#by which i mean i’m not reading stuff for them right now but i think the way they’re written in canon is so close to them being poly

[cherbii]

FREAK OUT | Gojo Satoru

summary -> no one ever thought that someone could out freak the freak himself, that’s why you, his sweet girlfriend has to give him a run for his money

warnings -> switch!Gojo x switch!reader, language, smut! p in v, degradation kink (mutual), praise kink, rough sex, overstimulation (both parties), balls worship, breathplay, choking, orgasm control, orgasm denial, hair pulling, slapping (non-abusive), ass play with toy (F), cockwarming, multiple creampies, size kink, reader fights back, fake sweetness, manipulative dirty talk, possessive Gojo, Gojo being a freak, reader being freakier, multiple rounds, full-night fuckathon, Gojo gets ruined, handcuffs. mdni

an -> this was gonna be a short story but whoopsies & the warnings 🌝 bye. Also it’s just 🌽 with minimal plot

Gojo is terrified of you.


Not in a you-have-a-knife-to-his-throat kind of way, more in a you-might-handcuff-him-in-his-sleep-and-make-him-like-it way. Which, to be fair, you’ve joked about at least twice this week.

Three if you count the time you leaned over during brunch and whispered into his ear, “Would you let me peg you if I was nice about it?” then bit into your croissant like nothing had happened.

He swears his soul left his body.

But you’re not malicious. Not cruel. You don’t act like you’re trying to dominate the walking enigma that is Satoru Gojo. You just exist with an energy that makes him feel like he is the prey. The hunted. The one in the relationship who might just be out of his depth.

It’s not what he expected.

You’re just sitting across from him on the couch right now, scrolling on your phone, one sock on and one sock half-off like you’re innocent. You're wearing a massive hoodie that he’s pretty sure is his, and your legs are pulled up, knees bent in a way that makes his brain stall out for a second. But that’s not new.

“Babe,” you say without looking up, “Would you fuck me in a church?”

He chokes. Fully. Like audibly. Eyes wide.

There’s a full three seconds of silence before you lift your head, raise your brows and say, “So... no?”

“I didn’t say no,” he coughs. “I just wasn’t emotionally prepared.”

“Good,” you grin. “Because I found one we can rent by the hour.”

“What?”

“Not for sex, obviously,” you lie. “It’s for an art installation.”

He narrows his eyes. “Is this why you were Googling ‘how many public indecency charges until jail time’?”

“You peeked?”

“You left it open on my phone. I tried to check the weather and found myself reading about maximum fines for mooning a priest.”

You laughed, your whole body moved when you laugh, and for a moment he forgets he’s supposed to be on guard. You do that to him. It’s not even about the sex stuff. It’s everything. You look at him like he’s not invincible. You say things like “relax” and “you’re not special” and “you can moan louder than that.”

He swears he’s aging backwards and forwards at once.

You toss your phone aside, curling deeper into the couch and rest your cheek on your fist. “You ever done anything really weird during sex?”

He blinks. “Define weird.”

“Like…spit in someone’s mouth. Or called someone mommy, or daddy by accident. Or used a toothbrush.”

Gojo’s expression twists. “I mean, I’ve done the spit thing. Never the toothbrush.”

“I have.”

“You what?”

You shrug. “The back side. The rubbery tongue bit. I was curious.”

He pauses. The image enters his brain like an uninvited guest and stays there. “I don’t know if I’m horrified or impressed.”

You look smug. “Both. You’re both.”

He presses a palm to his chest. “I just think… maybe I should be taking notes.”

“I already know you take notes,” you say, grinning. “You’re a slutty little overachiever. It’s why you kept track of how many times I came that one time. And ranked them.”

“That was scientific inquiry,” he deadpans. “It was for posterity.”

You roll your eyes. “You gave them star ratings, Gojo.”

He shrugs. “I’m a visual learner.”

There’s a pause. The tension between you both isn’t thick or obvious, it’s teasing. Teetering on the edge. You haven’t slept together yet. Not because either of you are shy, but because you’re both sick little freaks who want to see who breaks first.

It might be him.

He’s starting to think it’ll be him.

“Anyway,” you say suddenly, sitting up straight, “Wanna come to this adult store with me?”

He blinks. “Why.”

“Just wanna get a vibe. Maybe buy something. You can come.”

“Emotionally or physically?”

“You’re so annoying,” you snort.

“Thank you.”

He’s still thinking about it half an hour later while he walks next to you, the two of you approaching a building that looks deceptively like a vape shop from the outside. He’s seen many things in his life. Fought many metaphorical battles. But he’s never followed a girl into a place with a neon sign that reads “Chains & Charms.”

The bell above the door jingles.

A cashier with pink eyebrows and a sleeve tattoo greets you both with a nod, clearly unfazed. You’re already striding towards the back, like you own the place. Gojo trails after you, not embarrassed, just… overwhelmed.

You turn, hold up a pair of fuzzy handcuffs and ask, “Pink or red?”

“I—I don’t even know what mood we’re setting here,” he says helplessly.

You toss both into the basket anyway.

He watches you browse like it’s a Sunday market. You pick up a blindfold, a crop, a strap-on (just holding it up, give him a once-over, and snicker). He sees the look on your face. Knows you’re not bluffing. But you’re not pushing. Not trying to make him squirm.

That’s the scariest part. You’re genuine.

“You’re really calm about all this,” he says.

You glance up. “It’s sex, Gojo. Not rocket science.”

“But the equipment, babe.”

You lean in. “It’s only intimidating if you pretend you have to know everything before you try it. That’s loser energy.”

He laughs. Genuinely. “God, you’re intense.”

“You like that I’m intense.”

“I do. I just didn’t think you’d out-freak me.”

“Aw,” you coo. “Want a hug?”

“No, I want you to stop looking at me like you’re gonna make me cry from something other than emotional intimacy.”

You give him a sweet, sugary smile. He physically flinches.

By the time you leave the store, you’ve somehow convinced him to carry the basket like it’s a baby stroller. He does it. No one’s forcing him. And as much as he groans and rolls his eyes and mutters about being “trapped,” he hasn’t let go of your hand once.

He’s not scared of you. He’s scared of how much he likes you. How much he wants to let you have your way.

He just didn’t expect you to be the wildcard in this relationship. And he definitely didn’t expect to find it this hot.

Later that night, when you're on his bed flipping through the toy box like it’s a snack sampler, he watches you in silence. You shoot him a look. He raises a brow. You toss him a bottle of lube like it’s no big deal and go, “Catch.”

He doesn’t catch the bottle. It hits his chest and rolls onto the bed.

“You ready?”

You don’t give him a chance. Not in a cruel way, more like it’s never even occurred to you that he might need convincing. Like you already know he’ll fold, already know that if you sit on his lap and look him in the eye and spit in your palm, he won’t say no. So you do exactly that.

Your knee slide up over the bed between his legs, your weight following a second later, and you settle into his lap with a kind of nonchalance that makes him stupid.

You take the bottle you tossed him, pop the cap, spit into your hand without breaking eye contact, and wrap your fingers around him through his sweats like it’s no big deal.

And it should be a big deal. It is a big deal.

You’re not even naked and he already feels like he’s about to short-circuit. But you’re calm. Like he’s just another thing to try. Another toy to unwrap. It’s not demeaning. It’s worse. It’s personal. Focused. Like you’ve been waiting for him, specifically him, and now that you’ve got your hands on him, you’re gonna ruin him slow.

“You good?” you ask casually, your thumb dragging just under the waistband, where he’s already getting hard.

Gojo exhales slowly. “Define good.”

You push his hoodie up with one hand. He raises his arms to help you take it off, but it catches on his head for a second, and you don’t wait, you slide your hand into his pants while he’s stuck like that, gripping him proper, skin to skin. He jolts like you tased him.

“Holy shit—” he pulls the hoodie the rest of the way off with a thud, eyes wide. “Warn a guy next time.”

He’s solid in your hand. Long. Thick. Not cocky about it, but definitely cursed with the kind of size that makes guys pretend it’s a burden.

You don’t go fast. You just get him fully hard, nice and slow, like you’re getting familiar with him. Like you want to memorize what he feels like before things escalate. You’re watching his reactions, taking stock of every twitch, every breath, every time his mouth opens like he’s about to say something but doesn’t.

“I should’ve known,” you mutter. “Of course you’re huge. Of course your dick is pretty.”

He stares at you, flushed and still letting you stroke him. “Are you complimenting me or threatening me?”

You shrug. “Little of both.”

His hips twitch. He’s already leaking, tip flushed pink, precum gathering on your fingers with every pass of your palm. You dip your head and lick it off him without saying anything, just one slow drag of your tongue over the slit before pulling back. He makes an actual noise. Like a sound.

“Oh my God—”

You grin. “Sensitive?”

“No, just spiritually ascending.”

You spit into your hand again and jerk him a little harder this time, letting your wrist twist with each stroke, your other hand braced on his thigh to keep your balance. You’re still fully clothed, and he’s half-undressed, pants pulled down just far enough for his cock to hang out, the waistband cutting into his hips. He looks fucked-out already and you haven’t even taken your shirt off.

“Satoru,” you say, voice quieter now, “you wanna cum in my hand or my mouth?”

He stares at you like you’ve just proposed marriage and arson in the same breath.

“I—I don’t even—what kind of question is that?”

You lean in, lips brushing his jaw. “You’re not cumming yet either way. Just curious.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “Hand.”

“Good boy.”

He almost chokes. “Fuck, don’t say that—”

You keep stroking him, picking up the pace just enough to build that tension, and he goes from joking to speechless real quick. His chest rises and falls under you, and his hand slides up to grip your waist like he needs something to hold onto. You don’t stop.

You don’t slow down. You just watch him unravel. It takes a while, he’s stubborn like that, fighting the way his body wants to give in, but eventually, his thighs tense, his stomach tightens, and his cock jerks in your hand.

“I—wait—”

Too late.

He cums hard, his jaw clenched, eyes fluttering shut, hand squeezing your hip like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. You stroke him through it, milking every drop, not stopping until he jerks and grabs your wrist.

“Too much,” he pants.

You slow down, then pull back, wiping your hand with the towel you brought from the nightstand. He’s a mess. Breathing hard. Hair sticking to his forehead. Eyes barely open.

You’re still fully clothed.

“You’re evil,” he croaks.

“You’re easy.”

He drags a hand over his face, still catching his breath. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You pull your hoodie off slowly. Then your top. No ceremony. Just a clean, confident strip. You’re not trying to be sexy. You are sexy. You always have been, but now he’s painfully aware of how many layers you’ve been hiding under.

“Take your pants off,” you say, already reaching for your own.

His hands fumble. “Already?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You think I’m done with you?”

He freezes. “You’re serious.”

You toss your pants to the floor. “You came. That’s cute. You think I’m done because you came.”

Gojo swallows hard.

You crawl back into his lap, now bare from the waist down, your thighs sliding over his. You drag your fingers through the mess on his stomach, sticky and warm, then lick it off them without blinking. He makes another pained noise.

“You’re not real.”

“I’m real,” you mutter, aligning your hips with his. “You’ll feel it in a second.”

He’s still half-hard. You stroke him again, slow, patient. He watches you like you’re a threat and a reward at once. The lube bottle’s still nearby. You grab it again, pour more over your hand, and get him slick and ready while his cock twitches back to life under your touch.

“You good?” you ask again.

He nods. Doesn’t trust himself to speak.

You guide him to your entrance, one hand steady on his cock, the other braced on his chest. Then you sink down. Slowly. Inch by inch. No rush. You watch his face the whole time. He watches yours, like he needs to see the moment you take him all the way.

He’s breathing like he just ran a mile. “Fuck,” he whispers.

You don’t move yet. You just let him sit inside you. Let him feel how wet you are. How tight you are around him.

Then you rock your hips.

Not fast. Not aggressive. Just slow, steady movement, enough to make him groan low in his throat and grab your thighs again.

“I’m gonna die,” he mutters.

“You’re gonna cum again.”

“I just did.”

“You’ll do it again.”

You start riding him properly now. Smooth, practiced thrusts. Your thighs burn a little, but you don’t stop. His eyes are fixed on where you’re joined, watching the way you move like it’s hypnotic. His hands slide up to your waist, then your ribs, then cupping your tits like he needs something to hold onto.

“Touch me,” you say.

He does, like it’s instinct. His thumbs brush over your nipples, not rough, not shy. Just hungry. You moan, barely, just enough to make him twitch again inside you.

You bounce faster. The slap of skin picks up. His grip tightens. You’re close, he’s close, but you’re holding back. You want it to last. You want to see him try to keep up.

And he’s trying. God, he’s trying. But he’s too far gone, too sensitive, too deep inside you, and you’re too good at this.

He’s going to cum again.

You feel it before he says anything, his legs start to tremble, his thrusts get shorter, messier. He’s looking up at you like you’re something holy and dangerous.

“Please,” he breathes.

You let him.

He spills inside you with a broken moan, his whole body jerking beneath yours, hands desperate on your hips.

You slow down. Ride him through it again. Let him feel every pulse of it. When it’s over, he collapses back against the bed, spent, dazed, legs shaking.

You’re still not done.

But you let him breathe for now.

“Round three later?” you ask.

He doesn’t open his eyes. Just mutters, “If I survive.”

It’s been two days and Gojo still can’t make eye contact with your laundry basket. Not because of what’s inside it, he’s seen your underwear, he’s torn some of it, but because every time he catches sight of that plain white towel with the faint dried patch of cum on it, he has a full-body memory of what happened.

Twice. Back to back.

He swears he’s still sore.

Which is why you’re surprised when he walks into your apartment without knocking, throws a duffel bag onto your couch, and says, “Get naked.”

You raise an eyebrow from where you’re perched in the kitchen, half-dressed, drinking from a glass like nothing in the world needs to move faster than your sip.

“That how you greet all your friends?”

“I’m not here to be friendly.”

“No,” you say, setting the glass down. “You’re here because your ego’s bruised.”

His jaw twitches. “I’m here because I don’t lose.”

“You already did. Twice. Remember?”

He ignores that. “Your bedroom?”

You cross your arms. “Say please.”

“No.”

“Then strip.”

He blinks.

You take a slow step forward. “You want to play this game? Fine. But you’re not walking in here barking orders like I didn’t make you cum in your own hoodie three minutes apart.”

He watches you, quiet, jaw clenched, and there’s something different in his stare this time. Not just the usual chaos you bring out in him, something focused. Calculated. Like he spent those forty-eight hours plotting.

You take one more step and lift your shirt over your head. He doesn’t move. You kick your shorts off next. Still nothing. Just that stare.

Then he’s moving. Quick. He’s dragging you to your bedroom, storming into the room.

Fast hands, pinning you back against the wall with more force than you expect, both wrists caught above your head in one of his. You’re fully naked. He’s fully clothed. His mouth brushes yours but doesn’t kiss. Not yet.

“You think I’m scared of you?” he asks, voice low.

You smile. “Yes.”

He exhales through his nose. “Not tonight.”

“Big talk for someone still dressed.”

“I wanted to make an entrance.”

“You wanted to psych yourself up in the mirror for twenty minutes and then hope I didn’t laugh.”

He glares. Tightens his grip on your wrists. “Say something smug again.”

“What are you gonna do?” you ask sweetly. “Slap me?”

His other hand grabs your jaw. Not rough, but firm. He tilts your face up. Thumb drags across your bottom lip. He leans in, breath hot.

“I’ll do more than slap you.”

You smile against his mouth. “Good.”

Then you kiss him. Not soft. Not teasing. It’s sharp and hot and wet, teeth clicking, breath shared. He growls into it like he’s got something to prove, tongue sliding over yours, his free hand already dragging down your neck, down between your tits, pinching one nipple hard enough to make you gasp into him.

He lets go of your wrists.

You shove him backward by the collar of his shirt. Not angry. Just done playing.

“Strip.”

He yanks his hoodie off, shirt following fast. You’ve seen his body before, but he still looks even better now, tense, flustered, veins popping on his forearms as he pulls his sweats down. No underwear. He’s already hard.

You sit on the edge of the couch, legs parted, and motion for him to come closer.

You grab his thighs and pull him to stand in front of you. Then you spit on his cock and stroke him once, twice, watching the way he stifles a twitch. He’s hard enough to ache already.

You lean in. He thinks you’re going to suck him off. You don’t.

You lick his balls instead. Long and wet, your mouth warm, tongue dragging deliberately slow. He actually bucks.

“Holy—fuck—okay.”

You hum against him, nuzzle into the base of his cock, and suck one ball into your mouth while your hand pumps him lazily. He grabs the wall for balance.

“Jesus. Okay. Alright. You��fuck.”

You alternate. Lick. Suck. Spit. Play with him like it’s a game you never get tired of winning. His thighs are trembling, abs tensing every time your tongue flicks a new spot.

He doesn’t ask you to stop. He can’t. He’s gripping your hair with one hand now, guiding, not forcing. You let him have that.

Then you finally take him in.

Mouth open, tongue pressed flat, lips wrapping around his tip and sinking lower. He chokes. Tries not to thrust. You take it slow. Sucking hard once you reach the middle.

“Fuck, baby—” he gasps, “you’re—shit—”

You let him go with a pop and look up at him.

“You wanted to be in charge?” you ask.

His jaw’s slack. “I—I do.”

“So do something.”

You’re on your back a second later, hair yanked, ass scooped up and dragged to the edge of the couch. You’re still wet from just the buildup, but he sinks two fingers into your mouth to get them soaked before pushing them into you.

He crooks them just right. Watches your face the whole time. “Still smug?” he asks.

You don’t answer.

He pulls them out. Spits on your cunt, fingers you again with the same rhythm, but rougher. “Talk,” he says.

You gasp. “You’re learning.”

He chuckles, low. “I’ve had a very educational week.”

Then he flips you onto your stomach, hand between your shoulder blades. You lift your hips without needing direction. He slaps your ass once. Not soft. The sound is loud and sharp.

You hiss. “That all you got?”

He slaps the other cheek. Harder.

You moan into the couch cushions.

He lines up, cock dragging through your folds, still teasing, still slow.

“Beg.”

You grin into the cushion. “No.”

He pushes in halfway. Holds. “Now?”

You roll your eyes. “Fine. Please.”

“All of it.”

“Please, fuck me, Satoru.”

He slams in the rest of the way.

You both groan. He’s fucking you harder than before, rhythm relentless, one hand gripping your hip and the other wrapped in your hair. He yanks your head back with it, forces your back to arch, then leans over you, chest against your spine.

“You gonna call me soft now?” he pants.

You laugh, breathless. “Still freakier than you.”

He growls. Then he really starts to move.

Like he wants to knock the defiance out of you one stroke at a time. You’re not fighting it anymore. You’re meeting him thrust for thrust, your hands gripping the cushions, your voice starting to break with every bounce.

His hand slips around your throat, not tight, just enough pressure to ground you, hold you still while he fucks you stupid.

“You still cocky?” he mutters.

You moan. “Little bit.”

His hand tightens. “Say you’re mine.”

“No.”

He spanks you again. Hard.

You gasp.

“Say it.”

