea how loud he actually was because of the chaos of the night. 

“Never better.” He grumbled, trying to shake off a chill while limping. There was no one around to see at the moment so it was fine. “I’m headed your way.” 

“Good, Scarecrows around here somewhere. Slippery nut job.” Nightwing said. 

“Pay attention.” Batman’s voice ran through their comms. “He divided us on purpose. This isn’t his usual pattern.” 

There was grumbling across the line, everyone having figured that out already but B wouldn’t be B if he didn’t state the obvious for them some nights. 

Tim grappled from one street to the next, hearing sirens far enough in the distance that they couldn’t have been for this. When he landed safely, he pressed his palms to his masked eyes. The throbbing in his head was so annoying, but the jack hammering of his heart was…something he probably shouldn’t ignore but he was. 

“Not a concussion, Red.” He muttered to himself. “Just a stupid sore leg and Scarecrow’s stupid toxins filtering out.” There was always the option that it was a new strain and his antidote didn’t work as well but he wasn’t hallucinating his worst fears so maybe not. 

Trying to shake off his limp, Tim wandered across a nearly empty parking lot. There were a few abandoned cars, most of them missing their tires and on blocks. He kept an ear out, listening for anything that didn’t belong but it was Gotham, and even in the dead of night there were noises. Traffic, generators, air conditioners, nocturnal animals. There was always ambient noise, the key was ignoring the background hums and focusing on the shuffling goons. The problem he was having now however, was the faint ringing in his ears. 

“Red?” Nightwing's voice drifted across comms again. “I don’t see you yet. Something happen?” 

“No i’m…” Tim swallowed, suddenly parched and feeling overall…bad. He tilted his head back to check his surroundings and realized he’d gone the wrong way. How disoriented was he? “Okay, i might not be okay.” 

“Red Robin?” Batman’s voice was calm but urgent. “Do you need backup.” 

Tim almost stumbled but caught himself. “I feel like shit. I think there was something new in the toxins my antidote didn’t take care of.” 

“Oh, how wonderful. You figured it out so quickly.” 

Tim tensed, whirling around to face Scarecrow. Tim hated to think he’d been snuck up on but the rogue was sitting on one of the ripped apart cars in the lot. 

“I’m coming to you!” Nightwing said firmly. “On my way!” 

Tim waved Scarecrow’s words away cockily and only just noticed the way he trembled. “You’re losing your touch. Not a single, horrifying hallucination.” 

The rogue just chuckled. “Oh no, tonight’s a bit of a tester. Something a little different.” 

“That right?” Fuck. 

“Oh indeed, you don't mind being a guinea pig, do you? This particular batch didn’t have the hallucinogens, no. What it is doing is creeping through your system, forcing your body to activate all too real symptoms of fear.” 

“Seems a little corny for you.” Tim said, knowing the others were listening carefully. 

“And you're shaking.” Scarecrow’s huge grin grew broader. “What else, little bird? Over heating? Or are you freezing? Heart pounding? Knees weak? Feeling a fresh wave of tears building? Do let me know. It’s for science.” 

Tim tsked. He wasn’t about to cry but his throat was tight. It was almost like he was having trouble taking in a breath. 

“Somehow, a gas that makes people sick is so much less impressive than your normal routine.” Tim said, his trembling getting worse, but he was positive he was being tracked by at least some of the others. He just had to stall until Nightwing got there. “A couple of phantom pains the best you could come up with?” 

That wasn’t his best quip but Scarecrow took the bait anyway. “Oh no, it’s very real. Your body might not know why it’s so panicked, but it’s pulling out all the stops. Who knows, maybe your heart could just stop.” 

The problem with a lot of Gotham rogues, was the fact that they were actually intelligent people. The man likely could have gone on and on, but he jumped up and moved onto the offensive. He had a pitchfork tonight, and no one could say the man was original. 

“Now just stay still!” 

Tim dodged, the pitchfork surprisingly leaving quite the hole in the concrete. It should have been a simple dance and disarm kind of fight, but Tim’s shaking just got worse, and his stomach started to hurt, and his heart really was trying to beat out of his chest. It really was like he was terrified, the chills of his body making him sweat. 

“No ever actually stays still when someone’s running at them like a lunatic.” Tim said, but the words were almost hard to get out. He wasn’t choking but his throat was so clogged. 

The sass cost him though, and he was hit in his already wounded leg. It sent him rolling across the parking lot and Scarecrow just laughed. 

“Oh, what fun. It’s a shame though, i really miss the screaming of my patients visually seeing their worst nightmare, i’ll have to combine them.” 

Tim legs nearly gave out from under him when he tried to get up. Injury and the damn shaking leaving him unstable. He’d had to stay crouching, pulling out his staff to dig into the ground in front of him to hold himself up. 

“Regardless of my fears, you’re not one of them.” Tim wheezed, wondering if the hallucinogens were actually kicking in when a mist appeared. It was a frigid kind of cold that left ice crystals on all nearby metals. 

“Oh, we’ll see, little bird. I have plenty for your entire family. In fact, i’d love to see what a second dose would do to you.”

“Nearly there.” Batman said, but there was a hiss to his tone that said he knew it wasn’t going to be a timely arrival. 

“This isn’t good…” Tim whispered, watching Scarecrow pull out a small canister, and he was too wobbling to put more distance between them.

With a laugh, Scarecrow hurled it towards him. “Don’t be afraid to inhale!” 

Tim jerked back using his bo-staff as a crutch to give him some kind of momentum but he watched as the canister exploded midair and…something was strange. The cloud of chemicals had been clear for one second before disappearing. There was no time to worry about how quickly it could have been caught on a breeze when even Scarecrow himself looked confused. 

“So fear is your niche.” 

Tim shuddered, eyes going wide as his head jerked towards the sound of the voice. The gentle reverb of the words slicing through him. His solace was that the ire he heard wasn’t directed at him.

Danny was there. Well, King Phantom was there, having appeared out of thin air. It was the first time Tim had seen that form in a while but his friend was just as hauntingly ethereal as Tim remembered. 

He dropped the canister, and Tim had at least a partial answer. Whatever had gone wrong with the toxins had been Phantom’s doing. 

The king stared down at Scarecrow, but Tim couldn’t see his face from where he now sat. “I know a thing or two about fear.” Danny whispered. 

“Impossible.” Scarecrow spat, puffing up like a cat. None of the Gotham rogues liked their plans being disturbed and by a newcomer no less. “What did you do?! Did you inhale my toxins!? Absorb them!? Fool! You’ll be their next victim! You won’t be so relaxed for long! Even Red Robin’s a terrified mess!” 

“Red Robin! Report!” Batman’s voice was firm in his ear. 

“Relaxed?” Phantom mused, deceivingly calm. He’d stiffened, head turning just a little as if checking on Tim, but he never truly took his attention off the rogue. “No, not relaxed. Angry. As delicious as your parlor tricks were, i take offense to finding you hovering like a predator over my friend.” 

He rose into the air a few feet, and only then did Tim realize that he had been standing instead of floating, well, he was floating now. 