“Fuck—fine. I’m yours.”

“You’re gonna let me do whatever I want?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“You can do whatever you want.”

He fucks you harder at that. Doesn’t let up. Doesn’t slow. You can feel how close he is by the way his rhythm stutters, the way his grip turns bruising. You’re close too, legs shaking, heat coiling tight in your stomach.

You try to pull your hand between your legs to finish yourself off, but he grabs your wrist.

“No,” he pants. “I got it.”

He slips his fingers between your thighs, finds your clit fast, starts rubbing hard circles that push you over the edge in seconds.

You cum with a cry, cunt pulsing around him, knees nearly giving out. He groans behind you and follows, hips jerking one final time before he spills inside, loud and messy and shaky.

He slumps forward against your back, breathing heavy.

“Holy shit,” he mutters.

You don’t say anything. Can’t yet.

He stays buried in you, forehead against your shoulder.

Then, very quietly, “Did I win?”

You turn your head. “Round two says no.”

He didn’t let you get up this time. Didn’t tease or joke or delay. Just shoved you down by the shoulders until your back hit the mattress, eyes blown out like a man deranged.

You barely caught a glimpse of him dragging the drawer open and fishing through it before his hand came back with something you hadn’t even used on him yet. The lube was familiar. The toy was not.

“That mine?” you muttered, and he only grinned, meanly.

“Guess I snooped.”

“Guess you’re desperate.”

“Guess I’m gonna make you sob.”

It wasn’t big, but the implication hit just right, Gojo didn’t care how impressive it was, just what it would do to you with his hand on your cunt at the same time. He flicked it on with a casual twist of his wrist, and the vibration buzzed up the sheets. Then his hand wrapped around your thigh and yanked.

“Go on then,” you said. “Show me how hard you can try.”

He didn’t answer. He just pressed the toy against your clit, and the lube was cold and the sound of it obscene, slick catching air and suctioning onto skin like it belonged there. You twitched. Bucked. He barely even reacted, just smiled.

“Freaky enough yet?” he asked.

You laughed. “You’re a baby.”

The pressure changed. He shifted it just a little, adjusted the angle, and the sound you made might’ve embarrassed you two days ago.

Now? Now you were gritting your teeth through it, legs tensing, body trying to shift but his grip on your hip was bruising and cruel.

“You’re louder than you were last time.”

“You didn’t earn it yet.”

He reached between your legs with his free hand, slid two fingers in like it was nothing, and curled them just so.

You choked. Your legs spasmed and your mouth dropped open and he leaned close to your face to watch it happen, to see the moment your whole body betrayed you.

“C’mon,” he said, like he was goading a dog. “Thought you were freakier.”

You smacked his arm. He grinned wider. The toy dropped to the mattress and his hand took over everything, rubbing your clit with a slow, tight pressure while his fingers dragged inside you like he’d trained for this. Like it wasn’t even about getting you off anymore. Just humiliation.

“You’re gonna cum like this?”

“Fuck you.”

“Louder.”

You dug your nails into his bicep. Your hips lifted off the bed and he only shoved them back down, keeping his rhythm. You came with a cracked moan and his name spat from your mouth like it meant something bitter, back arched, breath stuck.

He didn’t stop after that.

You grabbed at him. “I said round two—”

He flipped you.

You hit the mattress with a thud and a grunt and his hand came down on your ass a second later, loud and deliberate.

“Wrong,” he said. “This is still round one.”

Another slap. Sharp, stinging, and followed with both his hands spreading you wide, your cunt dripping down your thighs.

“You look disgusting.”

“Good,” you panted. “You’re finally catching up.”

He fucked into you with no warning. No lead-up. You heard the squelch, felt the stretch, the burn. Felt his pelvis crash against you as he bottomed out, then again, and again.

You couldn’t think straight. You grabbed a pillow and bit it. He took it from you.

“Use your words.”

You tried to push up and he shoved you down.

“No tapping out now.”

Your cheek was on the sheets, drool slipping down your chin, his pace merciless behind you. One hand pinned your arms behind your back and the other reached forward to grab your hair, yanking your head up.

“What happened to all that shit you talked?” he hissed.

“Shut—fuck—up.”

“Oh, so now you don’t like the talking?”

He let go of your arms. His fingers came back between your legs, played with your clit like it was just another game controller. Your legs gave out under you. He laughed.

You were panting now, your cunt aching, stuffed full. “You’re... using my own toy.”

“Should’ve hid it better.”

“You’re cheating.”

He pulled out. You gasped. Before you could say anything, he pushed back in, slower now, grinding deep like he was trying to make it last.

“Call it cheating when I finish in you.”

“You’re not—”

“Yeah I am.”

Your cunt clenched. He felt it.

His mouth dropped to your ear. “Gonna make you beg for it this time.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

He pulled out again and flipped you back over, hand under your knees, folding you in half. His cock pushed back in with one stroke and you arched, your hands gripping his biceps like you were going to climb him just to get more.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “Wanna get bred so bad.”

“I said no.”

“You meant yes.”

His thumb found your clit again. You couldn’t lie anymore.

He kissed your throat. Not sweet. Messy. Teeth dragging. “Say it.” You stared at him, furious. He stared back, waiting.

“Cum in me.”

“Say please.”

“Fuck off.”

“Say please.”

You didn’t.

So he slowed down. His thumb left your clit. His cock stayed in you but the thrusts softened, lazily grinding instead of pounding. You writhed. He raised his brows.

“Stubborn.”

“Asshole.”

“Say please.”

Your head fell back. He started pulling out. “Please,” you snapped. “Fucking please.”

He slammed back in.

You choked.

“Say it right.”

“Please come in my cunt.”

He moaned. You dragged your nails down his back and wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him in harder. He met you stroke for stroke. It was sloppy, fast, deep, his mouth catching yours between thrusts, your gasps mixing.

“Good girl,” he breathed.

You didn’t have time to answer. He bit your shoulder and groaned, hips jerking hard as he came. You felt the heat flood inside and clenched around him again, your own orgasm crashing right after.

You laid there under him, legs twitching, skin flushed and sticky and raw.

He didn’t pull out for a long time. When he did, it was slow and messy and you hissed.

He dropped beside you and stared at the ceiling. Then he said, casually, “So… round three?”

You didn’t answer him. Just stared at the ceiling, chest still rising and falling, your heart thudding hard in your ears. You slapped his chest again, harder this time.

He grunted. “Ow. What the hell was that for?”

“You didn’t pull out right. You dragged it like an asshole.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he turned on his side, propped up on one elbow. “Didn’t realise I was fucking you wrong. You seemed pretty into it thirty seconds ago.”

You didn’t look at him. “Yeah, well. I came. Doesn’t mean you didn’t act like a dickhead.”

Gojo’s laugh was lazy, smug. “You’re cute when you’re sore.”

“I’ll rearrange your teeth.”

“You say that like it’s a threat.”

Finally, you turned your head toward him. His hair was a wreck. You could still see sweat shining on his collarbone, his lips were red and swollen. You both looked wrecked.

“You can’t possibly be serious about round three,” you muttered. “Your dick’s probably cramping.”

“It’s not.”

“Gross.”

“Come on,” he said, voice low. “We both know I could go again. You’re just scared I’ll make you cry this time.”

You sat up, ignoring the way your thighs trembled. “You really think I’m scared of you?”

He licked his lips. “I think you’re scared of liking it.”

You reached for the bottle of water on the nightstand and chugged it while staring him down. He watched every swallow like it was a threat. When you tossed the bottle back down, you leaned in close, face an inch from his.

“I’m not scared of anything you can do to me,” you said flat. “But you? You’re scared of what I’ll do to you once you stop pretending you’re in control.”

Gojo’s grin faltered, just for a second.

Then, “Oh?”

You didn’t wait. You stood, completely naked, not caring that he was staring, cock already twitching again like it was waiting for orders. You stretched, letting him see every inch, then turned toward the bathroom.

“Take a nap, Satoru,” you called over your shoulder. “You’re gonna need the rest.”

It started again a week later.

You’d both gone back to normal for a while. Or what passed for normal when you were sleeping with someone like Gojo Satoru.

He was still the cocky asshole who walked around like he owned the world. Still touched you in public like he forgot anyone else was watching. Still whispered disgusting things to you at the worst times just to watch you squirm.

But now, he was also watching you more.

Watching the way you watched him. Clocking your moods. Testing your reactions. Like he couldn’t stop thinking about what you said that night.

You’re scared of what I’ll do to you once you stop pretending you’re in control.

He’d repeated it under his breath once, while he was inside you. You pretended not to hear.

Tonight, though, he didn’t want to pretend.

You came over late, past midnight. You didn’t say why. Just showed up in a hoodie and slides, hair messy, eyes unreadable.

He opened the door shirtless. “Thought you ghosted me.”

You stepped inside without a word, brushed past him like you lived there. He shut the door, turned.

“You good?”

You dropped your bag on the couch and turned to face him. Your hoodie was just long enough to cover your ass. Bare legs. No pants.

He blinked.

You didn’t smile. “Strip.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Clothes. Off. Now.”

“Okay,” he said slowly. “Is this… am I being punished?”

You walked toward him. “You’ve been dying to see what I meant. Right?”

He didn’t answer. Just swallowed.

You stopped in front of him, reached out, hooked your finger in the waistband of his sweats. “Strip. Or I stop playing.”

He stepped back and yanked his sweats off in one motion. No boxers. Half-hard already. Show-off.

You grabbed his wrist and shoved him toward the bedroom.

“No warm-up?” he joked.

You pushed him onto the bed.

“Jesus. Alright.”

He sprawled back, arms behind his head, pretending not to care. But his eyes were watching.

You crawled on top, straddled his waist “Remember what you said?” you whispered. “That you could go again? That I’d cry this time?”

He nodded once.

You leaned closer. “I’m going to fuck you until you beg. You won’t know what time it is. You won’t know what hole I’m using. You’ll only know that you’re not allowed to finish until I say so.”

He made a sound, part exhale, part groan.

“You’re gonna let me?” you asked. “Or are you scared?”

That did it. The way he flipped you over, dragged you under him, pressed his mouth to your neck.

“I’m not scared of anything.”

“Then shut up,” you said. “And let me ruin you.”

You grabbed his jaw and shoved him back, hard. He landed flat on his back, blinking up at you with those icy blue eyes, strands of white hair falling into his face. He was already hard—of course he was—and you hadn’t even started. You swung a leg over him and sat on his chest, pinning him there, your bare heat hovering just above his sternum.

“Hands above your head,” you said.

He raised an eyebrow. “What if I don’t?”

You slapped him. Fast. Clean. Across the cheek.

His smile twitched.

“Cute,” he muttered, lifting his arms.

You leaned forward and wrapped the cuffs around his wrists. Leather. Tight. He tugged once and looked surprised you’d actually locked him in.

“Okay,” he said, voice husky. “Didn’t realize we were doing real restraint tonight.”

“You have no idea what we’re doing tonight.”

You leaned in and kissed him—deep, messy, all tongue and spit and teeth—then moved down and bit his chest, hard. He groaned, hips arching up, and you slapped his thigh.

“Keep still,” you warned.

“Fuck.”

You grabbed the blindfold from the drawer and slipped it over his eyes. He didn’t resist. You adjusted his arms above his head, legs spread out beneath you, completely at your mercy.

Gojo Satoru, strongest, cockiest, loudest man you knew—tied down and blindfolded and already twitching like he couldn’t stand not being touched.

You climbed off and walked away. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t touch him.

A few seconds passed. Then: “You still there?”

You didn’t answer.

“You’re quiet.”

Still nothing.

He tensed. His toes curled. His head lifted like he was trying to listen for you.

You watched him suffer for a full minute before coming back and dragging the Wartenberg wheel down his stomach.

He jerked. “The fuck was that?”

You dragged it lower. The tiny spikes ran over his pelvis, the inside of his thighs. You stopped just short of his cock.

“Tease,” he muttered.

You went lower, dragging it between his legs, over the sensitive skin behind his balls, not touching them, just close enough to make him twitch.

He exhaled hard.

“You okay?” you asked sweetly.

His voice was strained. “I’m good. Keep going.”

You used your mouth next. Licked up his length once, slow and wet, then didn’t touch him again for a full two minutes.

He cursed under his breath.

“You said you weren’t scared,” you whispered.

“I’m not.”

“Then stop flinching.”

You grabbed a clamp. Just one. He couldn’t see it coming. You clipped it to his left nipple. He jolted.

“Shit—what the hell was that?”

“You’ll live.”

Another one on the right. He bit his lip. Didn’t speak.

You left them on, left him squirming, then sat on his chest again.

“I haven’t even made you cum once yet,” you said. “And look at you.”

He was flushed. Pale hair sticking to his forehead. Cock red and angry, twitching against his stomach.

“Don’t touch yourself,” you said.

“My hands are cuffed, babe.”

“You’ve got a mouth, don’t you?”

He laughed. “You want me to beg already?”

You leaned forward, kissed the corner of his mouth, bit his lip again.

“No,” you whispered. “I want you to break.”

You moved down and finally—finally—took him in your mouth. Not all the way. Just the head. Just enough to get him bucking into the air like a desperate dog.

You licked the slit. Let drool drip down his shaft. You wrapped your hand around the base and squeezed, tight, choking the base just as he started to shudder.

Then you let go.

He gasped. “No—fuck—come on—”

“No cumming,” you said. “Not until I say.”

You reached under the bed. Pulled out the vibe.

“Oh my god,” he muttered.

“Scared now?”

“Little bit.”

You turned it on and dragged it up the inside of his thigh. His hips jumped. You didn’t stop. You dragged it right to the underside of his cock and pressed it there, holding him down as he twitched.

His head was tilted back. Blindfold soaked with sweat. Mouth open.

You let the vibe buzz against the base of his cock, then suddenly—off.

He made a sound like he was about to cry.

“You wanna cum?”

“Yes.”

“You wanna cum that bad already?”

“Yes, fuck, yes, please—”

You smacked his thigh again.

“Beg better.”

He groaned. “Please let me cum, please, you fucking tease, I can’t—I need it—I need it—”

You turned the vibe back on. Pressed it harder.

“Not yet.”

His whole body arched, veins straining in his neck.

You leaned in and whispered, “You’re gonna give me six loads tonight.”

He choked on his breath. “Six—?”

“You heard me.”

You reached back and pulled your hoodie over your head, then leaned over him again, letting your tits drag across his chest, right over the clamps. He hissed.

“Six,” you repeated. “Or I edge you until you pass out.”

He didn’t argue.

He just whimpered.

You let the vibe buzz against the base of his cock while your hand worked the head, twisting slow and tight, watching every reaction under the blindfold. Gojo’s jaw clenched. His mouth dropped open again. He was breathing hard through his nose, chest rising and falling, pale skin flushed pink all the way to his ears. You could see the tension rippling through him.

“Don’t you dare cum,” you warned.

“Fuck—please—”

You moved the vibe higher, pressing it right under the tip. His whole body jerked.

“I said don’t.”

“I’m trying—shit—I’m—”

You pulled back just as he hit the edge.

He let out a noise you’d never heard from him before. Not a moan. Not a whimper. A full-on broken gasp like his soul left his body.

You grinned.

“Thought you were stronger than this, Satoru.”

His thighs were shaking. His abs were clenched. The clamps were digging into his nipples, and he still hadn’t gotten a single orgasm.

“I can’t take six,” he breathed.

“You can.”

He shook his head, hair clinging to his sweaty face under the blindfold. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You leaned in, kissed the hollow of his throat, let your teeth scrape over his Adam’s apple. “I haven’t even started yet.”

You climbed off the bed and opened the drawer again. He couldn’t see what you were doing.

“What is that?”

You didn’t answer.

“Hey. What—what are you grabbing?”

You came back with the vibrating cock ring.

“Wait—wait, fuck, wait, what is that?”

“You’re gonna wear this while I ride you,” you said calmly. “You’re not allowed to cum. I’ll edge you the entire time.”

“I…”

You slipped it on before he could protest.

“Fuck—fuck—oh my god.”

It buzzed to life, and he immediately bucked up, gasping. You climbed onto him again, grabbed the base of his cock, lined yourself up, and slowly sank down until he was all the way in.

His head snapped back. “Oh fuuuuck.”

You didn’t move.

Just let the ring do the work while you squeezed around him, still not letting him cum.

He was breathing like he’d just run a mile. His wrists strained against the cuffs.

You started moving. Every thrust made him twitch. The ring buzzed nonstop.

He was inside you, throbbing hard, trying not to cum, panting your name like a prayer.

You leaned down and bit his earlobe.“This is just load one.”

“I—fuck—I’m gonna cum, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.”

“I can’t—”

You grabbed his throat, hard.

He gasped. “Please—please—please?”

You squeezed harder.

And that was it. He came. Violently. You felt it. Hot pulses inside you.

But you didn’t let up. You kept moving. He whimpered.

“Did I say you could cum?”

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I couldn’t—”

You reached down and twisted one of the clamps. He yelped.

“Bad boy.”

His whole body shuddered. He was still hard. Still twitching inside you. The ring hadn’t turned off.

You smiled.

“Now we start again.”

He groaned. “You’re gonna break me.”

“That’s the plan.”

You fucked him through it.

And didn’t stop.

You barely had time to blink.

One second you were grinding down on him, squeezing his cock inside you while he trembled from the aftershocks of that ruined orgasm, and the next, your back was flat on the mattress, wrists pinned above your head.

The cuffs clattered somewhere off the bed, tossed aside like nothing. Gojo Satoru was on top of you, eyes wide open now. His hair was damp, a white, sweaty mess. His skin flushed all the way down his chest. His cock still hard, somehow. He stared down at you with a look that made your breath catch, something feral, hungry, wild. His lips curled into a slow grin.

“You really thought I was gonna let you win?” he said, voice low, rough. “That I was just gonna lie there and take it?”

You smirked, even though your arms were still pinned and your legs were still spread beneath him. “Took you long enough, old man.”

He leaned down and bit your jaw, not soft. His teeth scraped, then pressed in. You felt the sting. He didn’t let up.

“You made me cum without permission,” he growled against your skin. “You made me fucking beg.”

You felt his cock twitch inside you. He hadn’t pulled out. He was still hard, still buried, and somehow still in control now. He thrusted once. Your whole body arched.

“You liked it,” you said through clenched teeth.

He bit your collarbone. “I liked watching you act like you were in charge.”

He sat up on his knees, grabbed your hips, and flipped you over like you weighed nothing. Your cheek hit the sheets. You tried to push up and he shoved your face back down with one hand, the other yanking your ass up high. He was behind you now, no warm-up, no teasing, just spat on your hole and shoved his cock back inside in one brutal stroke.

You cried out. Not from pain. From shock. From how fucking deep he went.

“That’s better,” he muttered, dragging his hand down your spine. “You can’t talk back with your face in the pillow.”

You tried to lift your head. He grabbed your hair and pulled. Hard.

“Try me,” you hissed, voice muffled.

He laughed. “Oh baby, you’re gonna regret saying that.”

He fucked you like he was punishing you. No rhythm. No care. Just hard, rough thrusts that punched the air out of your lungs. He slapped your ass once. Then again. You felt the heat bloom under your skin, raw and stinging.

“You think clamps and a vibe are kinky?” he said. “You think tying me up makes you in charge? You don’t know what the fuck I’m into.”

You felt his hand between your legs again. He was rubbing your clit now, fast and unforgiving, forcing you toward a second orgasm when your body was still shaking from the last. He leaned down and bit your shoulder. This one broke skin.

“Cum,” he said. “Right fucking now.”

You tried to hold back. You didn’t want to give him the win. But it was no use. You came with a gasp, legs shaking, whole body going limp under him. You were too raw to fake anything, too gone to hide it. You’d edged him. Broken him. But now he was fucking you like he was going to destroy you just to prove he still could.

He pulled out just long enough to flip you onto your back again. Your thighs were slick with cum. His eyes dropped down, staring at the mess between your legs, then looked back up at you. His pupils were blown wide. His hands gripped your knees and shoved them apart, wide enough that you felt stretched open, exposed.

“You’re gonna take it,” he said. “Again. And again. Until I say you’re done.”

You smirked, even as your breath came short. “I can take more than you can give.”

“Oh yeah?” He pushed back in with no warning. You cried out.

He didn’t stop. “We’ll see.”

He didn’t stop moving even after you came again. Your whole body jolted with every thrust, nerves lit up like fire, and Gojo was holding your thighs apart like he owned your body, like every inch was his to use. His hair was soaked now, sticking to his forehead and temples, strands clinging to his flushed cheeks. Those bright blue eyes were locked on you, wild and vicious and shining.

“You shaking already?” he said, voice low. “You were real fucking loud a few minutes ago. Got real quiet all of a sudden.”

“Still not tapping out,” you muttered.

He grinned. “Good. I’d be disappointed if you did.”

He reached up, grabbed your jaw and squeezed your cheeks together, forcing your mouth open. Then he leaned down and spit into it. You didn’t flinch. Just let it drip down your tongue and swallowed.

“Fuck,” he growled. “You really are disgusting.”

You licked your lips. “You love it.”

He slapped your face. Just once. Your head turned with the force. Then he grabbed your chin again and made you look at him.

“I fucking adore it.”

He pulled out again and shoved three fingers in you without warning. You gasped.

“You want another load?”

“Yes.”

He curled them deep. “You want it in your pussy?”

“Yes.”

He pulled out. “Too bad.”

You barely had time to register before he pushed back in, not with his cock, with the vibrator. Pressed it deep, turned it on full blast. Your hips jolted. He held it in place, watching you writhe under him.

You grabbed at his wrist. “Wait—wait, fuck!”

“You said you could take more.”

You were cumming again. It hit you so fast you couldn’t even say his name. Your body locked up, thighs trembling, stomach twitching.

He waited for it to finish. Waited for your back to drop down to the bed. Then pulled the vibe out and shoved his cock back in, still hard, still thick, still fucking relentless.

“No breaks,” he said. “You set the rules. You wanted six loads.”

“Then give me one,” you hissed.

He fucked into you hard enough that the bed frame creaked. His fingers tangled in your hair, dragging your head back.

“I’m gonna cum down your throat first,” he said. “Then your pussy. Then your tits. Then your mouth again. Then your pussy again. And the last one’s gonna be wherever I fucking feel like it.”

“Fuck you.”

“You’re trying.”

He pulled out and crawled up your body, straddled your chest and grabbed your jaw again.

“Open.”

You did.

He slid his cock past your lips with no hesitation, no rhythm, just deep and rough. You choked. He didn’t stop.

“You took control for what? Ten minutes?”

He shoved in deeper. You gagged around him. Your hands clawed at his thighs, not to stop him, but just to hold on.

“You can edge me. You can cuff me. But the second I’m on top—”

He pulled out, slapped your face again, then shoved back in.

“You’re done.”

He grabbed your hair, twisted tight, fucked your throat like it owed him money. You felt your eyes water. He held you there until his hips stuttered. Then you felt it, hot and thick, right down your throat. You swallowed around him and he groaned.

“Fucking hell.”

He pulled out, spit dripping from your lips, and crawled back down your body.

“One down,” he said. “Five to go.”

You were shaking. You smiled anyway.

“Bring it, Satoru.”

“Oh, I will.”

And he slammed back in.

He eased back, fingers trailing over your flushed skin like he was thinking, but you knew better. That look in his eyes wasn’t sympathy, it was pure, calculated control.

“You’re such a fucking mess already,” he murmured, voice low and velvet-smooth, like he was talking to a scared kitten instead of the wreck he’d made of you. “I’m gonna take care of you… don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

His fingers ghosted over your jaw, tilting your face up just enough so you could see those icy blue eyes glinting with something dark and playful.

“You think you’re tough, huh? Pretty little thing all wrapped up in pain and desperation. You’re pathetic, and I love it.”

His hand slid down your neck, light but firm, and then suddenly tightened just enough to catch your breath. You gasped, eyes fluttering, heart hammering.

He watched you struggle under that tiny pressure, lips twitching in a smile, then eased off, cooing, “Shh, it’s okay. You’re doing so well. Just breathe for me, baby.”

He shifted, pulling something slick from beside the bed, a curved, black toy with smooth edges. “I’m gonna fuck you proper now,” he said, voice dangerously soft. “You’re gonna feel every inch of this, and I want you to beg me for more even though you’re dying inside.”

He slicked it up, fingers tracing over your aching folds before sliding it slowly to your asshole. You bit your lip, breath hitching, hips pressing down even though you knew better.

“You’re so tight for me,” he whispered, thumb brushing over your clit, keeping you close to the edge but never letting you fall. “So fucking delicious. I swear, if you weren’t so broken, I’d be gentle with you. But you want this. You need me to push you.”

His breath was warm on your neck as he slipped the toy inside you, slow and deliberate. You cried out, voice raw, and he chuckled low.

“You’re gonna be my good fucking girl tonight. I’m gonna ruin you with this, with my hands, my mouth, my cock. You’re not allowed to forget whose you are.”

He kissed the shell of your ear, then tightened his grip on your throat just enough to remind you who was really in control. Your breath hitched again, and he smiled softly, rubbing slow circles on your chest.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered, voice all silk, “I’m right here. I’ll take care of you, baby. Just stay still and let me do what I do best.”

He pressed the toy deeper and your hips jerked, the stretch sharp and tight. You clenched around it instinctively, gasping, but he just cooed, running his hand up your thigh like he was soothing a child.

“There you go… that’s it. You’re okay. Such a good girl letting me in like that.”

“Don’t call me that,” you hissed, breath shaky.

He grinned, leaned in and kissed your cheek so softly it made your skin crawl.

“Aw, what’s wrong? You don’t like being praised now that your ass is full and your pussy’s dripping all over the sheets?”

You slapped his chest. He barely flinched. His grip on your throat tightened again, just a little, and he tilted your chin up so he could see your face.

“You hit me again and I’ll tie your arms down too.”

“Try it.”

He laughed, really laughed. Then kissed you hard, tongue sliding in like he owned your mouth. You tried to bite him. He pulled back just in time and laughed again, eyes gleaming.

“You’re a little demon tonight. That’s fine. I’ll break it out of you.”

You spat on his cheek. “You couldn’t break me if you tried.”

His expression didn’t change. If anything, it got calmer.

“Sweetheart. I already am.”

He shoved the toy in deeper and your back arched. He wrapped his hand around your throat again, thumb stroking your jaw, eyes locked on yours like he was watching a storm roll in.

“You’re so tight back there,” he said, voice dropping to something too soft, too fake-sweet. “I should leave it in while I fuck you again. Let you try to keep it in while I make you cum over and over until you forget your own name.”

“You think this scares me?”

He leaned closer, lips brushing yours. “No. I think it gets you wet.”

Then he pulled the toy halfway out and shoved it back in while his other hand slipped between your legs. He didn’t stroke your clit. He didn’t tease. He just held his palm there, pressed against it, applying pressure while your whole body writhed.

You gritted your teeth. “I’m not your good girl.”

He smiled, eyes locked on your face. “No. You’re my bad one. My filthy, mean, desperate mess. That’s why I like you.”

He pressed down harder with his palm. You jerked.

“Gojo—”

His hand moved from your neck to your jaw again. He gripped it tight. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to hold you there.

“Say my name again.”

You swallowed. “Satoru.”

He groaned like you’d touched a nerve. “Fuck. Say it like that again and I might forgive you for spitting on me.”

You shoved at his chest, but it was useless. He pinned you with one hand, the other pulling the toy in and out in slow, torturous movements while you twitched beneath him.

“You want to cum again?” he asked.

You didn’t answer.

“I said—”

“I’ll cum when I fucking want to,” you snapped.

“Oh? That right?”

He yanked the toy out and shoved his cock in, deep and raw, and you gasped so loud your voice broke.

“You want control back?” he growled, thrusting hard, not giving you time to adjust. “Earn it.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist and rolled your hips to meet every stroke. Your hands clawed at his back, dragging down over the sweat-slicked muscles. His silver-white hair was a wild mess, eyes half-lidded, mouth parted like he was drunk on you.

“You’re gonna beg me to stop,” you panted.

He laughed, thrusting harder. “I want you to try.”

And you did.

Your cunt clenched around him so tight he cursed under his breath, hips stuttering just for a second. You didn’t miss it.

“Oh?” you said, breathless, smirking through the ache. “That a twitch I felt, Satoru?”

He narrowed his eyes and grabbed your face, fingers digging into your cheeks again. “Careful.”

“Why?” You licked his thumb. “You scared?”

His mouth crashed into yours, sloppy, brutal, tongue invading. You bit him this time, harder than before. He jerked back, lips wet, blood on the corner of his mouth.

“You’re really trying me tonight.”

You twisted your hips under him, grinding up while squeezing around him again. He groaned, head dropping to your shoulder.

“I said six loads,” you breathed. “I didn’t say you’d be in charge for all of them.”

He sat back on his knees, pulling your hips with him so you ended up bent halfway over his thighs. His cock still buried inside. He stared down at where you connected, breathing heavy.

“You’re starting to think you’re a threat,” he said. “That’s adorable.”

You hooked a hand behind your knee and pulled your leg back farther, opening yourself up more just to make a point. His eyes flicked up to your face. You smiled.

“I’m not thinking it.”

He slammed into you so hard the air left your lungs. But this time, you met him. You gripped his wrists and rolled your hips to match, letting the pain shoot through you and riding it out.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re gonna make me break something.”

“Better make sure it’s not yourself.”

He flipped you again, fast and rough, and you landed on top, straddling him. He didn’t stop thrusting, just used the angle to fuck up into you while you fought to get your balance. You grabbed his wrists and pinned them above his head.

He smirked. “Think you can hold me down?”

“You let me up here,” you panted. “That’s your mistake.”

You clenched again, hard and deep, and he let out a noise that was way too close to a whimper. You rolled your hips once, slow and grinding, pressing his cock into every nerve inside you.

“You’re gonna cum again soon, aren’t you?” you said, leaning down, lips brushing his. “What’s that now? Load number two?”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“You love it.”

You reached down between your legs and rubbed your clit while still moving on him, moaning in his ear.

“Fuck, fuck—” he hissed. “You’re seriously gonna make me—”

“Do it.”

“No—fuck, no, you’re not winning this round—”

“Then cum and try again, Satoru.”

His whole body tensed. You felt it. That deep pulse. He came hard, biting down on your shoulder so loud you could hear the groan echo off the walls.

You didn’t stop moving. You chased your own high right through it, grinding down while his cock twitched inside you, while his fingers dug into your hips, breath coming fast like he couldn’t handle the overstim.

You came with your head thrown back, clenching around him so tight he cursed again, hands flying up to grip your waist like he needed to anchor himself.

When it finally slowed, you stayed there, sitting on him, both of you wrecked and panting.

You leaned forward, lips on his ear. “Told you I could take more than you can give.”

He turned his head, jaw clenched, sweat dripping down his temples, eyes wild. “Round four’s mine.”

You didn’t argue. You just smiled.

You barely had time to catch your breath before Gojo’s hands were on you again. One gripped the back of your neck, the other dug into your hip, dragging you off him like your body belonged to him.

You were still shaking from your last orgasm, cunt soaked and stretched and twitching around nothing, and he moved like he didn’t care.

He shoved you onto your stomach, grabbed your waist, and pulled your ass up, forcing you to stay there with his palm flat on your spine.

“Stay down,” he rasped, voice thick, broken. “I’m not playing anymore.”

“You never were.”

“Yeah?” His cock slid back inside you without warning, and you screamed into the sheets. “Then shut up and take it.”

He fucked into you like he was losing his rhythm, like his own body was shaking, but he didn’t stop. The pace wasn’t clean, it was frantic. Sloppy. His hips were hitting the backs of your thighs with wet, slick slaps that echoed off the walls. You couldn’t tell if it was sweat or spit or cum dripping down your legs anymore. Probably all three. You felt disgusting. You felt feral. You felt fucking alive.

He grabbed your hair and yanked your head up so your mouth wasn’t in the pillow anymore. You were gasping now, drooling, lips parted and wet, and he bent over you, chest pressed to your back, breath hot and panting against your ear.

“You feel that?” he whispered. “You hear how loud you’re dripping for me?”

You choked on a laugh. “That’s not you. That’s me breaking you.”

He pulled out again and smacked your ass, hard enough to make you flinch. Then shoved the toy back into your ass with one hand and slid his cock back into your pussy with the other. You screamed, body arching, walls clenching down hard as you writhed under him.

“Oh fuck—fuck—Satoru!”

“That’s right,” he panted. “Say it. Cry it. I wanna hear it while I wreck you from both sides.”

You clawed at the sheets. He was hitting every nerve you had left. You couldn’t keep up anymore. Your thighs were trembling, stomach slick with sweat, muscles locking up and releasing in turns. Every thrust pushed the toy deeper, making your breath catch.

He was grunting above you now, not even trying to hide the strain. His rhythm faltered again, and he caught himself with a hand beside your head.

“You getting tired?” you rasped, voice wrecked.

“Never,” he lied.

He sounded fucked. His hair was stuck to his forehead, jaw clenched, skin flushed down to his chest. His hips were still moving but not clean anymore, each thrust messier than the last, like he was losing track of where he ended and you began.

You pushed back against him suddenly, grinding into both the toy and his cock at once, and he lost it. Let out this deep, low sound like he was choking on his own control. You took advantage, rolled your hips again and clamped down around him, every muscle in your body squeezing him like a trap.

“Fuckfuckfuck—” He slammed into you hard, once, twice, then froze.

You felt the heat burst inside you again, thick and deep and messy. His whole body shook, forehead resting against your shoulder, breath shallow.

“Number five,” you panted. “Getting sloppy, Satoru.”

He didn’t answer for a second. Just breathed against your neck, still twitching inside you.

Then, slowly, he reached around, grabbed your throat again, and pulled you back up into his lap, keeping himself inside you the whole time. Your legs shook as you tried to stay upright, body slick and trembling, the toy still buried deep and his cock softening slightly inside your oversensitive cunt.

“You wanna keep score?” he whispered. “Fine. But I’m not stopping.”

He bit your shoulder again, this time hard enough to leave a deep, dark mark. You whimpered, head falling back against his shoulder.

You were dizzy now. Exhausted.

Your legs didn’t want to move anymore. You were trembling so hard your muscles kept giving out under you, and Gojo was still behind you, cock still inside, hips barely moving now but never fully stopping. His arms were wrapped around your body, one across your ribs, the other around your throat, not squeezing yet, just holding.

You were in his lap, leaned back against his sweat-slick chest, the toy still snug inside your ass, the air thick with heat, spit, and sex. Your eyes fluttered.

“I know,” he whispered against your neck. “I know it’s too much. But you’re gonna take it for me, right?”

You gritted your teeth. “Fuck off.”

He laughed, voice hoarse. “That’s my girl.”

He lifted your hips, slow and shaky, then dropped you down again. You let out a half-sob, half-moan, head falling forward. His cock slid in deeper than before. You could feel how raw your cunt was, could feel how swollen he was from the inside. And he didn’t stop. He lifted you again, slower this time, and brought you back down like he was savoring it.

“See?” he murmured. “Still so greedy for it. Still sucking me in like you’re begging for more.”

You twisted in his arms, just enough to get your hand around his throat. You squeezed not hard enough to choke, just enough to make his smile twitch. His eyes flicked to yours, pupils blown wide, chest rising fast.

“Shut the fuck up,” you breathed. “I’m not done yet.”

He growled, rolled you forward, and shoved you down into the mattress again, flipping you face-down with one hand on your back and one around your waist. You clawed at the sheets as he started to fuck you again, harder now, sloppy thrusts that made your body jerk with every one. The toy shifted with each movement, pressing deeper every time he slammed in. You were soaked. Loud. Filthy.

“I’m gonna cum again,” he panted. “You feel that? How fucking close I am?”

“Hold it,” you gasped.

“Beg me.”

“Hold. It.”

He shoved deeper, and you screamed. “You don’t get to cum until I say.”

“You’re not in charge.”

“You’re gonna fucking wait.”

He groaned, forehead falling between your shoulder blades, and you felt his hips stutter just for a second before he steadied himself again. You were both shaking now. Both holding on by threads.

He leaned in close, mouth right by your ear. “You think you can control me when you’re this fucked-out?”

“I’m not done,” you whispered. “You don’t get to stop until I’ve ridden your cock dry.”

He chuckled, breath hot. “You want it that bad?”

You reached back and slapped his thigh. “Take the hint.”

He grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head again, chest crushing down over your back, and started pounding into you with no rhythm at all, just fast, sloppy, desperate thrusts that made your mouth fall open and drool onto the sheets. The toy inside you pulsed with every stroke. You could feel your body clenching, your nerves short-circuiting, your thoughts blurring out.

“Say it,” he demanded. “Tell me I’m better.”

“No.”

He thrust harder. “Say it.”

You moaned, but didn’t give him what he wanted. He pulled your hair. You gasped.

“Say it.”

“Make me.”

He bit your shoulder again, and you clenched down on him, hips jerking, toes curling. He cursed under his breath and lost it, slammed into you once, twice, then froze.

You felt it. Hot, thick, deep.

He was gasping now, voice barely holding shape. “Fuck. Fuck—”

You collapsed under him, too exhausted to move, but grinning.

“One more,” you breathed.

He kissed the back of your neck, then whispered through grit teeth, “Don’t think you’re gonna be walking after this.”

You didn’t let him pull out.

He was still inside you, twitching, softening, drained, but you locked your thighs and shoved him over, rolling onto his chest and straddling him like you were born to do it. His eyes barely opened.

Silver-white hair plastered to his forehead, lips parted, red and swollen, skin glistening with sweat. His arms didn’t even move. He blinked up at you like he couldn’t figure out what year it was.

“I didn’t say we were done,” you said, breathless.

He groaned. “Baby—fuck—I just came.”

“I know.” You shifted your hips, grinding down slowly, squeezing around his cock. “That’s the point.”