Scarecrow just tsked, unaware of the power in front of him. “Meta? Alien? It doesn’t matter. That combination of chemicals-”

“Was delicious.” Danny repeated. 

Tim scooted away, his leg throbbing. “Phantom.” He muttered, finally answering Batman through strangled breaths. “Phantom’s here.”

“Regardless, the offering was not enough to pacify me.” Danny muttered, the black crown over his head spinning. 

Scarecrow actually began laughing, it started with a chuckle but then it grew into something loud and boisterous. “You’re barely more than a child, are you sure you’re ready for this? The hero game is crowded here in Gotham, and you don’t look like any bird or bat i’ve ever seen.” 

Tim watched the way Danny’s hood swayed to the side as he tilted his head. “I am no bird, nor am i a bat.” 

“I’m sure you’ve impressed your little friends with your meta abilities, but it means nothing in a city like this. Though i see you have your talents. How are you unaffected by my toxins?” 

Ice erupted from the ground, enguling Scarecrow’s legs an inch at a time, creeping up his body without a hint of warning. “You misunderstand.” Danny whispered. “I am not here for a conversation. I’m here for my friend, and to teach you that dabbling in fear is childsplay to a being like myself.” 

Tim couldn’t see… Danny was facing away from him but his galaxy cloak billowed out around him without even the slightest breeze. There were shadows…? Something? Tim couldn’t see though he tried. What he could see was Scarecrow, and even with his face covered, his body language betrayed his growing horror. 

“You can not frighten the dead.” Danny said, but in a voice that was decidedly not his own. 

Scarecrow started screaming, a desperate sound that had him thrashing in place, the ice now well around his chest. Tim didn’t know what the rogue was seeing but if scaring someone to death was really a thing… 

“Phantom.” Tim tried to raise his voice and had to close his eyes to shove away the sudden lightheadedness. He was shivering. “W..we good…?” 

Whatever was going on paused, and Danny seemed to reign himself in. The strange movement of his cloak stopped and Tim briefly made a mental note to ask Danny what kind of other forms he might have. 

Danny turned to him, looking normal, though he hadn’t seen his white hair in a while. “I forget sometimes…” He commented, voice even softer than usual. “The living are so fragile.” 

Scarecrow was still screaming, but his head was lulling back and he looked seconds away from passing out. He was held in place by the ice, and obviously wasn’t going anywhere. 

“Yeah, we’re like that.” Tim muttered, shoulders slumping now that the danger was taken care of, it didn’t stop the way his body twitched. His stomach hurt so bad. 

Danny landed by his side silently, a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Are you alright?” 

“Yeah. Leg’s a little messed up but it’ll heal. The… the toxins in my system are going to have to run their course, unless i can work out how to s..somehow come up with a new antidote before then. St..stupid…” 

Danny cocked his head to the side, wispy white hairs floating around his face. It was unfair how attractive he was. “Want me to eat it?” 

Tim heard a confused “Wut?” from his comm. Spoiler summing up that comment nicely. 

“I can absorb emotion. Because it can sustain us. I just think of it as a different way to eat.” Danny said. Tim breathed a sigh of relief that that half ghost had been around him long enough to know that he liked explanations when he didn’t understand something. 

“That’s w..why the fear toxins didn’t affect you.” 

“Mhmm.” Danny hummed. “Gotta get that recipe though. That was tasty. Frighty would love it. 

Tim sighed, feeling another wave of nausea and he…was pretty sure he was seeing colors he shouldn’t be. “You always leave m…me with more questions than answers. My s..symptoms aren’t emotional. Chem..chemically induced.” And fuck this was so embarrassing in front of the King of the Infinite Realm. 

Danny hummed, and if Tim wasn’t mistaken, he sounded amused. He leaned closer, fingers touching Tim’s face and all at once, he started to feel better. His shaking stopped almost immediately and he was left to assume that despite the chemicals he’d inhaled, Danny was still able to take them from him. Honestly, scientifically it made no sense whatsoever. 

At least his stomach didn’t hurt anymore. 

“What do i owe you for this one?” Tim asked with a weary smile. Other than a sore leg, the other symptoms seemed to disappear. 

“I got two separate fear meals. I’m good.” Danny chuckled, helping Tim to his feet only seconds before Batman and Nightwing arrived. 

Nightwing made a beeline for Tim, grabbing him in the tightest hug while Batman was instead looking Scarecrow over who had, in fact, passed out at some point. 

“Wing, watch it! Watch it! The leg!” 

“I’m so glad you’re okay!” Nightwing clung anyway. He then held a hand out to Danny. “Thank you so so much, your Majesty! Your timing is to die for!” 

Tim knew he was in trouble when Danny took Nightwings hand to shake, and his eyes lit up. “Wing…” Tim said in a warning tone that went unheard. 

“No big deal. Visiting Red Robin really lifts my spirits.” Danny said with a small grin, fangs a little larger than in his living form. 

Nightwing tipped his head back and laughed. “Yes!” 

“No…” Tim groaned, shoving away from his brother. 

“In all seriousness, i’m glad i came.” Danny said. “I wasn’t sure if you were trying to summon me or not so i thought i’d poke my head in and see.” 

“I…didn’t realize i did?” Tim muttered, checking his utility belt. “I do have the spell circle but…” 

Danny shrugged “Well you said ‘Phantom’ at some point. I thought it sounded a little different but well…i didn’t think it would hurt to double check. I’m glad i was able to help.” 

“We appreciate it, your Majesty.” Batman commented in a gruff tone. He very much did not appreciate it but couldn’t be mad about someone saving Tim when he wouldn’t have gotten there in time.“What exactly did you do? This ice is-” 

“Oh, right.” Phantom waved his hand flippantly and the ice disappeared. Scarecrow dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes. “He’ll probably suffer nightmares for the next week but he’ll shake it off.” 

“I have… so many questions…” Tim repeated. 

Danny just looked at him fondly. “You always do.” 

“I’ll take him in.” Batman said. “Red Robin, return for medical treatment.” 

“I’m fine, B.” Tim said, but he was getting a look. “Grab whatever he has on him so we can make new antidotes.” 

Batman grunted, and it was possibly lucky that the rogue was already knocked out. 

“Hey, hey, King Phantom-” Nightwing began. 

“Just Phantom is fine.” 

Nightwing was positively giddy. “What do you say to four a.m. waffles? I know you ate the fear or whatever but you deserve a proper thank you meal.” 

There was something so boyishly charming about the way Danny smiled. His constellation freckles even seemed to twinkle. “As long as they don’t bite back. I’d like that.” 

“Concerning.” Tim hummed, testing his weight on his leg. It wasn’t broken but he wouldn’t be grappling anywhere else tonight.

“Great!” Nightwing said, tapping his own comm. “Spoiler will meet us there!” 

Danny glanced at Tim. “Do uh.. You go…” He gestured to them. “Dressed like this?” 

“All the time.” 

“Okay then.” Danny said, and the only adjustment he made was to reach up above him and grab his crown. It disappeared from view. 

“So many questions.” Tim heaved a sigh. “I guess breakfast would be nice. We haven’t done breakfast yet.” 

Danny nodded once. “At least i feel like i earned it this time. You’ve just been treating me so much lately.” He sounded as close to shy as Tim had ever heard and it was killing him. 

Ugh, now he was doing the death puns… 

“You don’t have to earn your food with us.” Tim said softly. 

“RR is right, you know?” Nightwing beamed. “You should totally get him to bring you home one night, Phantom. Best home cooking you’ve ever had.” 

Danny hummed, “It’s a low bar, but that could be…nice.” 

“We’ll discuss it over waffles!” Nightwing just…decided. 

Tim shook his head, not sure how he felt about these two getting along but Danny was smiling and Tim was a sucker for those smiles. 

“Alright.” Tim said, stifling a yawn. “My leg is stiff so one of you is gonna have to help me get there, but let’s go eat.” 

Danny’s green eyes just glowed with mirth. “No problem.”

[timmydraker]

CW: Implied SA, P3dophillia, (dubcon) sexual content

Jason hates galas the most out of his siblings.

Coming from his Crime Alley background and his death, it’s always uncomfortable with the subtle grimaces and obnoxious remarks.

The only reason he goes is because if he doesn’t Bruce won’t give him any allowance even though he’s twenty three, but it’s hard being a crime lord so he’ll take the money.

As usual, he sneaks off after a solid hour. He gives Dick a nod to let him know he’s leaving just so his older brother won’t freak out upon not being able to find him, and makes his way down the hall of the building he’s in to find the elevator.

Unfortunately it’s one of those stupid rich people ones where the elevator looks like a normal door so he has to look for the buttons, which leads him to get turned around a few times until he hears something interesting.

The sounds of obvious sex, cringy and almost fake sounding, makes the asexual in him gag but the crime lord curious.

A few times now he’s blackmailed rich folk with evidence of them cheating so if he can get someone else to give him some pocket money, he won’t need to come to the next gala…

As Jason carefully gets closer o the door, pulling out his phone, he can really tell that one voice is way too high and practiced. Fake, like those pornos his men watch too loud in their communal lounges for some bloody reason.

Apart of him is giddy at possibly finding some random richy guy being a shit fuck, if only because he finds the whole thing funny.

He opens the door slowly, making sure not a sound is heard from it, before peaking in to see what the situation is.

The first thing he sees is a guy who can’t be younger than fifty jerking his hips rapidly and huffing like a puffed Chihuahua, pathetic and kind of concerning. He’s on a couch angled so Jason can’t see his face, but the greying hair tells him everything.

It makes him have to hold back a snort but then his eyes trail over to the person underneath him.

Unlike the older man, the person is young and clearly not enjoying himself.

Jason only has a moment to realise this is probably a closeted gay man when his brain catches up and he realises who the other person is.

He only had a second to be disgusted because oh ew, gross gross gross, that’s his baby brother before shit that’s his baby brother.

Tim is the one making those performing noises.

Tim is the one being pressed down by a guy three times his age.

Tim is the one who’s making noises like he’s enjoying himself but is looking off to the side with a mostly blank face.

Tim, who’s only been eighteen for two months, is the one being used by some crusty old fuck and is seemingly pretending to enjoy it.

Jason wants to rush in and start attacking, to rip the guy off his brother and maybe punch his face into mush, but then he meets Tim’s eye and he feels his heart break.

Because Tim looks so ashamed, so disgusted with himself as he spots Jason and looks away with clear guilt in his eyes. He looks like he wants to crawl aaay and hide forever and Jason gets that because duh, his older brother just caught him having sex, but something about the situation just doesn’t feel right.

Jason thinks he should leave and give Tim some kind of talk later but then the older geezer on top of him speaks, “Fuck, Tim, you-god you’re so fucking tight, so perfect, such a good little bitch! Missed you little hole for months-“

The growl Jason lets out isn’t entirely human, something unholy that probably came from the pit, as he throws the door open and barges into the room.

Tim shakes his head as if to tell him to stop, but Jason is quicker.

He’s also quicker than the man who, ones his rips him off his little brother before he even process the door opening, he realises is a senator. He throws the man down, kicks his stomach in three times before driving a boot to his head.

Wordlessly he turns to his brother who is tearily pulling his dress pants and struggling to hold back sobs.

Jason holds out his hands in offer of a hug and is relieved when his brother accepts, because it means that physical touch hasn’t been ruined for him completely.

After just a few moments he mutters a warning to his brother that he’s going to pick him up and takes him out of the room with a last kick the man’s head.

He probably won’t die, but the brain trauma will be enough for Jason.

For now at least.

Jason holds his baby brother close to him as he takes him down to his car, finally finding the elevator with Tim’s silent help, and takes him back to his apartment.

On the way he sends a message to the demon brat, simply saying:

Don’t let anyone look for or bother me and Tim and I’ll buy you a snake.

[nintendont2502]

okay ! so

there are two wolves inside me. once is very very happy about getting the confirmed list of fourteen fears. the other is mildly upset to have them just handed to me before i could try and figure out the last ones on my own (tbf. i probably had more than enough time to figure those ones out anddd i just. never did. so yk)

had some theories vaugely confirmed which was sick ! the concept of certain fears inherently opposing one another and others being somewhat aligned, the fears being. well. fears instead of just entities that use the power of fear, and mmmost of my list was accurate? i think the only few i had wrong were the Hunt, the Flesh and the Slaughter which im. not surprised about. also finally getting a name for the Corruption (although that mightve been dropped earlier and i just missed it? idk it seems weird that this was the first fear i ever conclusively knew of/could define and yet i never had a name for it until now) and the Lonely was nice. loved getting a solid idea of what exactly the Unknowing does outside of just vaguely ending the world, and the other fears also having rituals makes sense (i had a vague idea that the Twisting was the Spiral's equivalent to the Unknowing - gertrude being willing to sacrifice people to stop both.... concerning). Also keeping an eye (heh) on the Rite of the Watchers Crown. that feels like its going to be relevant

as always ive just ended up with more questions than answers, which. surprises no one. the main thing im stuck on rn is.,,, when exactly did the Archive binding thing happen? how far back does it go, who does it apply to, who (or what) is doing it (web?). ive been tossing this around for a while, but Gerry mentioning that his dad used to work in the Archives before quitting is. interesting. was the binding after his time? did he work in a non archivist, non-assistant role that isnt bound? is this even a real thing, or is it just elias fucking with everyone? (unlikely! god i can hope) idk. main reason im trying to figure this out is mostly bc im curious if it was around when gertrude worked there, bc if it was - and if she knew about it (and i have no doubt she did)... she was just completely willing to kill everyone in there for "the greater good". just like michael. just like leitner with all his assistants.

idk. i see where shes coming from, on a fucked up universal trolley problem scale, but... i dont trust her. at all

speaking of not trusting. im pretty fucking confident that whatever she has in that storage locker to potentially stop the Unknowing wouldve involved... one of her assistants not having a fantastic time. the way she looked at Gerry. the way she treated Michael. i am Deeply concerned about whatever it is thats in there

im also!! very concerned about jon! literally whats new there, i know, but.... idk. its such a minor thing, but i really dont like this exchange

it. it makes sense. it makes sense that a guy who has literally zero control over every single aspect of his life, whos constantly being controlled and threatened and manipulated and influenced and kidnapped by a thousand different entities, would appreciate having some form of control. if all he can do is force people to tell him things, at least thats something he can use to try and defend himself. but i just.... i dont like it !! i dont like it at all!! it just feels like him taking another step closer to becoming a full avatar. absolute power corrupts absolutely. the more you have, the less of yourself you inherently become. of course he likes being able to force the truth out of people. thats what the Eye wants. and god, i dont think thats a good thing.

he has to do this to stop the Unknowing. he has to be able to Know and See and embody the Eye to stop the Unknowing (and whatever it is thats coming next). he has to become more like Gertrude and Elias to save the world. doesnt mean i cant be deeply deeply fucking concerned about it happening!!