He cursed, hands flying to your thighs like he might try to slow you down, but you smacked them away and shoved his wrists down beside his head.

“Not your turn,” you said, sweetly. “I told you I’d ride you dry.”

He groaned again, head falling back into the pillow. “You’re fucking evil.”

“You like it.”

You rolled your hips again, slow and deep, dragging his oversensitive cock against every twitching nerve inside you. His whole body jerked.

“Shit, don’t—fuck, stop, I can’t—”

“You can.” You leaned forward and kissed his cheek, then his jaw. “You’re Gojo Satoru, right? The strongest? You can handle one more.”

“You’re—” He groaned. “You’re squeezing so fucking tight.”

“I know.”

You leaned up, planting your hands on his chest for balance, and started to ride him slow and cruel, grinding more than bouncing, never letting him pull away, never giving him room to breathe.

You could feel every twitch, every tiny spasm, every muscle in his legs trying to lock up and fight back. He looked wrecked. Beautiful. Skin flushed all the way down his neck, sweat dripping from his temples, throat bobbing with every gasp.

“You wanna cum again?” you asked, breath catching as you rocked harder, deeper. “One last time?”

“Fuck—I already—”

You tightened around him and moved faster, harder. He cried out. You slapped his chest. “You don’t get to decide when you’re done.”

His hands grabbed your hips again, but not to stop you. Just to hold on. You were fucking him so deep now he couldn’t fight it. Couldn’t fake control. Couldn’t pretend he had anything left to give except what you were dragging out of him.

He was panting under you, sweat slicking both your bodies, cock twitching back to full hardness against his will.

“You’re gonna cum again,” you said. “And you’re gonna do it inside me.”

“I’m gonna pass out—”

“You won’t.” You grabbed his face, forced his eyes open. “Look at me.”

He blinked, dazed. His chest heaved.

“You’re mine right now. Every inch. Every fucking drop. So cum when I tell you. Not before.”

He whimpered. Actually whimpered. His fingers dug into your thighs. His whole body trembled like a live wire.

You leaned in and kissed him, soft this time. Like reward. Like ownership. And while his mouth opened under yours, while he tried to breathe, you ground down and clenched around him, squeezing with everything you had.

He broke.

You felt it in the way he jerked beneath you, the way his hips bucked up, the way his voice caught in his throat when he came inside you for the last time, loud, desperate. His eyes fluttered shut. His hands fell off your hips. His body went still.

You stayed there, cockwarming him, his cum leaking out of you, chest pressed to his, both of you soaked, broken, and breathless.

You brushed his hair off his forehead, kissed him again, then whispered against his mouth

“Mine.”

So yeah. You terrified Gojo

[kj-yikes]

#but for writing this scene this way when that kind of devotion from Lena wasn’t even earned#rift? what rift?#my mad brother sent Kara to the phantom zone#so now I feel guilty and suddenly I’m willing to forget about all the shitty things my supposed friends did to me#so I can save her#we deserved more conflict there#LENA deserved it#(but also mood Lena we’ve all been there once or twice)#ANYWAY still love this moment and these gifs are gorgeous#(runs off to read some angsty fanfic)#supercorp

^ THIS! I've been rewatching S5 and GAH, the way they twisted everything round so that Kara "only made one mistake" and her secret was definitely only about protecting Lena anyway (despite the fact that that's not what she said at the time). Then they get Kara back from the phantom zone and it's like none of it ever happened - they're all "family" again except that Lena has to be extra humble because she Did a Bad Thing, while the rest of them barely acknowledge the things they also did wrong. I don't really have a question here I was just deep in rift angst when I saw your tags and felt the need to come and yell about it, I hope you don't mind 😅

Yes please come yell about it!!! You’re exactly right about Lena having to be extra humble. I mean, I’m not saying that Lena didn’t do many problematic things (aside from trying to remove everyone’s free will — which like haven’t we been here with Jack and the nanobots? Did that not cross Lena’s mind? — the stuff with Eve and Malefic specifically always pained me quite a bit). But Lena certainly had reason to feel incredibly hurt not just for the giant secret Kara and everyone else kept, but for the way they all treated her BECAUSE OF the secret.

I think one of the things that makes supergirl an incredibly addicting story to write and read fanfic about (for me at least) is that the writers set up a lot of interesting things but never really followed through with them in satisfying ways. Kara, AND Lena, AND the rest of the superfriends had really important lessons they could have learned from all of this. Kara could have learned that placing trust in the right people makes us all stronger, and that Kara often thinks she’s making the best/right choices but she’s often wrong. Lena could have learned that the price of community and friendship is sometimes getting hurt, but we should keep trying anyway. The superfriends could have learned that sometimes they need to keep Kara in check because she’s not always the best moral compass. All of those lessons could’ve been really impactful, and yet… it’s just all waved away.

So now I’m yelling about it at 8:30am on a Sunday haha. Lena deserved better, but ultimately, I think we as the audience deserved better.

Thank you for yelling with me!

[starlightshadowsworld]

I don't mean to break us further after this chapter but am I he only one who immediately went "why the fuck is this Oda and Dazai WHY IS AKINARI BEING HELD BY ATSUSHI THE SAME WAY ODA WAS HELD BY DAZAI"

Like literally my first thought.

Also I can't be the only one seeing the brief parallel, with Oda's death pushing Dazai to make the right choice and Atsushi being told to kill Akinari and then doing the right thing and instead freeing them (he I guess considering we finally saw it was a yukata they were wearing)

Like...even though there isn't a bond I'm just drawing parallels like the weirdo I am

Oda saying Dazai was a burnt cat and Atsushi seeing his little self being punished for the tiger next to Akinari

Oda and Akinari both being ready to die for something they/someone else brought upon themselves

Atsushi and Dazai having to hear the final words of people in a situation they haven't seemed to fully process yet

Atsushi and Dazai being thrust into said situation without any warning at all in general and watching someone die in their arms

Also there begs to question why Akinari was killed so quickly

I've always wondered about Atsushi's connection to the Book. Do you think Amenogozen and Tsukinogozen were connected to the Book and therefore Akinari as well?

also there begs to question what they meant by leaving the rest to SSKK

And it might just be me but I swear on my life in Chapter 26 Kouyou says something similar, something like she's leaving Kyouka to Atsushi. "I'll leave the rest to you" and "I'll leave Kyouka to you" WHY DOES ATSUSHI ALWAYS GET RESPONSIBILITIES HE ISN'T READY FOR YET???

And the thing is their bangs are on opposite sides and literally the first page I ever saw of Akinari I immediately clocked that they were good due to that little character detail, unlike Kouyou with her bangs on the right side due to Japan believing that right = evil and left = pure

WHICH ALSO IS A REASON ATSUSHI'S BANGS ARE ON THE LEFT INSTEAD OF THE RIGHT EVEN WITH THE BLACK STREAK BECAUSE IT PROCES THAT TIME AND TIME AGAIN NO MATTER HOW MUCH THEY DESERVE IT ATSUSHI WILL ALWAYS BE SWAYED TO CHOOSE THE MORALLY RIGHT THING TO DO EVEN THOUGH HE KNOWS HE CAN DO IT THE WRING WAY HE STILL ACTIVELY FIGHTS AGAINST THAT PART OF HIM BC HE DOESN'T WANT TO BE LIKE THE HEADMASTER

ANYWAY I'm so sorry if you doing want stuff about 124.5 yet in your asks 😞😞😞

First of all, you’re fine it’s fine don’t worry about it. My only thing about people sending me stuff about new chapters is just to wait till I’ve read the chapter.

After that you know go nuts I love talking about it with people.

As for your ask, ow owwwwie! I didn’t even think about the Odasaku and Dazai parallels to Akinari and Atsushi. And now that you’ve mentioned it yeah I can see it.

While of course not having the same bond as they did, both Odasaku and Akinari have been used to push Dazai and Atsushi to end the cycle of torment. You could argue Odasuku saw himself in Dazai and wanted to save him the way he couldn’t save the kids and himself.

And Atsushi saw in Akinari himself and wanted to save him in the way he couldn’t save his friends and himself.

Good eye for that.

Atsushi is definitely the one who keeps getting hit with the “I’m leaving the rest to you” sentiment. In fact going back Fukuzawa said the same thing to Atsushi (chapter 120.5) when he was “killed.”

Unfortunately Atsushi is the one everyone knows is the one who can defeat the threat…and frankly one of the only people left too do so.

Alas no rest for him.

So the way I see it is that the swords are able to respectively manipulate the fabric of reality and those that dwell within it. The Book as we know it (Bsd Beast) has created other worlds that exist outside this original universe.

And so because of the swords, namely Amenogozen being able to manipulate the worlds the Book has created that is what ties them together.

I don’t think that they were intended to be created this way, it’s just a consequence of the power that they wield. Like Akinari was sealed within another realm of existence using the sword that they created. But they didn’t create the 4th dimensional plane as it already existed because of the Book.

All Akinari’s captors did was use the sword to open a door they knew already was there.

That’s my understanding of course I could be completely wrong but that’s where I stand with it for now.

So to me they are all connected but it’s just by virtue of how they work individually. Kinda like how Mori runs the Port Mafia but it existed as an organisation before he was around. It’s a power he used for his own benefit even if he didn’t create it.

I hope that makes sense 😅

The bangs are fun detail I hadn’t noticed that but yeah no it also serves as another similarity between the two of them.

[chaos-interwoven]

maybe a hot take: i am obsessed with the idea of pre tfc kandrew. not in a relationship sense but in a messy hooking up situationship type thing. just andrew being pissed off at all the problems kevin is causing and how he’s such an asshole all the time and yet is begging for his protection. (well as pissed off as his meds will let him be. and the fact that he can’t feel all the negativity that he wants to feel towards kevin just provides more fuel to the fire). so kevin becomes one of the men andrew hooks up with. andrew gets to tie kevin down after he’s been an asshole all day or maybe it’s something drunk after eden’s. and kevin is just emotionally all over the place because he left the nest, he doesn’t know if he will ever play again, is terrified of riko and the moriyamas and he just wants to be used to escape his head. it’s not necessary healthy for either of them but it is consensual and enthusiastic. idk some sort of dynamic like this just makes a lot of sense to me for them pre-tfc

[marvelwitchergilmore]

Compromised Positions

Summary: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> You and Bucky find yourself in one too many compromised positions, not that he's complaining.

Disclaimer: Steamy moments with a slight hint of smut towards the end, swearing, multiple undercover kisses, he fell first, she fell second, he fell harder. Mentions of domestic disputes, criminal neighbours. Bucky ties Reader's heels, shirtless Bucky, him in joggers, a lot of physical touching (innocent...at first). Gala kiss, undercover as a married couple, Bucky admires Reader's nails. Not Proof Read.

“Guys, you’ve got like, two minutes until they’re gonna notice you’re gone.”

“Relax, little Falcon, we’ll be out in time.”

You heard Joaquin sigh over comms. “That nickname,” he groaned. “I’m the Falcon, now.”

Bucky smirked. “Whatever you say, Big Bird.”

You all heard Sam chuckle as a groaning whine left Joaquin. “Not you, too.”

You nudged Bucky’s arm and pointed at the room. “In here.”

He closed the door behind you both before he joined you in the search for physical evidence. Pictures were taken on his phone whilst you looked for the file. 

“Jesus, have they never heard of organisation? What the hell is this?”

Bucky just looked at you. “Seriously? The chaotic organiser is judging their organisation skills.”

“At least I know where everything is.”

It was another thirty seconds before your anxiety kicked in. You considered it to be the same kind of anxiety mother’s got before their kids threw up in the middle of the night. And Joaquin’s voice confirmed your suspicion. 

“Guys, they’re back early.”

Bucky looked around the room. There was one exit and that would mean running right into them. “We can’t-”

“I’ve got a plan.”

Instantly, you grabbed Bucky by his henley and threw him over to the sofa as you removed your own jacket. The room wasn’t exactly an office – it was more of an overflow of actual office stuff. A storage closet. 

There was a chance your plan would work better than you both being compromised. 

“What the hell are you-”

You held Bucky down by his shoulders. “Just shut up.” 

The footsteps out in the corridor were getting louder. They were getting closer. So, strandling Bucky’s thighs, your knees digging into the worn sofa in the middle of the room, you kissed him just as the door unlocked. 

Considering you and Bucky had gotten through the building door pretending to be members of the society, it wouldn’t seem odd that two new-ish members were in a room they had been told about. 

Your hips shifted as Bucky’s legs moved, his hands putting just the right amount of pressure on your back to make the whole thing look believable. 

There were strangled noises from behind you both which quickly disappeared with a soft click of the door, whispered awkward voices and then quick footsteps leaving down the other end of the hall. 

It took Bucky a moment to get his breath back. 

“Good…good thinking.”

You smiled. “Thanks. Now let’s go, before they come back.”

Neither of you mentioned how you managed to avoid a confrontation with top members of the group. You didn’t talk about it either. It was a kiss that saved you both from a compromised position, nothing more. 

Until it happened again. 

Three months later, you were on a – meant to be – solo mission. 

An undercover identity built through a long career at Shield meant you still maintained the yearly invite to a rather pretentious gala on the Italian Coast. And, since words had been brewing around another multi-million dollar deal over a key to a vault that protected certain secrets of yours, meant you had to go. 

However, somewhere between the extra security, extra guests and a faulty switch, you’d almost gotten caught. 

Almost.

The third round of security was about to turn down the hall to the faulty security alert just as a hand came to the small of your back. You were about to say something until you recognised the face it belonged to. 

“Bucky?”

“Just trust me.”

That was all he said before you found yourself pressed against the prestinely polished wooden door frame a few feet away. His steady right hand lay on your cheek, tilting your face to his whilst his left softly skated down the length of your body, over the dip in your hip and to the top of the slit on your dress. 

Your breath was taken away as his lips were pressed against yours, his tongue being granted permission to taste you properly. 

Somewhere behind the thrumming in your ears, the two security officials joked quietly in Italian before flicking the warning light off and moving on down the hall. 

When you finally caught your breath, you asked, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“You’re welcome,” was what he replied. 

“Bucky-” you warned. 

“Sam called me. Joaquin ran those checks you asked for and I was in the area.” He said it as if it was nothing. Like turning up, not only technically saving your ass but kissing you like that was nothing more than an average Tuesday.

That night you swore to yourself that it would only be a second one time thing. But apparently that was just another lie. 

A few months later, you had been put onto a mission. You were monitoring the supposed harmless janitor of the building. ‘Supposed’ as there had been warning’s flagged over his involvement with an elite terrorist group that had been targeting undercover Shield agents. 

And, despite knowing you were safe enough, Sam had provided you with a ‘boyfriend’ cover. 

And that boyfriend just so happened to be Bucky. 

He came to your apartment every few days. Stayed at least two nights a week. And helped you do laundry…

Even when you were both fighting. 

“I don’t need someone watching my every move, James. I’ve been in this job a lot longer on my own. Besides, it’s not like I’ve never not done it before.” 

You were sitting on top of the empty washing machine as your bedding was spinning around in the dryer. Bucky was folding the second piles of clothing considering they were his that he’d left overnight. 

“What if something had happened? What if you’d gotten caught?”

“I nearly did,” you told him. “When you came charging inside like some fucking-”

There were slow and heavy footsteps coming down the hallway. Without saying anything, Bucky reached out for you as you pulled him to stand between your legs. 

He leaned forward, his hands pulling you in by your hips as your hands pushed through his hair. Your mouth opened almost instinctively as his tongue swiped forward. A quiet groan left him and his fingertips gripped a little harder onto the soft skin exposed at your hips, before the door opened up. 

Sam rushed inside. “It’s just me.”

You and Bucky moved away from each other quicker than you’d come together. Bucky moved back to the laundry pile and wiped his lip as he thought about something other than the feeling of your legs hooking around his own and holding him in place. 

You wiped your own mouth, trying to hide the slight embarrassment as Sam stopped, realising what he, sort of, walked into. 

But there wasn’t time to question it. 

“Can you break your window?”

You looked at Sam confused. “What?”

“I need you to break a window in your apartment and call the janitor up. Joaquin is gonna come to ‘fix’ it. Eventually, he’s gonna have to sign papers in the office and we’ll be able to tag his desk top. It’s so old, Torres can’t hack it.”

“Jesus, really?” You hopped off the washing machine, ignoring the dull ache in your underwear. 

Sam nodded. “This dude is working with something from, like, the 90s.”

“For the amount that they charge for rent?” 

Sam nodded. 

Three hours, two struggling-attempts at a fitted sheet that decided for today to be the day it didn’t want to comply and one shattered window pane later; Joaquin had tagged the computer and you had a fresh window installed. 

Apparently, that mission was the catalyst for the next undercover assignment you received. Or rather, the undercover assignment both you and Bucky received. 

A new-ish wedding couple that have been house hunting for six months and had finally found the perfect one to try and start a family in. It just so happened to be across the street from a few different couples you would be quietly surveilling. 

Some for money laundering for elite underground teams that missed the idea of outfits such as ���Hydra’ existing, some for potential involvement in weaponry sales overseas and some for recruitment to both groups. 

The other neighbours, however, were completely normal. 

Which seemed to be harder to deal with than the potential criminals living across the road. 

Considering you and Bucky had already made out more than once before, physical affection seemed to come a little easier than you had thought. It was still a little awkward, but overall, not as bad as it could have been. 

A week after moving everything in, you and Bucky agreeing to separate bedrooms, you’d gotten an alert one morning from the security camera doorbell. 

Someone was coming up the path. 

And you and Bucky were right in the way of the door. 

Still in your pajamas, bickering over which neighbour to start with, Bucky stepped forward and held onto your hips. He lifted you before your legs wrapped around him and you kissed him as if your life depended on it. 

Between each kiss came laughter to mask both the awkwardness and the fact none of it was real. It was all an act. It’s all it could be. 

The doorbell rang, then someone knocked on the window beside the frame of the door. You and Bucky pretended like you’d just been caught in the act. 

Your body practically slid down his as he let you down but kept an arm around your waist. As you answered the door, he remained fixed beside you. You opened the door enough to frame yourself and Bucky to the nine am neighbour who was holding a pie dish. 

As time went on, the affection became a little more subtle. Hand holding, open car doors, a helping hand down the front steps of the porch when you wore heels. 

Then, a few months later, you were both invited to the street BBQ. 

You were standing in the slightly open planned hallway, trying to get the buckle of your heels to play along. That was when your husband came jogging down the stairs in dark jeans, a fresh shirt and a brown jacket. 

“Need some help?” 

He didn’t wait for your answer after hearing you sigh as you lowered your foot, frustrated at your shoe. 

Bucky didn’t hesitate in bending down on one knee as you leaned against the back of the sofa. His hand gently holding onto your ankle,  he lifted your heeled foot to rest on him. He did the same with the next one, his thumb rubbing beside your ankle before he let you place it on the ground. 

His gaze didn’t leave yours as he stood. 

“You look incredible,” he told you.

A sundress, softer block heels to match and a smile that knocked him dead on his feet the first day he met you. 

“Ready to go?”

You nodded. “Let me just grab the food.”