,,or by him bringing Martin and Melanie to whatever's in the storage locker. if im right (if) on what it is and what it entails, thats...... worrying. i dont think hes at the stage where he could just throw someone into the meat grinder like Gertrude did with Michael (and was potentially willing to do with Gerry), but i do think hes a little closer than he was before. and i dont think its a scenario he should be in.

every day he just seems to become more and more distant and becomes less 'Jon' and more 'the Archivist' and iii am. worried. im worried about jon and im worried about martin and melanie in that storage locker and im worried about everyone whos trying to go against Elias and im deeply fucking concerned about whatever it is Tim's planning and whereever it is he's gone (i feel like learning about the Unknowing, being forced to give his statement on his brother + that interaction with Elias pushed him over some line and i,,,, dont think i want to know whats on the other side) and im worried about daisy clearly being affected by something (...the Slaughter...?) and im worried about if (when) Elias will figure out what Basira and Martin are up to and punish them the same way he punished Melanie and im worried about what the fuck else gertudes done and iii am just. im worried. im so worried. now that the fears have all been laid out all i have to do is speculate on whats happening with the plot and its!! not good!

also shoutout to gerry. god i love him. god he deserved so much better.

So. How did mag111 treat you :))

GERRYYYYY,,,,

[leashybebes]

I feel so mean but I want to know how Buck reacted when he opened his fridge and saw that Tommy bought CHAMPAGNE, clearly planning to celebrate...

(I like breaking my own heart, it's my biggest Tommy trait of all...)

ohhhh that IS mean, i love it.

When Tommy walks out - again - Buck just stands for a long moment, once again wondering how things between them can be so, so good, and then can go south so fast. Because he's pretty sure Tommy was going to stay, long enough to eat breakfast at least, and then longer than that. And then Tommy said something really fucking stupid, and Buck said something really fucking mean and then - then he was just gone.

God damn it.

Not quite sure what else to do, Buck picks up the coffee Tommy had poured for him and takes a sip. Perfect. It's perfect. It's been months, and Tommy can still make Buck's coffee just like he likes it. It feels like it should mean something, but - but Tommy's not here. Maybe that's who he is - maybe that's as much as they'll ever have. Shallow moments of connection that feel like they mean more. Incredible sex. Talking past each other until they hit on a soft spot too painful to process properly, and Tommy walks out.

Tommy's always leaving, and Buck's always being left, and he's suddenly so, so tired.

The breakfast that had smelled so good when Buck first registered it holds no appeal. He tries a slice of bacon anyway, because he hates wasting food, and just like the coffee it's perfect. Just like the coffee, the perfection feels unearned and unstable and like it's just begging Buck to read too much into it. When he'd walked into the kitchen and seen Tommy, tired but gorgeous in the soft morning light, when he'd seen the veritable feast laid out across the worktop, he'd been rocked right off his feet and back into their six months together. Felt spoiled and adored and looked after and like it meant something. 

Fuck it, though, he thinks to himself. Maybe it just meant Tommy was hungry. They sure did wear each other out last night. He gathers up the fruit, the bagels, transfers the hot food to a single dish, digs out some saran wrap from one of the boxes Tommy had half unpacked and moves mechanically, covering plates and dishes to keep the food fresh even though he already knows there's almost no chance he'll be able to choke any of it down without seeing Tommy's ghost in the edges of his vision, filling up the kitchen of Buck's new place with missed opportunities, just like he did to the old place.

When the food's condensed and covered, it feels less meaningful. It's just leftovers. God, it's all just leftovers.

Buck opens the fridge to start putting things away and almost drops a plate. 

Because there, in his empty fridge, is a bottle of champagne. He stares for a long, long moment, but it doesn't go anywhere. Doesn't transform itself into a less obvious drink, doesn't magically become a bottle of juice or a carton of milk.

Tommy went to the store and must have paid well over the odds, because that place a few roads over is probably as far as he could have gone, and it's daylight fucking robbery in there, and he bought champagne.

There's no way, Buck thinks, feeling hopeful and heartbroken and angry and confused and regretful and desperate and like he's missed a step in the dark again, there's no way that means nothing.

It means Tommy lied about having a shift. It means Tommy wanted to celebrate. It means Tommy thought they'd have something to celebrate. It means they probably would have tumbled back into bed a couple hours from now, well-fed and a little tipsy. It means Tommy didn't want to leave. 

It means he left anyway, leaving pieces of himself behind like he always does.

Buck takes a breath, moves the bottle aside, and starts loading up the fridge.

[basilpaste]

i am very out of it atm and if i wasnt i could make a more coherent post about it. but do yall ever think about how all of the things siffrin 'misses' are a direct consequence of him being recently disabled?

their depth perception is off and the one eye they do have is probably significantly worse than it was because it has to overcompensate. so they miss the switch in the death corridor.

and he misses the key in the head housemaidens office. because its on the bottom of the drawer. and he wouldnt be able to see that at all, but if theres any indication that the drawer looks off, like a weird gap at the bottom, itd be really easy for them to miss it.

and the same goes for the key in the classroom. its in a thick book and chances are they cant really process the fact that the space between some of the pages is larger than normal.

and theres the counter. and how he trips in bonnies friendquest. and they blame themself for these things EVERY TIME. they call themself stupid and bad at their job and he LOST AN EYE. and its just like. its all internalized ableism, baybe! all the fucking way down!!!!!

he wants to operate how he did before losing his eye. He wants to be able to do all the same things the exact same way. and that just isnt feasible. which is okay! and people would understand if he just TALKED ABOUT IT. but they wont!!!!!

anyways ive been thinking about siffrin and the fact that they got so used to fighting on flat ground. and like what that means post-loops. ive been thinking about him knocking into something or missing a little detail and just fucking losing it because hes SO frustrated. so unbelievably mad at himself for not noticing something obvious, not seeing.

and im thinking about them being forced to learn that they run differently now. and theres no going back! no fixing it! and he just has to live with it!!!!! because the eye is gone and they cant just get a new one. and maybe they dont have to be okay with that, but he has to learn to accept that hes changed.

waugh.

[mapengen-com]

Shy Monster

Maybe the monster under her bed just doesn't want to be alone.

It started with a whimper.

Ingrid shifted in bed, groggy, her mind struggling to process whether she actually heard something or if she was dreaming. But then, there it is again – a soft, muffled sniffle coming from down the hall.

She was up in an instant.

Mapi didn’t even move when Ingrid shifted the blanket off herself, too deep in sleep. Ingrid didn't bother waking her either. If it was something with Elisa, Ingrid could handle it. She had been handling it well for quite some time whenever Mapi needed her to.

When she reached the room, she found Elisa curled up on the edge of her bed, half-hidden under her blanket. Bagheera, usually tucked beside her, was standing alert on the mattress, ears perked up. Her stuffed penguin was clutched tight in her tiny arms.

“Elisa?” Ingrid whispered, stepping closer.

The child flinched as soon as she heard Ingrid’s voice, and started to rub her eyes furiously, like she was trying to erase the evidence of her tears. 

“I wasn’t crying,” she muttered, even though it’s obvious she was.

“Did you have a bad dream?” Ingrid sat down carefully on the bed, giving her space, but still making sure she knew she was there. 

Elisa hesitated for a second, then shook her head. Her fingers tightened around the penguin’s worn-out flipper, biting the inside of her cheek.

“There’s a monster,” she whispered.

“A monster?”

“It’s under my bed,” Elisa nodded, sniffling. 

Ingrid glanced at the floor. Shadows stretch beneath the frame, but there’s nothing there except for the faint glint of a forgotten sock and a few other small toys. She turned back to Elisa, a thoughtful expression on her face.

“Has it ever hurt you?”

“No,” Elisa shook her head. 

“But it’s scary?”

A slow nod.

Ingrid hummed, tapping her fingers on her knee. 

“Alright,” she decided, standing up. “Then I think we need to do a check.”

Elisa watched as Ingrid kneeled and dramatically lifted the blanket hanging over the side of the bed. She peered underneath, humming thoughtfully. 

“Hmm… Nope, no monsters here. Just some dust and… Oh! A lost hairband!”

Elisa didn’t smile, but her lip twitched. 

“You’re not looking right,” she said quietly.

“Oh, you’re right. Let me try again.” Ingrid shifted, leaning down further, pressing a hand to the floor for balance. “Hello?” She called out from under the bed, her tone light, but not mocking. “Excuse me, Monster? Are you there?”

Silence.

Elisa tensed.

Ingrid, unfazed, waited a moment longer before nodding and straightening up. 

“No answer,” she declared, sitting back on the bed. “Which means two things.”

Elisa looked up at her, curious despite herself.

“One, this monster is extremely shy,” Ingrid explained. “And two, if it’s shy, it’s probably more scared of you than you are of it.”

“Monsters don’t get scared,” Elisa frowned, doubtful. 

“Oh, they do,” she leaned closer, voice conspiratorial. “But they’re very bad at saying so. Just like some people.”

Elisa stared at her for a long moment, then looked down, fingers still tangled in the penguin’s flipper. She was obviously thinking. Ingrid let her.

Finally, Elisa whispered.

“Do you think it gets lonely?”

It was so quiet that Ingrid almost missed it. Her chest tightened.

So, gently, she reached out, brushing some of Elisa’s curls away from her face. 

“Maybe,” she tried, softly. “Maybe it doesn’t mean to be scary. Maybe it just doesn’t know how to ask for company.”

Elisa swallowed, hugging the penguin closer. 

“Like me? When I was little?”

The words were so small. So hesitant.

Ingrid’s heart cracked wide open.

“Oh, baby,” she murmured, reaching out. Elisa didn’t hesitate before climbing into her lap, curling up small, pressing her face into Ingrid’s shirt. The Norwegian started stroking her hair, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “You never have to be alone. Not ever.”

She felt Elisa clutching her shirt tighter.

They sat like that for a while, until her breathing evened out, her weight growing heavier. Ingrid is already thinking she had fallen asleep until she hears a tiny, muffled whisper.

“Can you stay?”

Ingrid didn’t even have to think about it.

“Of course.”

She shifted them both into the bed, tucking the blanket around them. Bagheera settled back at their feet, watching over them like a guardian.

The monster under the bed didn’t make another sound.

A few hours later, Ingrid woke up to tiny fingers poking at her cheek.

She groaned, cracking one eye open to find Elisa peering at her, face still soft with sleep, curls wild. Bagheera was still curled up at the foot of the bed, one ear twitching. The stuffed penguin was squished between them, its worn fabric pressing into Ingrid’s ribs.

“You snore,” Elisa announced, matter-of-factly.

“I do not.”

“You do,” she insisted. “It sounds like pffffshhh,” she scrunched her nose and mimicked the noise dramatically, as if Ingrid really snored. 

“I do not sound like that,” she tried to argue, even if her sleepy state wasn’t very convincing. 

“You do,” Elisa insisted again, giggling.

Ingrid narrowed her eyes on her. 

“Oh, now you’re brave, huh?”

Elisa’s smile faltered slightly, but Ingrid was already shifting, reaching for her. 

“I think that deserves a tickle attack.”

Elisa shrieked before Ingrid even touched her, kicking her legs wildly as she scrambled to escape. But Ingrid was quicker, pulling her back and pressing her fingers lightly into Elisa’s sides. She was barely applying pressure before Elisa was giggling uncontrollably, twisting and wiggling in her grasp.

“No! No, Ingi, nooo!” She squealed, breathless, laughter spilling freely.

The sound made Ingrid’s chest ache in the best way.

She relented after a few more seconds, letting Elisa collapse against her, still giggling between gulps of air. After a moment, Ingrid tugged the blanket back over them, letting the quiet settle around them again.

For a second, it’s just warmth and comfort.

“I think the monster was gone last night.”

Ingrid hums. 

“Maybe it felt safe enough to sleep, too.”

“If it comes back…” She hesitated, then asked softly, looking up at the Norwegian. “Will you stay again?”

“Always,” Ingrid pressed another kiss to the top of her head, pulling her closer. 

They didn’t rush to get up. The morning light spilled lazily through the curtains, and for a long while, there was nowhere to be but there.

Elisa stayed curled against Ingrid for a long while, warm and relaxed in the morning light. It was rare that she stayed still for this long, and Ingrid knew better than to rush her.

Eventually, though, Elisa shifted, peering up at Ingrid with an expression that’s just a little too serious for a five-year-old.

“Ingi?” She asked quietly.

“Mm?”

“Can we check under the bed again?”

Ingrid studied her, noting the way her fingers twisted the fabric of Ingrid’s shirt. She was trying to sound casual, but there was a hint of worry still lingering in her eyes, and in the way she was timidly pouting.

“Of course,” Ingrid said without hesitation.

She shifted, sitting up properly, and Elisa did the same, though she grabbed her stuffed penguin first. Bagheera stretched beside them, yawning dramatically, before hopping off the bed to watch from the floor, as if helping to see if the monster was really gone.