“I still don’t see why we have to bring food to a BBQ we were invited to.”

“Because it’s good manners.”

“You know most of these people are criminals, right?” He asked you as he opened the door for you. 

You shrugged. “To them, we don’t know that…yet.”

Bucky locked the door before helping you down the porch steps. It was a short walk a few houses down. As one of the women ran over to you, holding your hands and complimenting your outfit, Bucky kissed your lips quickly before being ushered towards the buffet style table where the other husbands and partners were standing. 

But despite involving himself into the conversation, his eyes barely left you the entire night. 

Long after food, you found yourself sitting in your husband’s lap on one of the chairs. There were only a select few left, including you and Bucky. Which also meant chairs had become few and far between. 

You had planned to stand beside him, but without worry, Bucky had put his hand onto your waist and pulled you across until you were sitting comfortably. 

Your arm remained fixed on his shoulder and as the night went on, you started to get more and more tired. Your body practically melted against him as the faint buzz of alcohol took over and laughter passed between the remaining people, awake enough to hear the story. 

It was a little after midnight when you both returned home. Bucky pulled you into his side a little as his hand grazed over your hip and he kissed your head. 

“Go shower,” he told you. “You’ve still got sunscreen on.”

You nodded as you molded into his touch once again. “I know.”

“Give me them,” Bucky whispered quietly as he took the leftovers from your arms. “Go on, I’ll be up in a minute.”

By the time you had gotten out of the shower, you found a set of fresh pajamas on your bed. They definitely hadn’t been there in the morning. As you got dressed, you hesitated in the hallway for a second. Bucky’s room was just a little further. 

Yet, you stopped in your tracks when you saw his partially naked body through the crack in the door. 

He was buttoning his shirt on the hanger whilst he stood by his wardrobe door, jeans hugging his hips and the muscles a little tense in his back. 

It wasn’t like you’d never seen him shirtless before. But in those moments, he’d been hurt. You’d been cleaning a wound he couldn’t reach and wouldn’t let Sam touch since he considered him, “Too heavy handed.”

There was something far more intimate about how you were seeing him at that moment. 

Yes, he technically was your husband. And you were living in the same house. But, it was a mission. It was a cover. It wasn’t real. 

You’d thank him for the pajamas in the morning. After the feelings in your stomach had died down and the fictional image of you walking over and kissing the dip between his shoulder blades had disappeared. 

You tried to make it as casual as possible. And he accepted it as casually as possible. And you both very quickly moved on. A job still needed to be done. 

However, a few nights later, those lines blurred again. 

You’d been awake for hours, unable to sleep. Bucky had gone to bed an hour before you had, but you were the only one to wake up after having a rather intimate dream about your marriage partner. 

No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t push the image of him away. So, with a sigh, you’d dragged yourself from bed and gone downstairs. You’d kept the TV volume low as you turned it onto a rerun channel.

Only, as Dorothy hit Blanche on the head with a newspaper, there was a knock at your door. 

You muted the TV and reached for your phone to check the camera. 

You waited to the side of the front door until they knocked again. “Y/n? Are you awake?”

You rushed forward, shoving the hidden gun back into the security draw of the hallway stand. 

“Suzie?”

You unlocked the door to find one of the few women you’d become friends with in the last few months. She was one of the ‘normal’ neighbours. Only, it wasn’t normal for her to be standing in her casual clothes, sopping wet from the rain, outside your door at almost half one in the morning. 

“I’m so sorry,” she said with puffy eyes. “I-I saw the shine behind the curtains and I just…I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Come on in,” you pulled her out from the wet just as the familiar sound of Bucky’s feet came down the stairs. 

“Is everything okay?” 

The sight of him shirtless in nothing else but joggers was doing nothing to put a stop to your imagination. Considering he usually slept in his underwear – a fact you’d learned one morning when your kitchen fire alarm had decided to let its battery die at five in the morning – it shouldn’t have shocked you the way it did. 

“Everything’s fine,” you assured him quietly as you met him halfway. A hand landed on his chest over his heart as you leaned up and pecked his lips. He kissed back. “Go back to bed. It’s just Suzie.”

Bucky’s tired eyes opened wide enough to recognise your neighbour in the light of the TV. He looked back at you and you just nodded. 

“I promise,” you told him before kissing him again as you felt his hand at your hip. 

He just nodded. “Okay. If you need me-”

“I know.”

You watched as he turned around and went back upstairs to bed before you turned back to Suzie. “Let’s get you some fresh clothes.”

“Oh, no. It’s okay. I-I can just-”

You shook your head, taking her hand in yours as you dragged her to the laundry room. You grabbed her a towel from the dryer before picking out an old paint-flicked T-shirt and some wide-legged joggers. 

“Put these on, I’ll make us some tea.”

“Thank you, Y/n.”

You just nodded as you slid the laundry room door shut. She reappeared a few moments later, dressed and drying her hair with the towel, her eyes stained with tears once more. 

“What’s going on?”

“Me and Johnny had a fight.”

For the next two hours you sat with her in the kitchen as she cried her way through the story of how her and her boyfriend of three years had started their fight and how it had ended. 

“You can stay here for tonight. I don’t want you going back there.”

Suzie sniffled, “Thank you.” She hugged you tightly. “You’re such a good friend.”

Leading the way, you showed her the bathroom first which gave you time to tidy up the guest bedroom, as well as your own across the hallway – which just so happened to already look like nobody had been sleeping there.

By the time you reappeared, Suzie hugged you once more before you led her to the room and closed the bedroom door behind her. A few minutes later, you walked down the hallway towards Bucky’s room. 

He’d left the door ajar for you. 

Walking inside, you gently pulled the covers up and shifted under them until you were laying beside Bucky. And just as you thought he was dead-asleep, his arm came to lay across and pull you closer. 

As your hand ran up his arm and you settled against the mattress, you felt his nose brush against the crook of your neck. 

“Everything okay?” 

You swallowed a little before nodding. “Yeah. Her and John had a fight. I put her in the guest room. Thank you, by the way.”

“For what?”

“My bedroom. You tidied it.”

Bucky had a hint of a smile on his lips. “You’re my wife. You shouldn’t be anywhere else but right here, beside me.”

The use of his words, with his deeper morning voice was a pairing that would be haunting your ovulation dreams for a good while. 

By the time you both woke up in the morning, you leaned over to check the time on his alarm clock. It was a little after nine. You’d both slept in. 

“Suzie and I are gonna have a girl’s day today, so I might be back late.”

Bucky nodded. “Okay. Need me to do anything?”

You shook your head. “I’ll handle John.”

You leaned on your side as you watched your husband stand from the bed in his boxers and pull on his jeans, before zipping them up and buckling his belt. Then he sat back on the bed, his arm caging you in. 

“Are you sure? Because, you don’t have to.”

You looked at him curiously. “Have you ever seen yourself mad?”

He then looked at you, curiously. “What?”

“Because, though you might not be him, you still have that glint in your eyes.”

“Glint?”

You nodded. “You know, that I’m gonna kill you and not regret it, look. I don’t think John needs to be threatened by the Winter Soldier look…yet.”

Bucky relaxed and nodded. “What happened?”

“It’s little things that became one big thing. What they both need right now is some space.”

“If you need me, call me.”

You smiled, before watching him pull a henley down his body. “I know.”

However, when the back of his t-shirt became stuck, you leaped up and onto your feet rather than watch him struggle for the next five minutes. 

“Here, let me.” 

Suddenly, the room became a lot more quiet. Bucky felt your fingers lightly graze his bare back as you fixed his shirt and helped pull it down his back. And for a moment, he felt you lean against him. Or maybe he’d leaned into your touch so much, his knees had gone weak. 

“You know,” his voice was low as he spoke. “I like waking up to you with me.”

He didn’t know where the sudden confession came from considering less than two minutes ago, you’d both been talking about something completely different. All he knew was that it was the truth. 

Your breath hitched. “So did-”

Before Bucky could fully turn around to face you, there was a sound of a lock opening down the hall. Suzie was awake. 

“I better get breakfast started.”

Bucky nodded, his hands rubbing up and down the top of your arms as you leaned into his chest. He pressed his lips to your head. “I’ll go and check in on Sam.”

And for a few moments, you were left standing alone, his voice circling in your head. 

I like waking up to you with me.

The rest of the day ran swiftly. Having pancakes for breakfast before driving out to the local shopping mall and cafe. From where, you both got a manicure before ending up at a diner on the edge of town; John had been racing around town to find his girlfriend. 

Following multiple threats – both spoken, and silent – and constant apologies, Suzie and Johnny made up. But his actions were definitely going to be watched closely by you. Though nothing terrible had happened during the fight, and you doubted John would ever lay a hand on his girlfriend, he’d still hurt her. 

Which put him in your bad books. 

By the time you got home, John still providing Suzie the space she needed, you’d dropped Suzie off at home before pulling into your driveway, where almost instantly, Bucky had come outside and was standing on the porch waiting for you. 

“Where’s Suzie?”

“She went home,” you said as you locked your car and climbed the steps of the porch, Bucky taking your hand in his. “John apologised. I’m still gonna be watching him, but they’ve made up.”

Bucky smiled. “Good. You got your nails done?”

“Oh, yeah.” Between the diner and the long conversation home, you’d forgotten. “Like ‘em?”

Bucky nodded. “Looks great.”

You smiled to yourself before looking back up at your husband. What followed was a debrief of the day, before you both collapsed onto the sofa with some desert you’d brought back home from the diner. 

As whatever show Bucky had found for you both was about to flick onto the next episode before a pop-up ad came on asking if you wished to continue, you both took a break. Meanwhile, you pulled the blanket from you and stood before taking both empty bowls into the kitchen and laying them in the sink. 

And you took a breather for a second. 

For the last two hours, Bucky’s presence had been overwhelming – in the best sense, if the marriage had been real. But considering you were still trying to stuff emotions and images down into a box you kept meaning to lock shut, his presence was becoming more difficult to be normal around. 

That fuzzy line officially broke a few weeks later. 

The feelings had been growing stronger and more noticeable. The way he held you, the way he kissed you – even if it was quick. It left you wanting more. You’d also been spending more time sleeping in with him beside you than on your own. 

First it had been the night Suzie had stayed. Then it had been the sofa, waking up on his chest with your back against the sofa cushions. A few sleepless nights after that, he slept beside you, holding you close to him. 

After that, it became…normal…to wake up with him so close to you. His legs tangled with yours, his arm over you or around you, his steady heartbeat calming your own erratic one. 

Then, one night, you couldn’t sleep. 

You’d carefully peeled yourself from his arms and padded downstairs into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. But after standing at the sink for a few minutes, your own thoughts too loud for you to notice him behind you, Bucky’s hands came to lean on the sink counter. 

His hands were on both sides of you, caging you in. 

“You okay?”

You jumped a little. Bucky noticed, his hand coming to rest on your hip for a moment. Somehow, it calmed you.

“Yeah,” you said. “Just…couldn’t sleep.”

Bucky stayed quiet for a second before asking his next question. “Are you sure that’s all it is?”

You lowered the glass from your lips and swallowed the water in your mouth. “What?”

Bucky watched the side of your face, your lips freshly wet from the cold water, your mind spiralling and distant. 

His right hand came up to your left side to pull the hair away from your neck. Carefully, he called you back in before he leaned into you, his nose gently running up the length of your neck. 

Your breath hitched a little as you leaned against his bare chest but still held onto the glass as it balanced on the edge of the sink. 

“You’re tense,” Bucky said before he pressed a feather-light kiss to your exposed skin. And for a moment, he felt you relax. “Nightmare?”

You shook your head slowly. “No.”

“Then what is it?”

For a moment, you refused to face him. You were yet to know feelings that went away on their own when they ran as deep as they did, but maybe it was a fluke. 

Then he kissed the crook of your shoulder. “Talk to me.”

“It’s you.” The words came out a quiet sigh as your eyes closed. As his lips left your shoulder, but his arms didn’t leave the space he’d created for both of you, he looked at you. 

Your eyes opened. “It’s you, Bucky. You’re in my head and my…”

Heart.

“And no matter how hard I try, I can’t get rid of you. It feels like somewhere between that first kiss on the sofa and…waking up beside you, you’ve seeped into my bones. And I…I don’t know if I want that to stop.”

Bucky’s gaze roamed over yours and for a long time, he was quiet. But his arms never moved. 

“That’s why I can’t sleep.”

The silence continued for a moment longer until Bucky finally spoke. 

“Your name has been tattooed on my soul since the first day I met you, doll.”

You looked a little puzzled, because you were. So he explained, “The first time you smiled at me, I’m pretty sure I got knocked off my feet. And that day you kissed me…I was thinking about it for weeks until I saw you in that dress. You looked fucking stunning. From then I knew my feelings for you would never leave, not that I tried to make them. You’re tattooed on my soul, doll.”

Your gaze narrowed playfully. “Are you really having a feelings competition?”

Bucky shrugged, a smirk on his face. “Maybe. But I know I’ll always win.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because I’ve got you,” Bucky answered sincerely. “You’re more than I could ever dream of. And that includes ‘dream’ you.”

You chuckled, “Such a romantic.”, before leaning in and kissing him with a smile. But as the softness moved away for a moment, the kiss became something more. Something deeper. 

Bucky stood a little taller as he moved his hands from the counter and held onto your face. The glass in your hand clattered into the sink as the water fell down the drain and you turned to step into your husband. 

Placing an arm around your waist, he lifted you up and onto the island in the kitchen before he held your face again, his tongue swiping at your lip before you granted him access. He felt your legs lock around him as he pulled his mouth from yours, letting his wet kiss trail under your jaw before catching at your pulse. 

You breathed deeper as his hand came to your thigh, his fingers pushing under the hem of your shorts, the ache in your underwear growing more needy. 

Making it halfway up the stairs, you held onto the handrail as Bucky dropped to his knees and trailed his tongue on the inside of your thigh before tasting you like a man starved of his final meal. 

By the time the sun rose, the sheets had been changed and the tile markings on your knees had settled down. But Bucky’s arm remained fixed around your middle, his fingers tracing up and down your spine. 

“Promise me this isn’t a part of the mission.”

Bucky’s eyes opened to meet your tired gaze. “I promise this isn’t a part of the mission. I meant what I said last night; I don’t plan for this to stop when we move out.”

The memory of Bucky on top of you, his gaze locked onto yours as he inched himself into you slowly, floated over you. You smiled. 

“Good.”

Leaning forward. Bucky kissed you lightly before rolling you onto your back, his arms wrapped around you as his kiss moved from your lips to your neck and collarbone. 

He heard you giggle softly as he did so. “We’ve got work to do.”

“It’s Sunday, doll.” Bucky told you, before leaning down and kissing your bare skin. “Work can wait.”

[rotapathetic]

͏͏͏✧ ྅ ˚ . ᯇ * TWITCH STREAMER!RAFE IS LIVE ㅤ⁝ㅤ opening p.o. mail ۫ : .

❛i get why you hid her i would too❜ : bold text is stream chat! 💬

rafe cut the tape of the box, glancing at the chat. “my p.o. box is linked in discord i think, but mods, could you link it and pin it? thanks.” he looked down when he finally got the box open.

“alright, first one of the day. i’ll name this stream p.o. mail then change it later. there is a lot, and i’m opening them all because i’ve been meaning to get to it, so buckle in i guess.”

user pretty box user is it cool if i just send a letter? i don’t have any items to send right now user open mine next!!

“you don’t even have to send anything, but if you do, it most definitely doesn’t have to be an item. i love letters and i appreciate them, that’s totally fine. . and let me know which box is yours when you see it,” he addressed both chats.

rafe pulled out the first thing inside which was a little packaging. he opened it, pulling out a couple of keychains. some of them had legos attached or a little trinket, or just pretty stones. “woah, this is cool. you know your stuff, you know i like legos. this will make me use keychains more, thank you. is it okay if i give the others to someone? she’ll love them.”

user that’s my box! yes, i made the other ones for her lol

rafe read the chat, raising a brow. “oh, really? that’s so nice. yeah, she’ll go crazy. i’ll set them aside for her.”

rafe clipped one of the chains onto his pants, putting the rest away. he reached back into the box, pulling out a funko pop and a blind box. rafe chuckled when he noticed the difference. “did you make a his and hers box? one thing for me, the other for her?”

user at first i was mainly putting in things for her 😭 then i remembered i should put stuff you like too user that’s such a cute idea user she’ll love that

“that’s insanely kind you thought of her. she’ll really appreciate it.” rafe grabbed the last thing which was a note. he read it aloud, “‘hi, rafe. i just wanted to give you some things in return for giving me a new favorite streamer lol. i watched one vod a month ago and have since watched like all of your streams. you’re pretty funny i guess. there’s stuff for both of you guys in here so hope you like them,’ and then she drew a smiley face,” rafe finished the letter.

“don’t try to humble me about being funny, you know i am. but thanks so much. i keep all of these letters just so you guys know. i don’t throw them out or anything.”

user sweeettt user there he goes trying to be funny again

rafe put the items back inside the box, separating the letter, and put it to the side. “alright, next box. this is from. .” rafe tilted the box to read the name, “a crochet business. oh, that’s cool, my girlfriend crochets,” he opened it, pulling out a note. he read it aloud, “‘big fan of your streams! but i heard your girlfriend likes crochet. . so i made some things for her. hopefully she likes them!,’” rafe read.

“and this is her business,” rafe held up the box where there was a qr code and the name of their shop.

user wait this is all for her awhh

“she will really like this. i’ll let her open it.” rafe stood and walked off camera to roll over another gaming chair and put it next to his.

user wait a minute. . user awh she has her own chair

“pretty girl. .” rafe called out, “could you come here?” rafe looked to the doorway, waiting for you. when you appeared, slightly nervous, rafe held out a hand. “there’s something for you.”

you made your way to him, accepting his hand, then placing both on his shoulders, glancing over them to see what he held. “what is it?”

“sit down, you have to open them.” rafe looked over his shoulder to you. so you did, sitting in the chair he pulled over. the chair he bought when you told him you felt comfortable to be on camera now. the chair he had customized, despite your reluctance.

you sat, putting your hands in your lap, avoiding looking into the camera. that’s probably weird to do.

user dude finally user reveal!!! user wait chat don’t make a big deal or she’ll never come back user i get why you hid her i would too user prettyyy user hi!!

rafe handed you the box, giving all of his attention to you instead of the viewers. he wanted to make sure you felt as comfortable as possible and not like thousands of people were watching you.