Ingrid made a show of slowly lifting the blanket, tilting her head as she inspected the shadows underneath. Elisa was leaning slightly closer, still clutching the penguin to her chest.

“Well?” She whispered.

Ingrid hummed. 

“No monster,” she declared. “But…” She gasped, reaching underneath. “Oh no, I think I found something dangerous.”

“What is it?” Elisa froze, eyes wide open.

Ingrid pulled her hand back, revealing…

“A sock?” The kid frowned.

Ingrid nodded seriously. 

“Not just any sock. A lost sock. Do you know what that means?”

Elisa shook her head, wide-eyed.

“It means…” Ingrid lowered her voice dramatically. “That somewhere in this house, there is a sock monster.”

“Like… A real monster?”

“Mm-hmm,” she nodded. “But don’t worry. It only eats socks, and only the ones that are already missing their pairs.”

Elisa stared at the blue sock for a long moment. Then, to Ingrid’s delight, her lips twitched. 

“So that’s where they go.”

“I know, right?” She grinned. “Mystery solved.”

Elisa giggled, her body finally relaxing as Ingrid leaned in conspiratorially. 

“You know, I think the sock monster and your night monster might be friends.”

“Maybe,” she agreed, but still clutched her stuffed penguin tighter. 

“Maybe they both just needed a little company,” Ingrid added.

Elisa nodded, finally smiling. She placed the sock on her nightstand, as if giving it a proper home. Then, as if the conversation never happened, she climbed off the bed.

“I’m hungry,” she announced, very sure of herself.

Ingrid chuckled, stretching as she stood. 

“Then let’s go wake Mapi up.”

Elisa lit up at that. She loved being the one to wake Mapi – mostly because Mapi was impossible to wake, which turned it into a challenge.

As she raced out of the room, Bagheera following close behind, Ingrid watched them go, her heart full. And by the time Ingrid reached their bedroom, the kid had already launched herself onto the bed, bouncing right onto Mapi’s stomach.

A deep, dramatic groan came from under the covers.

“No,” Mapi mumbles, voice thick with sleep. “Go away. I’m dead.”

Elisa, undeterred, flopped onto Mapi’s chest. 

“Dead people don’t talk,” she pointed out.

There’s a beat of silence. Then, very slowly, Mapi cracked one eye open. 

“Who told you that?”

“Ingi,” Elisa grinned. 

Mapi turned her head, squinting briefly at Ingrid, who was leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed.

“Traitor,” Mapi grumbled, but she was already wrapping an arm around Elisa, pulling her close.

“Wake up, wake up, wake up!” Elisa kept going, tiny fingers poking Mapi’s cheek. 

“No,” she buried her face into the pillow.

Elisa frowned, then gasped as an idea struck her. She wriggled out of Mapi’s hold, jumped off the bed, and scurried to Ingrid’s side.

“Ingi,” she whispered, cupping her hands around her mouth. “We should tickle-attack her.”

“I can hear you,” Mapi groaned again, hiding her head under her pillow.

“No, you can’t,” Elisa clapped her hands over her mouth, eyes wide. 

“Oh, you’re right,” the older Spaniard turned dramatically onto her back, staring at the ceiling. “I’m just a ghost now. Boo.”

“She’s tricking me,” the kid accused, her attention back to Ingrid. 

“She does that.”

Mapi grinned without opening her eyes. 

“It’s called being smarter than both of you.”

“Oh?” Ingrid raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. “Smarter than us?”

And, well, Mapi seemed to sense the danger too late.

Before she could react, Ingrid launched herself onto the bed, Elisa right behind her.

Chaos erupted.

Elisa was giggling wildly, trying her best to “help” as Ingrid pinned Mapi down, fingers pressing into her sides. Mapi was shrieking dramatic protests between breathless laughter, kicking wildly.

“No! Ingrid! Stop!” She howled. “I’m dying! Elisa, call for help!”

Elisa, instead of helping, let out an evil little giggle.

“You said you were already dead.”

Mapi gasps in betrayal. 

“You…” But she never got to finish, because Ingrid is relentless.

Eventually, Mapi flailed enough to nearly kick Ingrid off the bed, and Ingrid finally relented, flopping onto her back beside her. Elisa also collapsed between them, still giggling uncontrollably.

For a few moments, the three of them just lay there, catching their breaths. Bagheera had jumped up onto the bed, curling up beside Elisa’s feet like a queen claiming her throne.

“You two are the worst,” Mapi muttered, rolling her eyes.

“No, we’re the best,” Elisa grinned, still breathless.

“Alright, alright. You win. I’m up.”

Elisa cheered and immediately started clambering off the bed, tiny socked feet making barely any sound against the floor. 

“Toast?”

“Who said anything about toast?” Mapi squinted at her. 

“Me,” she tilted her head.

“Of course,” the older Spaniard sighed deeply, throwing an arm over her face. 

Ingrid chuckled, reaching over to tug the blanket off her. 

“Come on, lazy.”

With exaggerated groans, Mapi finally got up, stretching like she was preparing for a marathon. Elisa grabbed her hand, practically dragging her toward the kitchen.

Ingrid lingered for a second, watching them go.

Elisa was practically glowing, laughter still spilling from her lips. There was no trace of last night’s fear, no hesitation in the way she held Mapi’s hand so tightly.

Maybe the night monsters had always existed.

But so did mornings like this.

Either way, Mapi grumbled the entire way to the kitchen, dramatically dragging her feet while Elisa tugged impatiently at her hand.

“You two are lucky I love you,” she muttered, rubbing her eyes, still half asleep.

“We know,” Elisa grinned up at her just as Ingrid, following behind them, snorted. 

“She’s got you wrapped around her little finger.”

Mapi scowled but didn’t deny it.

Once they reached the kitchen, Mapi finally resigned herself to her fate and started pulling out the ingredients for the French toast Elisa loved. Ingrid helped, though mostly she just stood nearby and watched as Mapi fumbled with the things. Elisa climbed onto one of the stools, swinging her legs.

“I want chocolate syrup in mine,” Elisa declared.

“No, we’re being healthy today,” the Spaniard replied, faking a very serious tone.

“But chocolate makes me happy!”

“She’s got a point,” Ingrid laughed under her breath, earning a side eye from Mapi. 

“Fine. But only a little,” Mapi groaned, already defeated. 

Elisa immediately cheered as Mapi got to work with the stove.

After a while, Ingrid noticed Elisa’s stuffed penguin sitting beside her on the counter, propped up like it was waiting for breakfast too. It wasn’t exactly rare to see the kid including the plushie in their daily activities, but it still made Ingrid smile every time it happened.

“Does Pingu get toast too?” Ingrid asked teasingly.

“He’s very hungry,” she nodded solemnly. 

“Well, tell him he’s not getting any until he helps,” Mapi huffed, as if impatient of having to feed an extra child. 

Elisa giggled, grabbing the penguin and making it ‘help’,  even if it was only watching Mapi do it.