“opening my p.o. mail and someone sent you some crochet items. want to see the note?” your eyes widened, taking in the box. “really? yeah, can i see?” you reached for the note, reading it. your shy disposition faltered slightly at seeing something cute, and it was made for you. you slightly pouted as you read, looking up to rafe. “no way. rafe, this is so sweet.”

rafe bit a smile, nodding. “it is. i said you would like it.”

you looked to the monitor that displayed the chat, trying to catch all of the chats, but they were moving pretty quickly.

user what’s your @ ?? user open it!! user i think the owner is in the chat user yeah, she’s freaking out

“um. . to whoever sent this, thank you. i will for sure check you out. i know i’ll love this,” you looked back down to the package, opening it. inside was one balaclava, a plushie, headphone covers, and a keychain.

you were in awe as you pulled out each item, showing them to the camera. “i have to wear this balaclava, it’s so cute. you know my color palette,” you put it on, looking to rafe. “cute, right?”

he couldn’t hold back his smile now, pulling out his phone to take a picture. “i have to capture this. baby’s first stream and mail.”

user i’m sooo happy for you guys love that really user is it okay if i make fan art of you??

rafe read the chat, grabbing another package, this one smaller than the first two. “if you could draw me, that’d be dope, yeah.” rafe opened it, pulling out two small containers.

user not you! sorry, her

rafe was still frowning at the items, unsure what they were as you read the chat for him. “me?” you pointed a finger to your chest. “that would be awesome, yes it’s okay. you don’t have to!”

rafe was still unaware of the chat, scrunching a brow, and tilting the item up. “are these nails? ohhh, they’re nails.” rafe showed the little containers to you. you gasped, grabbing them. “oh my gosh, these are so cute! i love them,” you examined them both, both sets nail sets you would wear. how did someone know you would like these?

rafe looked to the monitor. “do you guys want me to just leave the stream?” he partially joked, mostly serious.

user yes! user i mean we weren’t going to say it

you shook your head, “no, this is your thing. i’m sure there is stuff for you, of course.” you showed the nails to the camera. “guys, look at how adorable. is your business name somewhere?”

you turned the package around, spotting the name. “pretty and pressed, that’s so cute. i really like these, thank you so much. okay, rafe’s turn. no more me.” you even rolled your chair back a little, putting the attention on him.

rafe rose a brow, pulling your chair back by the armrest, closer to him this time. “right. . on to the next. .” he grabbed a bigger box with wording on the top. “e.l.f.? it’s not christmas time?”

your head swiveled to look at the box. “no, it’s not. .” rafe shrugged, showing the box to you. “yeah, e.l.f. you know them?”

user no way!! user hello? 😭 user not the christmas elf rafe!

“rafe, this is a makeup brand. that can’t be right. .” you didn’t want to accept another gift on a stream that isn’t even yours! “they have products men can use, skincare stuff. i’m sure that’s for you.” you tried to rationalize.

rafe opened the lid, grabbing the note that lied on top. he read aloud, “‘we heard there was a mystery girl that your chat has been going crazy over! no pressure, just let her know we have some items we think she’d love! love, the e.l.f. team,’” rafe read.

user oh she’s getting pr!!

“baby, this is for you! that’s so cool. this is cool, right? i still don’t know who they are.” rafe tried handing the box to you. instead, you sat still, staring it. “there’s stuff you can use in there, right?” you asked.

rafe looked into the box, shaking his head. “no, this looks like makeup.” he tried handing it over again.

you stammered. “but rafe. . this is really cool, yes, and i’m grateful, but where’s your mail? why do i have so much?”

rafe smiled at your upset face. “because they thought exactly what i did when i first saw you. wanted to buy you things before i even talked to you.”

[lilianne-tarot]

PICK A CARD: How Do People Describe You When You're Not Around? ⋆. 𐙚 ˚

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How to Pick Your Pile: Take a deep breath, clear your mind, and look at the images below. Which one pulls you in the most? Trust your gut! Once you choose the image, The number below your chosen image is your pile. If more than one catches your eye, that just means there’s extra tea for you, go ahead and read both!

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✮⋆˙Pile I

Cards pulled: 9 of swords, 8 of pentacles, the tower, 10 of pentacles, the world,, 4 of wands, leo, pluto and oracle cards.

Okay bestie, sorry to break it to you but most of the people who are talking behind your back are either your hidden enemies disguised as “friends” or people who straight-up hate you  for no reason, but don’t even realise why they do. It’s like "I pretend I don’t care but I DO" energy. Because honestly A lot of this gossip surrounding you is rooted in jealousy. Like, big one. People are out here thinking about you non-stop, watching your moves, side-eyeing your success, and projecting their own insecurities onto you. BUT they wish they had your resilience and sparkle.

And let me tell you, I can see in the spread just how much you’ve been through.I can see how yall have gone through screams major life shattering moments, inner battles, and deep transformation throughout your life, and multiple times. You’ve gone through hell and back, bestie, and you’ve still managed to keep your head high like that and that BURN these people!!! Alsooo, I’m seeing a lot of you are super intuitive. Some of y’all are into spiritual or esoteric stuff like tarot, astrology, ancestral knowledge, mysticism… all that stuff. Whether or not you study it, you just kinda know things, right? You pick up on energy, you sense vibes, and honestly, gossip doesn’t even surprise you anymore because it reaches you one way or another. You people are gifted. 

Pluto also came up in while i was shuffling, which confirms what I’ve been feeling: combined pluto with tower is the same thing, the same energy, actually just doubled for this pile. You’re someone who goes through multiple intense transformations in this lifetime. Destructive, earth-shaking, “everything falls apart so I can rise again” type of transformations. And yes, they come with stress. Yes, they cause breakdowns. But you always rebuild. Stronger. Smarter. Wiser. Yall have my respect for this🫡

And the thing is These tower moments pop up suddenly. Like you’ll be enjoying your life, your peace, and boom, life decides it’s time for a total upgrade. And people around you notice. They see you constantly struggling, facing intense battles, and STILL somehow managing to glow with grace through it all. (And it’s that glow that really gets them. It gets on their nerves, leading to jealousy.) Even if people feel sympathy for your hardships, they can’t help but also feel that little sting of jealousy because... how are you still standing? How are you still hopeful? HOW do you keep moving forward?? It’s your determination and your resilience that people can’t stop obsessing over .

Now let’s talk about these people specifically: A lot of them seem to be from your same field. Maybe they’ve studied the same things, shared the same goals, hobbies, or worked alongside you at some point. It’s giving frenemies in the workplace or old classmates still watching your glow-up from the shadows. They act like they’re your friend, but internally, they’re in competition with you.

Behind your back, it’s stuff like: “Why are they working so hard on that? It’s not gonna work anyway.” “They’re always in trouble.” “What’s wrong with them?” (And like… who gave them the mic??? Because these critiques are coming from the projection palace, not the truth).

Their logic is basically: "If she’s struggling, it must be her fault." And like, EXCUSEEE MEEE??? What they’re not seeing is your softness, your innocence, your unwavering humanity. You keep getting back up, not because it’s easy, but because you’re seen. By the Universe. By God. By something greater. And THAT’S why you keep moving forward 

Some of these people even started on the same path as you. They had the same challenges. The difference? You cried, yes. You struggled, yes. But then? You healed. You looked at your flaws, your pain, your weaknesses, and you got to work.

You climbed that ladder. You earned WHAT you have. Meanwhile, they gave up. They got bitter. And now they’re mad that you didn’t. They’re seeing you succeed and it’s poking every unhealed wound in their ego. And instead of healing, they’re out here gossiping. Sometimes they’ll even praise you, but it’s always laced with a weird vibe. Like: “Oh yeah, she did that… but was it really worth it though?” They try to undermine your success. Make it seem like it was unnecessary. Like you didn’t deserve it. But YOU and I both know, you’ve survived multiple tower moments, and not only did you survive, you transmuted the pain into POWER.

So let them talk, They can whisper all they want, but it won’t change the fact that your comeback story is already legendary. And honestly? You're still just getting started.

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✮⋆˙Pile II

Cards Pulled: 9 of cups, wheel of fortune, 9 of wands, page of wands, sun, aries, and oracle cards

The energy is so specific I feel like I just eavesdropped on a conversation about you. SO FIRST OF ALL, people DO have opinions about you.

Before getting into the reading, I must say, your aura is SO bright. almost like the sun, cuz the sun is the word I'm seeing here. Yellow and orange are all over this place so your aura and your personality is as dazzling as the sun.

Some of y'all might even have fire signs placements, especially Aries.

Okay sooo… people are definitely talking about you, and not just randomly, but mostly out of jealousy. But it’s a complicated kind of jealousy. Because… they also admire you. Yup. It’s not 100% hate, bestie, it’s more like that “I love you but I kinda hate how effortlessly cool you are” type of energy. They’re not jealous of the bad stuff, of course, they’re jealous of all the good. Like, people genuinely think you’re lucky. Blessed. Dare I say… God’s favorite? From an outside perspective, you’re that person who seems to just get what they want. Like, oh, she wants it? It shows up.

Need something? Manifested. Dream job? Relationship? Opportunity? Boom, there it is. And tbh I don’t blame them for being shook. You’ve got this “ powerful manifestor” vibe going on. If you are still not aware of this power then you are missing out on SOOO much!!!!

Some of y’all literally glow with this magnetic and mesmerising energy that feels like magic to others, and people feel lucky just being around you. Like, I’m not even joking, your friends might genuinely believe that your presence brings them luck. You’re basically a walking four-leaf clover with positive energy.

Also, that smile of yours is considered super sweet, bright, and straight-up contagious. I’m seeing that most of you have major extrovert energy and a really positive outlook on life. You radiate this childlike joy, this youthful innocence, and it’s so wholesome and disarming that people just gravitate toward you like bees to honey Honestly, you’re like if Aries was a cupcake: passionate, bold, and impossible to ignore hehe

When you want something, you go for it. You’re not a “maybe” person, you’re a “watch me” person. And even when it comes to love or friendships? If you’re interested in someone, somehow that person ends up interested in you too (TEACH MEEEE). Like, you don’t even have to try that hard! You just exist and suddenly people are like: “Wait… why do I feel so drawn to them??” And that’s what makes others lowkey jealous, you’ve got that effortless charm. That magnetic extroverted spark. You’re a people magnet and people LOVE being around you, because being around you just feels like sunlight. 

BUT one thing people should also know is, you’re not shallow. You’re not out here collecting people’s attention for no reason. You value your peace. You adore your “me time.” You’re deeply connected to your inner world and your worth. Still, being around the right people, your people, lights you UP. It’s like your soul gets recharged when you’re with those who get you. And That’s your kind of therapy. It’s wholesome, it’s joyful, and it brings out your most fulfilled, sparkly self. 

And The people who actually matter, your close friends, your soul tribe, they notice you. They listen. They care. You are NOT ignored by your inner circle. But the others? The outsiders watching you from afar? They think you’re just getting attention for no reason. Like: “Why do people even like her?? Is it just because she’s attractive or lucky or something?” 🙄 (And I’m just like... if THAT’S all it takes, then go touch some grass and work on your self as well.) They’re envious of how you can hold a conversation, how people naturally want to hear your stories, how you always seem to be the interesting one in the group. Even your mundane everyday life becomes gossip material. Like, what?? You’re literally just existing and people are acting like your to-do list is breaking news. They gossip about: Who you talked to, What did you do on a random Tuesday, Where you travelling next, Who your friends are. Like babe… you’re the main character. And you didn’t even ask to be. People just can’t help but talk about you. 

And the energy you bring is not that melancholic one. Nope. It’s the BRIGHT kind. The infectious laughter, sparkle-in-your-eyes, chase-the-sun kind of main character.  Sure, you’ve got your own struggles. (We all do. You're human.) But that joyful, positive aura of yours? It’s the reason people wanna be near you. You’re like a little bee, never staying in one place, always curious, always buzzing around, exploring, living. That freedom you carry, The way you travel, evolve, chase your passions, It makes people jealous AF. (Like… “how is she doing all that AND looking that cute?”) Sometimes the ones who feel ignored in group or real life, who feel like no one listens to them? They bring YOU up. Because talking about you brings attention.

Even your energy, secondhand through gossip, becomes a source of validation for others. Because when people talk about you, even behind your back, it’s because they feel the positivity when your name comes up. And that, my love? That’s power.

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✮⋆˙Pile III

Cards Pulled: 7 of Pentacles, The Lovers Reversed, 7 of Cups Reversed, and 4 of Cups Reversed.

First things first: people think you’re a hard person to read. It’s like they know you’ve got depth, they know a lot is going on in that brain of yours, but they can’t always tell where your head is at. Some might even say you come off as detached, hard to impress, or selective about who you truly engage with. They think you’re the type of person who doesn’t waste time on meaningless connections- that drives some people crazy. With The Lovers Reversed it’s like its “complicated relationships.” Some people describe you as someone who used to be close with them, but isn’t anymore, or they feel like they almost got to know the real you but never quite cracked the code. It’s like you go through these phases where you’re all in with certain people, and then one day? Poof. You’re just... not as available. You change. You grow. And some people are pressed about it. And let’s talk about the 7 of Cups Reversed, because this is hilarious. You know those people who overanalyze everything? The ones who create entire narratives in their heads about situations that probably weren’t that deep? Yeah, those people love to talk about you. They describe you as someone who has “so many options” in life whether that’s in friendships, career, or even relationships. People assume you have more going on than you actually do because you don’t overshare. They confuse your privacy for secrecy which is so funny because half the time, you’re probably just chilling in bed rewatching your comfort show. Now, 4 of Cups Reversed This tells me that people see you as someone who used to hesitate, used to second-guess, but is now moving differently. Maybe you went through a phase where you were unsure of yourself, or people remember you from a time when you weren’t as confident, and now they’re shook by your growth. They describe you as someone who figured out what they want. It’s giving “you snooze, you lose” energy. Some people are even salty that you don’t give them the same access you used to.

Look, dear. You are the one who got away even platonically. They’re lowkey haunted by their last interaction with you, whether it was a convo that didn’t go as expected or just the fact that you outgrew them while they stayed the same. i can see that You’re just not easily impressed by shallow things. You are not an open book, and that frustrates people. The funniest part? Some of the people who describe you in a weirdly intense way are people you barely think about. People describe you as someone who is hard to pin down, constantly evolving, and deeply introspective. Some admire it. Some are shook by it. A few might even wish they still had access to you the way they once did. You’re not the type of person people forget even the ones who act like they don’t care? They care. You make an impact without even trying. And that? That’s power.

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Thank you so much for reading all the way through! I hope my reading resonated with you and that you had a lovely time going through it. If you enjoyed it, please like and reblog, it really means a lot! Let me know which pile you chose; I absolutely love hearing your thoughts and feedback on my readings! If my reading resonated you, you may consider buying my paid reading as it would really help me out ♡

Note: tarot cards provide guidance and possible insights into what could happen based on current energies, thoughts, and actions. the cards can highlight potential paths or outcomes, but they do not fixedly predict the future. this is a general reading so take what resonates!

[woniedarlin]

He listens while you yap

pairings: boyfriend! enhypen x reader | listener x yapper trope

caution: be prepared for their randomness (•‿•)

author's note: This is my first time trying something like this, and I thought, why not switch things up? If you enjoyed it and want more like this, just let me know! Happy reading!

permanent tag list: @sol3chu @chlorinecake @13tter @jung1w0n

HEESEUNG

You explained an article you found earlier and made an especially interesting point. “So, apparently, there’s this theory about how—wait, are you even listening?” you paused mid-sentence then glancing up at Heeseung.

He was just staring at you the entire time.

“Am I talking too much?” you asked, feeling embarrassed. Was he bored? You might have been talking for hours...well, you were.

“I’m sorry,” you added. Feeling guilty.

Heeseung tilted his head slightly. His lips formed a gentle smile that quickly made you feel comfortable. “No, not at all. I’m just listening,” he said gently. “You always have the most interesting things to say.”

You blinked. For a moment, you were caught off guard by his words.. “Really? Because I’m pretty sure I’m just rambling about random stuff half the time.”

He chuckled softly while shaking his head. “Not to me. You make even the most ordinary things sound extraordinary. Like you’re breathing life into them.”

“Come on, that’s a bit much,” you teased though you were shy with his words.

He shook his head slowly. “It’s not. You could talk about the lifespan of jellyfish, and I’d still want to hear every word.”

You laughed. “Seriously? Jellyfish?”

“Yup,” he said with a grin. Heeseung’s eyes crinkling at the corners. “I don’t think you realize how much I enjoy hearing you talk.”

You looked at him for a moment. Your laughter turned into a warmer feeling. “You always know how to make me feel special, right?”

Heeseung smiled more. “I’m just telling the truth. You’re the one who makes everything feel special.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and you couldn’t help but grin. “You’re too good at this, you know. No wonder everyone’s always talking about how sweet you are.”

He lightly shrugged. “Only for you.”

JAY

You plopped down next to Jay on the couch, “Last night, I dreamed I was a bottle of ketchup,” you said, not even glancing at him.

Jay didn’t even look up from what he was doing, though you knew he was listening. “Oh?”

“Yeah. And you were mustard. Which is weird because you’re usually mayonnaise in my dreams.” You said it matter-of-factly.

Jay glanced over at you and gave a small smile. Your boyfriend didn’t even question it anymore.

“Mhm. We were sitting on a picnic table, minding our own business,” you continued, staring blankly ahead. “Then this kid comes over, grabs you, and squeezes you all over a hot dog.”

“Of course,” Jay muttered, his smile still there.

“And then they grabbed me and put me on french fries,” you said, your voice now lighter. “But even though we were on different foods, we ended up on the same plate.”

Jay gave you a soft look. “Of course you did.”

“Yup. It’s like… no matter what, we always end up together,” you said nonchalantly. “Even if we’re on different things, we’ll always end up on the same plate.”

Jay didn’t react much, just looking at you with that same fond smile. “Ketchup and mustard, huh? That’s one way to put it.”

“Yep.” You nodded as if you were completely confident in the analogy. “It’s like fate, you know?”

Jay leaned back. “Fate. Of course. You’re the ketchup, and I’m the mustard.”

“Exactly,” you said, kicking your legs a little. “I mean, I’m obviously the star of the show, but you do make a good sidekick.”

Jay laughed quietly to himself, shaking his head. “You’re the star, hm?”

“Of course,” you said, completely unfazed, “but you still belong next to me.”

“Right,” Jay replied with a small, affectionate smile. “Next to you, always.”

And just like that, he continues to look at you with the same smile as you continue to talk, absolutely in love with you.

JAKE

You were pacing around the room, hands gesturing wildly as you went off about the movie you’d just watched. “And don’t even get me started on the plot twist—like, I saw it coming from a mile away! But, still, how could they—ugh, I can’t wrap my head around it!”

Jake sat on the couch with one arm stretched across the backrest. “Go on, tell me more,” he said, his voice smooth and teasing.

“Okay, but can we talk about that scene? The main character falls—of course—and she’s like, ‘Save yourself!’” You rolled your eyes dramatically. “Like, girl, what? Just get up! Run with your friend! Why are you making it so dramatic?”

“Mhm,” he hummed, clearly holding back a laugh.

You kept going, utterly oblivious to his gaze. “I mean, realistically, if I fall, I’m grabbing your arm and dragging you down with me. We’re both going down. There’s no ‘save yourself’ moment. You’re coming with me.”

Jake chuckled, shaking his head. “Good to know.”

“And the friend?” you continued, throwing your hands up. “She’s just standing there, like, ‘Noooo!’ for too long. Like, hello? Help her up and run!”

Jake leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’d definitely survive in a movie.”

“Oh, absolutely,” you said, pointing at him. “I’m not wasting time with emotional goodbyes. We’re both making it out, or no one is.”

Jake grinned, his voice dropping just slightly. “So, you’d save me?”

You froze for a second before narrowing your eyes. “Obviously. I’d even ensure you didn’t trip in the first place.”

He laughed softly. “And here I was, thinking you’d be the one tripping on purpose just to get me to catch you.”

Your jaw dropped. “I would NOT!”

Jake smirked. “You totally would.”

“I’d be saving both of us!”

“You’re hot,”

You froze. “What?”

“You heard me,” he said.

Of course, he had to flirt.

You crossed your arms tighter, fighting back a smile. “Okay… what? That’s random. You’re distracting me.”

“That’s kind of my thing, isn’t it?” Jake grinned wider, tilting his head. “Admit it, baby.”

You shook your head with a sigh. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” But the way your heart fluttered at his words? You couldn’t deny it.

SUNGHOON

You paced around the room as you got lost in recounting the day. “And I visited my parents today! I missed them so much…it was the best.”

Finally, you stopped mid-stride and turned to face him, hands on your hips. “Okay, are you even listening? Or are you zoning out again?”

You have seen your boyfriend zoning out often, especially in the mornings. You wouldn’t be surprised if today were one of those days.

But he chuckled softly, wanting to assure you. “I’m listening. I always do.”

You tilted your head. “Even when I’m rambling about stuff that’s probably unimportant?”

“Especially then,” he said, his dimples appearing as his smile grew wider. “I like hearing you talk. It makes me happy.”

Your arms crossed, though you couldn’t fight the grin pulling at your lips. “You like when I yap on and on?”

“Not the yapping part,” Sunghoon teased. “It’s the way you’re so happy when you talk. You’re glowing, and I can’t look away.”

That made your cheeks heat up. “I’m just telling you about my day.”

“I know,” he said softly. “But you light up when you talk about the things you love. I could listen to you all day. It’s comforting.”

“Comforting?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow. Oh?

He nodded as his eyes began to soften. “Yeah. It’s like you’re letting me see a part of you no one else does.”

Your lips curved into a smile. “I never thought I’d be comforting while going on about my life.”

Sunghoon’s smile grew. “You’d be surprised.”

SUNOO

“…and I don’t even know why they didn’t just say that in the first place! Would it have been so hard? Honestly…” you trailed off, glancing at Sunoo, watching you with the softest smile.

You blinked. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” he asked, his smile widening.

“Like you’re completely entertained by my nonsense.”

“Because I am,” Sunoo admitted without hesitation. “I love it when you yap.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Yap?”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “You go off about the most random things, and I love it. It’s my favorite background noise.”

You playfully gasped. “Background noise? You’re saying I’m noise?” How dare he?!

“Sweet noise,” he corrected, grinning cheekily. “The kind I never want to tune out.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no hiding the blush on your cheeks. “So you want me to keep going?”

Sunoo nodded eagerly. “Of course! Why do you think I never interrupt you?”

Tilting your head, suspicious. “What if I talk about like….I don’t know... talk about socks?”

He laughed softly. “You don’t realize how cute you are when you get all caught up in your little stories.”

You tried to fight the smile tugging at your lips but gave up quickly. “Fine. But you’re stuck with me talking forever.”

Sunoo’s eyes sparkled. “Lucky me.”

JUNGWON

You were sprawled on the carpet while Jungwon sat next to you, quietly listening with that ever-patient expression.

“…and I don’t get it! Why would you even bring a cat to a grocery store? What’s the cat gonna do? Pick out your produce?” You threw your hands up, exasperated. “Next thing you know, they’ll be pushing their pets in carts like it’s totally normal.”

Jungwon blinked at you. You can see his lips twitching.

You squinted. “You’re holding back a laugh, aren’t you?”

“No,” he said, lips pressed together tightly.

“Yes, you are!” You pointed at him accusingly. “You’re trying so hard not to laugh right now.”

He cracked. His shoulders shook as he let out a small giggle. But then it escalated. His hand flew to his stomach, and he was laughing so hard that he tipped backward.

“HAHAHAHAHA OH MY—AHHHH HA HA HA HA!”

You sat there, wide-eyed. “Is it that funny?”

He nodded, tears forming at the corners of his eyes as he tried to catch his breath. “It’s not even the story! It’s you! You’re so serious about the ridiculous things—AHHH HA HA AHH HAHA—I can’t!”

You crossed your arms, pouting. “I was making a valid point.”

“I know, I know!” Jungwon wheezed, wiping his eyes. “But you looked so offended! Like, personally attacked by the cat in the store.”

“Well, someone had to say it!”

Jungwon shook his head. “You’re too much.”

You huffed. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“Because you love me,” he teased, his laughter finally calming down.

You rolled your eyes but smiled despite yourself. “Maybe.”

“Definitely,” he said, still grinning. “Now, please. Keep going. I need another good laugh.”

NI-KI

You were going on about how your day went, and Ni-ki, leaning against the doorframe, watched you as he kept grinning. He wasn’t saying much but teasing you with every detail you mentioned. “Wow, you don’t stop talking, huh?” Ni-ki said with a smirk.

You raised an eyebrow. You do not want to back down. Especially to him. “I’m just sharing my day, okay? You don’t have to listen if it’s too much.”

“Oh, I’m listening,” Ni-ki said as he stepped forward. “I just didn’t know you had this much to say. You’ve been talking for hours, baby.”

You shot him a look, unfazed. “Oh, please. You know I talk plenty, just not to you.”

Ni-ki chuckled, pushing himself off the doorframe and walking over to you. “I think you talk to me more than you realize. You just don’t want to admit it.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms. “I don’t know about that.”

“Uh-huh. You’re giving me the full lecture today. You can’t hide it,” he teased. “And honestly, I’m enjoying it.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to act indifferent. “Of course you are; you love it when I talk.”

Ni-ki shrugged dramatically. “Guilty as charged. Your yapping is one of my favorite things. Keeps me entertained.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at how easily he could get under your skin, even with his teasing. “Well, I hope you’re ready for more because I’m not stopping anytime soon.”

“Bring it on,” Ni-ki said with a wink, clearly looking forward to hearing all of it.

[wernerherzogs]

some of my fave buddie fics for anon in no particular order! please mind all the ratings, tags, and warnings of these works while browsing:

plot-focused:

about the present series by Amiril

The day of the shooting, Eddie got stuck in a time loop. But that was three months ago. He's completely fine now.

boys, when my baby found me by nondz (pinkjook)

Three months later, things are mostly back to normal.

And then there's an accident.

the city is a jungle and i’m a beast by putanauhere (TRUST ME.)

“There are no wolves in Southern California,” Buck states, another bit of trivia. He just doesn’t know it’s a lie.

The Things All Come and Gone by moodlighting

“I didn’t—it’s not that I couldn’t be alone,” Buck explained, pausing to find the right words. “I just. Wanted to be here.”

I Broke What You Gave Me, But You Kept Giving More by rcdwings

Evan Buckley wakes up without eight years of his memories with some guy named Eddie Diaz on his bedside. Which could mean nothing.

lonely little love dog by littleghost

When the 118 is closed for reconstruction after an earthquake, Buck is a floater for different stations around the city. He tries not to let it get to him. Much.

kerosene by mandolare

He doesn’t— need more of Eddie. This is enough. This is plenty. This is more than anyone else has of him; he can deal with the marrow-deep want that’s begun to choke him every once in a while.

all my little words by youbetsya

Eddie: Did you just send me an email??

Buck: yeah lol

Eddie: Why…

I dont think you’ve ever emailed me actual words before. Just stuff to print when your printer is broken

Buck: did you read it?

Eddie: Not yet

Too busy trying to figure out why the fuck you’re emailing me

Buck: just read it dude 🙄

instructions on not giving up by Wildehack (tyleet)

Eddie gave up in July.

Live and (Don't) Let Die by xylodemon

The guy gets straight to the point, asking, "What do you need?" in a dull, bored voice.

"My best friend is going to die. I want that to… not happen."

"No small feat, bringing back the dead. And it comes at a cost."

It's Eddie. Buck says, "Yes," without a second thought.

good pretender by likeshipsonthesea

“Okay, but what are the rules?”

Ravi stares. “The rules for…?”

“Casual sex.”

Ravi continues to stare. It is 5:39 in the morning.

i can tell just what you want (you don't want to be alone) by Talls

In which Eddie keeps secrets and Buck is incredibly normal and rational and even brave about his reaction to this.

here’s my hand, there’s the itch by signetsealed

"I wasn’t kidding when I said I could talk about Chris all night,” Eddie says. His voice is quiet and close in Buck’s ear. “But that’s not why I called.”

been lost for a while by trysetmeonfire

Eddie's wife has been dead for two weeks. There's a firefighter in bed five. These are not necessarily related facts, but Eddie will have a hard time separating them out, later.

Downward Facing Doggy Style by Survivah

Eddie and Buck pick up a new hobby while Chris is in Texas.

slaughterhouse by kithmet

Eddie announces he’s leaving. Buck, naturally, begins a slow descent to madness.

Choosing Joy 'Verse series by ithilien22

In which Eddie mends fences with Chris, starts something new with Buck, and navigates the complex emotions he has around his parents.

 the sweetest apparition by hyruling

Eddie moves to Texas. Buck keeps accidentally telling people Eddie's dead. It goes about as well as you'd expect.

pluperfect by unreckless

Buck is always good for a ride to the airport. He’s good at lots of things, like being a good friend and goodbyes.

beating the horse by doitgently

Eddie is moving to Texas. Buck finally figures out what he wants.

Burn a bridge, learn how to swim series by WatermelonShots (AvocadosUnderTheEaves)

In which there is some unexpected making out, some pining, one third of an existential crisis and a lot of unhelpful advice. Not necessarily in that order.

you drew stars around my scars by ladieslunching

Someone at the 118 doesn't know how to leave Buck's clipboard alone. Buck would be a lot more upset about it if it didn't bag him the love of his life.

Hot Ghost Problems by ebjameston

The ghost would prefer to go by Buck, if Eddie wouldn’t mind.

ripples all the way down by iriswests

This is the tumultuous road to finding out what Buck truly wants, paved by pebbles.

throw a bone, i’m finally home by fleetinghearts

“Oh, Buck,” Eddie says softly, torn between unbearable fondness and an ache that threatens to crack his breastbone.

when everything's on fire by beartowns

Eddie and Chris move in with Buck after a fire. Buck breaks up with his boyfriend, buys a house with Eddie, and realizes he's in love. In precisely that order.

ice cream before dinner by cloudydaisies

The problem is—well.

Actually, backtrack for a sec. There were a few problems.

Eddie’s got a whole lot of them, lately, and maybe that was The Problem.

Something in the Air (Is Giving Me Bad Ideas) by paramountie

After Christopher comes back from Texas, Eddie makes an important decision: he is not going to blow up his life anymore.

crossed the muddy line by Anonymous

Eddie Diaz is from El Paso, Texas; a fact which accounts for both more and less than he ever expected it to.

the tortured poets department by colonoscopys

The first time Buck touched him, Eddie blew an ambulance up.

still by brewrosemilk

For the first time, Buck longs for a bullet wound to treat. Dirt to dig at. A door to break through. Something. There’s nothing.

somewhere to stand and stay by teaspoon

“What are you doing right now?” Eddie asks. He sounds distracted; Buck can tell immediately that he’s driving.

authentication by v_greyson (greyson)

"Yeah, Eddie picks the guys so I don't make stupid decisions," Buck says, flicking through menus to pick a new racetrack.

The combination of Hen munching peanuts and looking back and forth between them makes Eddie feel like he's a zoo exhibit. Best Friends, captured in the wild, still feral, exhibiting behaviors heretofore unknown to science.

"Well, good luck with - all that," Hen says pointedly to Eddie. She is definitely not talking about the video game.

keeping score by arcanaphora

After getting dumped, Buck is left with two tickets to a weeklong cruise. Eddie steps in to support a friend in need, but complications arise when his friend becomes his fake husband. All's fair in love, war, and trivia.

if i said you could never touch me by marviless*

Eddie pulls back from him with a half-confused, half-concerned furrow in between his eyebrows. “Buck?”

Buck sags against the wall. “Sorry,” he says, wiping the back of his forearm against his forehead in a mixture of frustration and newfound exhaustion. “Sorry.”

Counting Pulses by tinyydancerr*

Eddie Diaz’s life is going great. He’s in therapy, he’s got a great girlfriend, a great kid, his friend is getting married to the woman of his dreams, and his best friend just came out to him.

Now his best friend is dating their new friend.

Things are going great. He promises.

porn-heavy (only a few of these are straight up pwp though):

Feel You Forever by semperama

“Is this…” Eddie meets his eyes again. “Is this new?”

a mess of my creation by Anonymous

They’re in the fucking bunk room. There’s someone snoring in the bed over by the bathroom, a good twenty feet and two beds away, and Buck doesn’t know if it’s Hen or Chimney or Bobby, but they’re in here, they’re asleep, and this is awful, this is so fucking unprofessional and if they get caught they are going straight to HR.

blood in the highs and count the stars by seachanged

“Go on,” Eddie says, nosing into the soft spot under Buck’s jaw.

Buck laughs, a little hysterically. ”You’re not serious.”

look straight ahead if you like it slow by hattalove

“This gets you going, huh?” Eddie grins, propping himself up on his elbows so he can move higher on the bed, reach the pretty pink bow of Buck’s mouth. “Devotion? You being it for me?” He stretches up toward Buck’s ear, whispers: “Monogamy?”

hang me up on your bedroom wall by eddiegettingshot

“You’re going to be a great father someday,” Eddie says eventually, because he’s worse than he used to be and Buck’s reverent eyes make him feel—they just make him feel.

“Eddie, I—”

“You are,” he repeats, firm. “Don’t you think I’d know better than anyone?

buck and eddie's red hot infidelity summer series by cranberrymoons

He’s not thinking about it. He’s not. He’s definitely not.

the moon like a spotlight by dykeries

Three months after Eddie moves to El Paso, Buck comes to visit.

this ecstasy, this forgetfulness of living by glorious_spoon

"You guess," Eddie repeats under his breath, but he sounds amused. He sets the boxes down and kicks the door shut behind him to wind through the chaos of Buck's half packed away kitchen. "You're insane."

love's not a game by thatbuddie (talktothesky)

“So that goal, huh?”

Buck groans, his hands clawing at the sheets beneath him as his toes curl up, the fire that’s been building up inside him for what feels like hours sizzling and uncontrollable in its path through Buck’s body.

i might kiss you on the back of your neck (because it’s christmas time) by sibylsleaves

Five Times Captain Diaz and Recruit Lieutenant Diaz fail to sleep together and one time they do.

would you offer your throat to the wolf with the red roses? by brattybuckley

Evan Buckley is currently on cloud nine. 

Well–

Honey on the Vine by sirencalls

Buck wakes up to an Eddie with stubble for the first time in months and refuses to let a good opportunity to go waste.

lock me down tonight by lecornergirl

Buck tells everyone Eddie talks him into it, but when it comes to Eddie, he’s never needed much convincing.

Mind Blowing Mess by EtoileGarden

"I’d like to have a threesome. I think.” 

“You think?” 

“Yeah,” Taylor eyed him for a moment, and then leaned a little further over the table, her chin in her hand. “Have you ever had one before?”

songs and poems and promises by lesbianrobin

“It’s crazy how different sex is with men,” Buck says, and everyone around him groans.

rodeo queen by okanus

“What’s the saying again? Save a horse…hm, y’know, I don't quite remember the rest of it.” Eddie can’t help the smile curving up the corner of his mouth.

“You’re an asshole,” Buck says, scowling. The tips of his ears are pink.

yes god don't speak by detectivemeer

“You’re staring.”

“What.” Eddie says. “No I’m not.” 

[joons-cinnamon-bun]

Placebo Effect

Summary: Namjoon knows you’re a stubborn human being. (Birds of a feather, and all that.) He’s been with you long enough to know exactly what that looks like—whether you’re fighting for him, against him, or just for the sake of it. (Which, if he’s being honest, might be his favorite.) So when you insist that the so-called aphrodisiac pills are nothing but placebo, he doesn’t really argue. He just gives you little push... Now, that’s not to say he expected you to overdose on them just to prove a point! But you do. Because that’s the kind of person he goes for, apparently. What follows is...messy. Hot. Deasperate. Hilarious. (But only after he makes sure you aren’t going to go into cardiac arrest) word count: almost 12K Genre: Just Smut.  Established relationship. Warnings: Explicit smut scenes. drug use? aphrodisiac use. oral sex. Borderline rough sex. Namjoon is just a tad bit mean. multiple positions. masterlist  author note: i have no words for myself. Thank you @callmenoona25 for the beta✨

taglist: @uniquetravelerone @sexytholland @codeinebelle @annyeongbitch @rpwprpwprpwprw @goldietigers294 @amarawayne @oneshallsmile @ktownshizzle @jimineepaboya @lili-spots @themwordsblog @jub-jub @tryingtotwice @callmenoona25 @angellekookie

You and Namjoon have always gotten along well. Your relationship was built on trust and mutual understanding, underlined by open communication and the uncanny ability to read each other—which, in a way, translated into love. Because he could sense when something was wrong with you and fix it before it took root, the same way you could read the subtle shifts in his voice or expression before he ever said a word.

It worked, because you worked. Not without effort, but with care.

Now, that’s not to say the two of you went without the occasional fight over the years. In fact, you were both incredibly stubborn human beings—it’s just that you were rarely on opposite sides of the problem.

Still, it happened.

Sometimes more serious—arguments about time, priorities, what counted as enough. When one of you carried too much of the weight and the other didn’t notice soon enough. When love didn’t always translate to action. When frustration built up. Not from a lack of affection, and sometimes not even because either of you was at fault. Just from life. Because that’s how life, and relationships, sometimes are.

But you both agreed on one thing: that arguments, when handled right, could bring you closer.

And other times, it was merely for shits and giggles—because how else would the bullheaded get off, if not by ‘winning’ an ‘argument’.

Which is exactly how you ended up in the back of a sex shop in Itaewon , tucked between the flavored lube and glow-in-the-dark condoms, deep in debate with your boyfriend.

“Come on babe,” Namjoon picks up the little box like it’s going to help him prove his point, brows raised. “So you’re telling me this—” he waves it a little, “—does nothing?”

You glance at it. Pink packaging, some cartoon flames, a lot of suspiciously enthusiastic font promising the adventure of a lifetime and a pink kitty cat in the corner.

“Placebo. At best.”

He snorts, reading the label. “It’s got, like... plants. Herbs. Nature’s Viagra. Medicine or whatever.”

You give him a look. “Namjoon. Horny goat weed is not real medicine. That sounds like something a medieval witch made up after a weird dream.”

He grins. “You’re so cynical.”

“I’m realistic,” you say, crossing your arms. “You know what gets me in the mood? Good sleep. Respect. Decent lighting. You.”

Namjoon laughs. “Not... powdered maca root and ashwagandha?”

You roll your eyes. “If plants actually worked like that, don’t you think more people would be out here orgasming after every smoothie?”