It was an easy morning, filled with warmth and soft laughter. The toast turned out slightly burnt because Mapi got distracted arguing with Ingrid about whether or not she should drink coffee before practice, but Elisa ate hers happily, kicking her feet under the table.

At one point, she leaned against the back of the chair, chewing thoughtfully.

“I think the monster’s gone,” she announced mid-chew.

Mapi, halfway through a bite, paused. 

“What monster?”

“The one under my bed. Ingi talked to it,” Elisa shrugged. 

“You… Talked to the monster?” She slowly turned to Ingrid.

Ingrid only smirked. 

“Of course.”

“And what did it say?” Mapi asked, sensing that it was her turn to join whatever their night troubles had been.

“It was very shy,” she replied. “But I think it decided it wasn’t so scary after all.”

Elisa nodded, as if this made perfect sense. 

“It’s probably with the sock monster now.”

Mapi looked between the two of them, completely lost once again. 

“The sock monster?”

“It steals socks,” Elisa nodded again, very serious. 

Mapi blinked. Then she just sighed and shook her head. 

“I don’t even want to know,” she murmured under her breath, taking another sip of her coffee. 

Ingrid squeezed Elisa’s hand under the table. Elisa squeezed back.

And the rest of the morning passed in lazy contentment, as they’d only had rehab practice in the late morning and Elisa didn’t have school on Sundays, obviously.

After breakfast – where Bagheera attempted, and failed, to steal a toast – Mapi disappeared to shower, leaving Ingrid and Elisa to clean up. Or rather, Ingrid cleaned up while Elisa ‘supervised’ from her perch on the counter, still swinging her legs after finishing her chore of putting her plate in the dishwasher.

“You missed a spot,” she announced dramatically as Ingrid wiped the table.

“Oh, did I?” Ingrid raised an eyebrow.

Elisa nodded, pointing at a completely clean section of the table. 

“Right there.”

“You’re making that up,” Ingrid narrowed her eyes at her. 

Elisa gasped, clutching her penguin to her chest like Ingrid had just accused her of a terrible crime. 

“No, I’m not!”

“Hmm,” Ingrid pretended to inspect the table, then suddenly reached out and poked the kid’s side. “Lying is a serious offense, you know.”

Elisa shrieked with laughter, nearly toppling off the counter before Ingrid steadied her.

“No more tickling!” She protested breathlessly. “You’re mean, Ingi.”

“I’ve learned from the best,” Ingrid replied, smirking.

“That’s me,” Elisa grinned proudly. 

Once the kitchen was clean – and by clean, Ingrid meant “good enough” –, they migrated to the living room, where Elisa decided it was absolutely necessary to make a blanket fort.

“It’s for Pingu,” she explained seriously. “He needs a new home.”

Ingrid, knowing better than to question the logic of a five-year-old, simply nodded and helped her gather pillows and blankets. Soon, they had a lopsided but functional fort, complete with a special ‘bedroom’ for the penguin. It even had a backyard – well, it was the balcony, but Ingrid would never try to change Elisa’s mind. 

By the time Mapi returned, towel still draped around her neck, the fort was fully furnished.

She stopped in the doorway, hands on her hips. 

“What… Is this?”

“Pingu’s new house,” Elisa beamed at her. 

Mapi squinted at the small stuffed penguin, which was now tucked snugly into a corner of the fort with a tiny folded blanket over it, one that the kid probably stole from Bagheera’s cat tree.

“Huh.”

“It has a better structure than some actual apartments I’ve lived in,” Ingrid leaned casually against the couch, but she was still smiling. 

Mapi snorted, walking over to inspect it. 

“You know, I think you might be right,” she poked at one of the blankets. “Sturdy construction. Good insulation. It’s even cat-approved,” she gestured toward Bagheera, who was already curled up inside the fort like he owned the place.

“That means it’s perfect!” Elisa clapped her hands together. 

“Can I move in too?” Mapi crouched down beside her. 

Elisa considered it for a second before answering. 

“Maybe. But you have to pay rent.”

“Excuse me?”

“She’s got a point. Nothing in life is free,” Ingrid smiled, reaching to pet Bagheera behind her ears.

“This is a scam,” Mapi groaned, flopping onto the floor dramatically. 

Elisa giggled, then suddenly scrambled onto Mapi’s back, nearly knocking the air out of her. Mapi only let out a dramatic wheeze, but she didn’t push her off. 

“I am being attacked in my own home.”

“You like it,” Elisa just giggled more, hugging Mapi’s shoulders. 

“Unfortunately,” she sighed deeply. 

They stayed like that for a while – Elisa draped over Mapi, Ingrid lounging against the couch, Bagheera snuggled into her corner of the fort, but still close enough so she could receive some pets from the Norwegian.

It was quiet, warm, soft.

And when the night came again after they were back from practice, Elisa didn’t mention the monster.

She just climbed into bed, pulled Pingu close, and fell asleep without fear.

[yuri-is-online]

Out With the Old (Heartsabyul, Savanaclaw, and Octavinelle x Yuu)

"Look I would get rid of this thing if I could afford a new sweatshirt." You drag the offensive article of clothing over your head completely missing the spark of curiosity and mischief in your companion's eye. "I've got a lot of bad memories associated with this."

"If it's that uncomfortable we can go look for a replacement instead of-"

"Oh no not like that, it's super comfy. I just don't like it because it technically belongs to my ex."

notes: they/them used for Yuu, some questionable behavior from Floyd and Jade because who else? This is meant to be crack. Second part can be found here (x)

Riddle- "THAT'S LITERALLY ILLEGAL???"

He is too focused on hyperventilating because it sounds like you just admitted to a crime in front of him to even think about offering you one of his sweaters. Trey and Cater have to break it down for him unpaid therapist style that no, you are not wearing stolen property (probably), borrowing clothes is just something people in relationships often do. He then further needs it explained that no, you are not still in a relationship and since you want to get rid of the shirt it sounds like things ended poorly. His friends want to try and suggest he should give you an article of his clothing to replace the offending one but he's so focused on getting you something that matches dress code that they decide to quit while they're ahead. Literally.

Trey- "You know you can always ask us if you need help, right?"

Vil's right about Trey's tendency to fuss and spoil people being a bit of a flaw; he's in tune enough with his emotions to know that he should not, for his own sake, give you one of his old sweatshirts without being honest about why he wants you to wear it. But he can't exactly deny his instincts when it comes to the people he cares about. You're cold and uncomfortable, what sort of guy would he be if he just left you all alone? Just please don't brush this off with a comment about how much of a big brother or mother hen he is; it is already going to be pure torture trying to look at you in his things in a Queen of Hearts honoring way. He doesn't need an added complex on top of it.

Cater- "Oh honey no."

Cater doesn't like keeping stuff his exes gave him either, but luckily for him he's never been in a position where that's literally only the stuff he had on him. Speaking of things, he buys a bunch of clothes off magicam he barley has time to take the tags off of before the trend goes stale. You guys should totally ditch what you were planning to do today and have a little fashion show in his room. It'll be cute and he can get a bunch of cammable shots! Just ignore the pop music club hoodie he refuses to take back because it looks "so much cuter on you." <3

Ace- "That's extremely lame prefect."

He isn't blind; you're cute and poor. Anyone would jump at the chance to let you steal a hoodie, besides Ace isn't insecure enough to be super jealous of someone you clearly hate. He knows you well enough to tell when you are silently wishing death on someone, it's all in the vocal tone. But damn if this new bit of information doesn't make things tricky. He already makes a big fuss about not needing to focus on dating right now, and with that iconic sweatshirt of yours technically belonging to an ex it's not like he can just slide you one of his without making it super obvious what he's doing. Looks like you're just going to have to take some extra teasing for a bit prefect, it's his preferred method of cope.

Deuce- "You've been here for how long and the Headmage hasn't given you any clothes?!?!"

Deuce is a good egg whose primary concern is almost always your well being. He tends to act before his common sense and emotions can catch up with his thought process, and that's exactly what happens here. The concept of you dating someone is just so... foreign to him. Not because he thinks your undesirable! It's just that you guys are always hanging out, you not being around makes him feel a bit funny inside, and not in a good way. He doesn't mention that to his mom when he texts her asking if she has any of his old clothes laying around, but she definitely knows what's on his mind. Why else would she have sent his old delinquent jacket?

Leona- "Well that explains why it smells like shit."

Let the record show that Leona is in fact, lying to you. Your clothes don't smell like anything other than you and maybe some of the musk floating around Ramshackle Dorm, but that doesn't stop you from pulling the fabric and taking a good sniff. To Leona, all this really suggests is that you've been over the person long enough that you don't care about keeping their scent around anymore. Sure, a tiny thought does worm it's ugly way into his inferiority complex that "oh they liked someone else" but his equally large ego immediately slams the emphasis on "liked" and starts thinking about how to get his scent on you. He doesn't really own too many jackets like the one you're wearing, but he does have some nice silk scarfs he could wrap you up in. Much classier than whatever trash you had previously been going out with.

Ruggie- "You wanna toss it my way then?"

Clothes are clothes are clothes, you don't see Ruggie acting like his uniform is still Leona's just because that's who originally bought it. If you are really bothered by the memories of your ex, he's willing to listen and make fun of them, assuming that will make you feel better, but this won't make him jealous. That emotion is reserved for when you share food with other people. He is dead serious about taking the sweatshirt if you don't want it, as far as he's concerned that shirt belongs to you, and he wouldn't mind having an excuse to blend your wardrobes a little bit. It would make you even closer to being a real member of his pack.

Jack- "You can just take mine."

Jack's strong sense of justice and firm moral code are definitely his only motivations for offering you one of his sweatshirts. Forcing a student to wear clothes they find uncomfortable and associate with negative memories just because they didn't have the foresight to pack something they did like for a school they didn't know they would be attending is beyond unfair. That's what he tells himself anyway, and it's not like he isn't upset on your behalf, but it's plain as day to anyone that he wants to prove that you can rely on him; he's not like that other person, he doesn't mind being alone together with you.

Azul- "If your finances really are in such dire straights you know I could-"

Revealing personal information in Azul's presence is asking to be offered a deal. Sure that little complaint might have been insignificant to you, but for Azul? He's having a full blown Sherlock style breakdown going on in his head trying to decide what his angle is. 1) The prefect has dated in the past and doesn't look on that experience favorably. Does this prevent them from dating again? Needs further analysis. 2) Giving articles of clothing is an acceptable form of human courtship, even if used. Or is it especially if used? 3) Can he convince you to burn this if he gets you a replacement or is that too petty? 4) More importantly does this mean you have a type? And how does he press for that information without appearing desperate?

Jade- "Oh? Well that sounds extremely annoying."

Jade Leech is first and foremost a messy bitch who lives for other people's misery. Sure, he is reasonably certain he's in love with you at this point, but that doesn't matter. You have a story that's filled with second hand embarrassment and a bone to pick besides he is nothing if not an enthusiastic audience. The thought of you wearing clothes that he owns wasn't something he would have thought of himself, merfolk don't typically wear them so dating customs that involve them are a bit foreign to him. He would much rather just bite you. Or give you some jewelry. both he wants to do both

Floyd- "PUT THAT THING BACK WHERE IT CAME FROM OR SO HELP ME"

The instant you say that sweatshirt is from an ex he is taking off whatever shirt he is currently wearing and trying to tug off yours. Yes, even if it is his basketball jersey, and yes even if he just got back from practice. Isn't the scent supposed to be the point? He knows you miss him when he's gone, and he can get you something nicer out of his closet later. Just remember to tell everyone, even and especially if they don't ask, who gave it to you. Floyd's... nice? Enough? To not immediately burn your sweatshirt but it's up for debate if that's because he's actually being nice or if he just wants a trophy.

[coracaodeleao]

Jayce — mild spicy headcanons (x gn!reader edition)

You know that weird little moment before you actually have sex, when you're both pretending to be focused on something else? Jayce can't do it. He either makes it very obvious he's just waiting for it to happen — or he actually gets too invested in whatever you're doing. Like, you're watching a movie and he's already touching your leg or something, but suddenly he's super into the plot and forgets the plan.

He's really prone to minor sex-related injuries. Like, you sit on his face and his neck cracks, now he can’t move his head. Or he hits his head on the nightstand. Or gets a cramp in his thigh mid-thrust. Anything can happen to him

He makes a mix of heavy exhales and low moans — he sounds the same lifting heavy things or at the forge as he does in bed. And he's not shy about it at all. It's so loud and heavy, almost like a dog is in the room.

He's not great at dirty talk during the act, but he's pretty good before. He knows what to say, just not when he's actually inside you. He’ll compliment you, sure, but he doesn’t get into specifics in the moment. That said — he remembers. And if he needs to tell you how good you looked on your knees or how much he misses your taste? That would be say it before, way for help to get you on bed again. But when you’re finally there, he’s focused. He has a job to do.

He overprepares for sex like it’s a business. Fresh sheets, water by the bed, a scented candle he’ll pretend not to care about. You may once caught him rehearsing a move he saw somewhere. He denies it but you know it's truth.

Jayce gets distracted by your reactions. Your moans He has to stop for a second to process it. Pull his hair? Now he's malfunctioning. His name on your lips? His brain goes brrrrr. You love it everytime.

He’s got golden retriever energy even in the bedroom. Always enthusiastic, wants to please, a bit clumsy. If he messes up, he apologizes mid-thrust — “Shit, sorry, you okay?” — and tries again, now extra focused like he's in the finals of an academic decathlon.

Aftercare king. The type to ask, “Was that okay?” even if you’re blissed out and boneless. Brings you snacks, runs a bath, rubs your legs — and probably falls asleep on you while still rubbing said legs.

Jayce doesn’t know where to put his hands half the time. On your waist? Your thighs? Your hair? They hover like he's debugging his own body. You have to guide him, which turns him on even more. “There?” he asks, and when you nod — game over.