He considers that, smirk tugging at his lips “...Honestly, that would explain a lot about your blender phase.”

You smack his arm. “I’m serious. This stuff only works if you think it will. That’s the point. Sugar Pills”

He leans over you, about to drop the box in your little basket, “So you won’t mind if I get them?”

You eye the box hovering over your basket. Make eye contact with the cat, then you eye him. “Are you really gonna spent twenty thousand won just to prove a point?”

Namjoon shrugs, far too pleased with himself. “What’s the point of being in a sex shop if we’re not buying something ridiculous and unnecessary?”

“I thought that’s what you were for,” you mutter, reaching up to snatch the box from him. He laughs, that soft, warm sound that always hits you right in the ribs. But he doesn’t let go.

You tug once. He holds firm.

“Are you going to take them just to prove me wrong?” He challenges, and you immediately arch a brow.

“Let me get this straight,” you say. “You don’t even know what’s in it. You just want to feed me questionable powdered plants on the off chance I’ll get handsy?”

“That’s not the only reason,” he says, smiling as he tugs it back toward himself. “Also, I think it’ll be really funny when you pretend it’s not working and then end up climbing me ten minutes later.”

You scoff. “Please. I’ve climbed you for less.”

He grins. “Exactly. So you won’t be able to prove anything.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re just mad I’m right.”

“And you’re just scared you’re not.”

Your fingers are still wrapped around the box when a store employee strolls by, glancing between the two of you and very obviously pretending not to hear any of it. Namjoon clears his throat. You stifle a giggle.

He lets go first.

“Fine,” you say, tossing the box into the basket. “We’ll try your magic sex dust.”

“Yes!” He does a little victorious fist pump, but you roll your eyes.

“And we’ll be abstaining, just so you eat your words.”

“Hey! No, wait—”Namjoon lunges forward, eyes wide, but you’re already turning on your heel, basket in hand, laughing as you walk towards the cashier.

~~~

You definitely didn’t abstain that night… But you also didn’t take the pills.

Because honestly, you kind of forgot about them the moment you chucked the entire bag into your spare bathroom cupboard. They got lost somewhere beneath bottles of shower gel, shampoo, flavored condoms, and that one lube you’d meant to toss out, because apparently “long-lasting” actually meant “numbing.”

It wasn’t until weeks later that you found the pills again.

There you were, elbow-deep in the cabinet under the sink, fully immersed in your playlist and in full-on cleaning mode, wearing bright yellow latex gloves and halfway through your spring cleaning, when you stumble across the baggie—completely confused.

You pull it out.

Immediately the kitty cat grins at you, still just as smug.

You blink.

Then laugh and reach for your phone to snap a picture and send it to Namjoon. He’s gone for the week, attending some important meeting or other in Busan, and you’ve never been one to hold back from teasing him, even when away.

You: [attached image] Look who I found hiding in the cabinet.

Namjoon 🐨: Oh my god They’ve been there the whole time???

You: Yup. Untouched

Namjoon 🐨: 😭 Betrayed by the pink kitty

You: She died in obscurity. As she deserved.

You smile, still crouched by the cabinet, phone in one gloved hand, the absurd little box in the other. His reply doesn't come for a while, so you go back to your cleaning. Five minutes later, your phone buzzes against the floor.

Namjoon 🐨: Check the date. Maybe they’re still good. Could be fun.

You: You want me to take expired jungle juice pills?

Namjoon 🐨: I want to believe in miracles And horny goat weed 🐐🌿

You can’t help but giggle at that, still you glance at the tiny print on the back of the box, squinting at it as you scrub away at the counter.

You: Expires in two years. So technically, still good. Still useless, but ‘good’.

Namjoon 🐨: Well, that’s reassuring. They should start marketing them as “timeless pleasure” :)

You: More like “timeless disappointment.”

Namjoon 🐨: Nah. I’m imagining you wearing just those gloves, def working for me. 😏

You burst out laughing right there on the bathroom floor. Honestly, you should’ve known he’d be dramatic about it. You should’ve known texting him the picture would start something. Still, you’re grinning as you set the box down next to you, blowing hair from your face before pulling back on one glove with a satisfying snap.

Another message lights up your screen:

Namjoon 🐨: Anyways… What if you took it? For science. 🐐💦

You: I'm blocking you.

Namjoon 🐨: Babe.

you: What do you want?

Namjoon 🐨: You know, for someone so adamant about them being placebo you sure sound scared.

You: I’m not scared. I just have pride. And I’m not giving you the satisfaction.

Namjoon 🐨: So you admit it might work

You: I admit you’re annoying and probably bored out of your mind in Busan.

Namjoon 🐨: Correct. Now send me a pic of you holding the blister. Real submissive and skeptical-like.

You: Absolutely not.

Namjoon 🐨: I’ll send you one tonight. All sweaty and yearning how you like me.

You pause, teeth tugging at your bottom lip.

…Damn him.

You: One photo. You: And only because I look hot in my cleaning gloves.

Namjoon 🐨: 😩😩😩 Thank you, my Queen.

You glance down at the ridiculous box. Then sigh, pull your other glove halfway off with your teeth, and hold it up for a quick, unamused selfie—wearing cleaning clothes, hair unwashed, brow arched, expression flat, pink kitty clearly visible.

You: [image attached]

Namjoon 🐨: Jesus Christ! I’m going to die in this conference room. Do not take the pill while I’m not there to supervise. I can’t be responsible for what happens then.

You: Oh no. You caught me! I was just about to pop one and start humping the mop.

Namjoon 🐨: IT BEGINS!!!

You: Delete my number

Namjoon 🐨: Delete your mop

You cackle, heart light. The ache of missing him doesn’t go away exactly—but it softens. Gets dressed in jokes and affection and emojis typed too fast. Which, honestly, is how it’s always been with you two.

You lean back against the bathroom cabinet, still smiling at your phone.

The pink kitty grins up at you. You glare at it.

“Shut up.” you mutter, shoving it away with your foot.

~~~

You take two.

Because you're certain it won’t do anything.

Because you’ve decided a few hours ago that Namjoon needs to be taught a lesson, for leaving on that trip in the first place. And teasing you with selfies of him in that pretty tailored suit.

Because he’s getting home later tonight, and what better way to be absolutely infuriating, if not by strategic abstinence to prove a point you both forgot about for a couple of weeks?

Because variety is the spice of life?

You even dry swallowed them, like that might somehow prove your superiority over weeds and fungi, and went about making dinner like normal.

Now you’re lying in bed, reading some boring financial book. Freshly showered, shaved and moisturized, dressed in Namjoon’s old t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts. The room still smelling faintly of citrus and laundry detergent from the new sheets you got out.

The box is sitting on your nightstand—staring back at you like it knows.

You don’t feel any different. Not suddenly wild with need. Not mindlessly frenzied. Not even a little tingly.

Just… normal.

You glance at yourself in the dresser mirror once, then again, just to check if your pupils are blown or if you’ve grown devil horns or something. You even do a little test: scroll through your phone and look at Namjoon’s latest selfie—the one he took in his hotel room mirror, shirt collar undone, sleeves rolled, hair still a little messy from the day—and...

Okay.

Okay, yeah, fine. He looks really good. But not mop-humping good. Not climb him like a tree and never come back down good.

...Well, maybe a little.

But that’s not the pills. That’s just him.

You glance at the time again. It's nearly 9 p.m.

His train gets in around 10. He said he’d be home by a quarter past, if traffic’s not a mess.

You took the pills at 7. So you can officially declare yourself victorious.

You: Just so you know I took them. Nothing happened. Just like I said✨

Namjoon 🐨: You WHAT?? Babe I am on a moving train Do not get horny without me >:(

You snort, grinning.

You: Not even a little horny. I feel exactly the same. I’m reading about taxes actually.

Namjoon 🐨: Disappointing but scientifically fascinating Thank you for your sacrifice

You: Thank you for being wrong 💖

Namjoon 🐨: Never. The goat just needs a little time 🐐✨

You roll your eyes.

You: Do you need dinner? Coz you’re not getting anything else from me tonight✨

Namjoon 🐨:Wow wow wow wow so I leave ONE time. Also yes, dinner pls! Something with rice. Or noodles. Or mercy.

You: Oh hush, it's for science. 🐐🔬 can't make you feel good and have you thinking it's the pink cat when we’re done. Udon's on the stove btw.

Namjoon 🐨: And my mercy???

You roll your eyes, toss your phone on the bed, and settle deeper into the pillows picking up your book again. You’re not sure what you were expecting, really. Maybe some strange buzz, or warmth, or at least a little placebo-fueled edge. But all you really feel is—

…Well. Warm.

Okay. Slightly warm.

You frown.

Could be the blanket.

You make a move to shove it off. Nothing changes.

You slap your book closed and sit up, crossing the room to open the window. You stand there for a moment like an idiot, waiting for a gust of wind to shake you back to normal. Nothing…

Still warm.

Your gaze slides to the little pink box.

No. It’s goat parsley and mushrooms. There is absolutely no way that cheap, natural, organic aphrodisiacs could have that kind of effect.

In fact! You’ll prove it.

By finishing the dessert you started making earlier!

Because you are completely fine.

You scrape the bowl of the ice cream maker. Humming to yourself as you drizzle a little condensed milk over top—because Namjoon’s sweet tooth is the stuff of legends. And if he’s going to be a dramatic baby about abstinence, he can at least do it with something cold in his mouth.

The cream’s been sitting in the ice cream maker for an hour already; this is just a little extra step before chucking it in the freezer to set.

Still, the kitchen feels...weirdly muggy.

You look at the AC working overtime in the corner of the room.

And yet, you’re flushed. The back of your neck is damp.

Maybe the apartment is just hot? Maybe you left the stove on?

You shove the ice cream into the freezer so it gets a chance to actually ‘ice‘ by the time he gets home. Then pivot towards the stove, already bracing for the heat of a forgotten burner.

It's off.

The room temperature? Absolutely normal.

You slide the condensed milk into the fridge and grip the counter to regroup. Your heart rate is normal. Your breathing is fine. There’s just a little buzz in your fingertips. A pulse low in your belly. An ache you hadn’t noticed until—

“Oh, come on,” you mutter.

This is so dumb. It’s all in your head. You’re just a little warm because you got up and moved around and your hair’s still damp from the shower and you’re needy because you’ve been staring at Namjoon’s stupid forearms all day. That’s it.

Except.

The moment you straighten up, your heart actually goes erratic in your chest. That makes you do a full stop.

Because this suddenly turned from playful teasing into a possible medical emergency. And that is not how you want to spend your Sunday night—explaining to an ER nurse how you took horny pills to prove a point to your boyfriend.

You press a hand to your sternum, trying to slow your pulse by sheer force of will. Breathe in. Breathe Out.

You stand completely still. Wait. Count your pulse.

One-one-thousand. Two-one-thousand. Three— Jesus.

Okay.

Maybe not dying yet?

You barely make it to the bedroom and you curl up on the edge of the bed, fingers wrapped around your phone, stomach fluttering as you tap out a search:

“Aphrodisiac pill heart attack?”

Your finger hovers over “Search” for a moment, because God, you feel like you’re going to stroke out any second. And then you press.

The results pop up, clinical and boring, but with bullet points at the end.

Headache

Nausea

Temporary erectile dysfunction

Nope. That's not it.

“Viagra can be dangerous for someone with low blood pressure”. But you didn’t take Viagra. And you don't have low blood pressure.

You drop your phone on the mattress beside you with a dull thump and flop back against the pillows. The ceiling fan spins lazily above, doing absolutely nothing to cool your now-feverish skin. You blink up at it, trying to decide whether the weight in your lower abdomen is physical or just deeply, irritatingly psychological.

And then your phone buzzes again.

Namjoon 🐨: You’ve gone quiet. Feeling anything? 😼

You huff an irritated laugh, biting your lip. Your fingers are warm. Your thighs are warmer. You curl them a little tighter together, and immediately you stifle from the pins and needles, heart doing the thumpy thing in your chest.

You: I think I'm dying

Namjoon 🐨: ??? what??? WHAT??? is this a sex thing or a real thing do i need to call someone?

You: I’m serious. I took 2 pills.

That confession feels like an admission of stupidness. Like all your pride and silly games have finally caught up to you and now you’re paying way more than you ever should for being such a petty, stubborn human being.

You bury your face in your hands. You can feel the heat blooming now, licking along your skin in a way that’s… definitely not just psychological anymore. It’s not mental. It’s not the shower. It’s not even Namjoon’s selfie.

It’s all you. It's your stupid plan backfiring in real time.

It’s a kind of horny you didn’t know existed—the clawing at the sheets kind. The Crying to be folded like a lawn chair and have someone rearrange your guts kind. The kind, in which, if Namjoon doesn’t get home soon you’re going to hump furniture and do something unspeakable with the shower head.

Namjoon 🐨: you took another one???

You sigh.

You: No. Both at the same time... I think it’s hitting me full force now.

Namjoon 🐨: WOMAN. NO. Two at the same time? The fuck is wrong with you? 😭😭😭 That is not how aphrodisiacs work. This isn't mario cart. You don’t stack horny mushrooms for boosts. Why are you like this? Is this a cry for help?

You wheeze out a laugh that immediately turns into a groan. Curling tighter into yourself like that might contain the ache pulsing low in your belly —now insistent, beyond needy, humming in your blood like a song with way too much bass.

You: I was trying to prove a point.

Namjoon 🐨: what are you feeling?

You: I'm not sure but google said I have an erectile dysfunction now.

Namjoon 🐨:Please be serious for half a second. Also—i don’t think that’s how that works.

You: Well tell that to my non-existent erection and my rapidly melting brain.

Namjoon 🐨: okay okay okay What are your actual symptoms? Like the real ones How's your heart?! Is your vision okay? Can you stand? Are your thoughts still in full sentences?

You glance toward the ceiling fan again, watching the blades blur into a lazy, hypnotic spin. Your whole body feels like it’s being slow-roasted over an open flame made entirely of Namjoon’s stupid face and rolled-up sleeves. The ache has deepened—thick, steady, wet at the edges—and you swear you can feel your pulse between your legs now.

You can hear it echo in your ears.

You: I'm warm Fuzzy. Tingling . Horny in an itchy way. God Namjoon I'm so fucking wet come hom please :( My pulse is all fluttery I'm still thinking in words. They're just… sluttier now. I think my uterus is vibrating.

You groan. Refusing to read back the utter filth you had to type out. But it's true. Your pajama bottoms are completely ruined. Whatever cute lacy thing you were wearing underneath to tease him turned into your own biggest downfall because now every fabric felt like torture against your skin.

You shift to pull off your shirt but you end up tied up in it somehow, wrestling it for what feels like an eternity as your phone continues to buzz on the bed.

Namjoon 🐨: Good God, woman! I'm in public. Just made direct eye contact with an Ahjumma after reading my uterus is vibrating. Why are you like this?

You finally rip the t-shirt off over your head one triumphant, if breathless, pull, tossing it to the floor. Your skin immediately prickles under the cool air, but it barely lasts a second before your core flares again, the sensation running up your chest and down your thighs at the same time.

You: Honestly??? Unclear.

“Fuck me.” You mutter into the pillow, and you brain is too far gone to even register just how weak your voice is, how ragged your breath is, how you’re desperate to get the now irritating lace off of your chest.

Your whole body has gone into full emergency meltdown and you’re dying in the process.

The phone buzzes again—Namjoon’s name flashing like a lifeline in your haze. But you don’t reach for it right away. Your limbs feel heavy and electric all at once. Every nerve ending alive, skin practically burning where it’s touched.

The cool sheets under you, the lace of your underwear, the bra—none of it brings you any relief. Instead its a raw, itchy fire that crawling across your skin and burrows deeper into your core.

You press your face into the pillow, biting back a pathetic moan you don’t even have the energy to feel embarrassed about. Your breath comes quick and shallow, and your fingers twitch, desperate for something, anything, to ground you.

Namjoon’s next message blinks again.

Namjoon 🐨: okay. I’m texting our driver now telling him to floor it I AM COMING *HOME but also maybe coming? eventually. If i don't pass away on the highway because my girlfriend is sexting me in the weirdest way ever. If my girlfriend doesn't pass away coz she randomly decided to over dose on a Tuesday. 😀

You let out a helpless noise. It’s halfway between a laugh and a whimper, your body too wrung out and wired to know what response is appropriate anymore.

Because the only thing sexier than the sheer panic crawling up your spine, is the fact that he’s still joking through it.

You: Tell him if he hurries he can watch. 🫣 (I'm joking. Plz don’t. I wont be able to look Mr. Cheng in the eye no more.)

Namjoon 🐨: I already can’t look him in the eye and I haven’t said anything!

You shift again—awkward and twitchy, like you can’t settle, because nothing helps. Your thighs are slick and trembling, and your hands are practically useless against the bra clasp. Every time you move, your body lights up like it’s been plugged directly into a wall socket. And still, you can't stop squirming.

Your fingers slip again on the clasp. You whimper in frustration, trying to twist your arm behind your back, but everything is too much—your skin, the stickiness, the stifling lace cutting tight across your chest, pressing uncomfortably against your nipples. You’re burning and dizzy and soaked through, and all your body wants is Namjoon, naked. Now.

And he’s still not home.

You fall forward into the bed with a breathless curse. Legs slick and twitching, the sheet beneath you practically ruined. You shift your hips once, pressing hard against the mattress—just to try to relieve some pressure—and it’s a mistake. You gasp, body jerking, your own movement enough to spark another wave through your cunt. This is pathetic.

You do it again.

Your breath hitches as you drag one palm across your stomach—just below your navel. The muscles there jump under your nail grazing, and you shiver so hard it rattles the bed frame.

The phone buzzes again, but you’re done in, fingers slipping under the fabric, palm flat, desperate to get any semblance of relief.

Your hand shake, your movement clumsy, not at all teasing like usual, not slow and sure like you’re used to. It feels like its the first time all over again, and you have absolutely no fucking idea what you’re trying to do.

But you can’t afford to take your time. Not when every second without his dick in you feels like punishment. Not when every atom in your body is screaming for relief. When all you have is your own useless hand, and the memory of his touch in your head.

You whine when your fingertips brush slick heat, slightly embarrassed and definitely amazed at how wet you actually are. Like, a body shouldn't be able to do that from a pill…okay, two pills. But still. Still. This is criminal. You're actually dripping.

They were supposed to be just plants…

You shift again, arching into your own fingers moving against your clit like it might help, like you might get some traction. But it just makes things worse. Better. Worse.

Your hips jerk once, twice, chasing friction, chasing anything. You don’t even realize you’re grinding down into your palm until you hear yourself—whimpering, bitten off and strangled against your clenched teeth.

The edge is terrifyingly close, too close. Everything is too hot and too moist, every breath scraping like fire down your throat. The lace is digging in where it shouldn’t, soaked through and curling at the seams. Your legs tremble again, useless, and your wrist aches from how tense you are, fingers sliding around.

But none of it matters, because it does absolutely jack shit for you.

The phone buzzes again and you can’t even open your eyes to look at it.

You keep going, sloppily now—dragging the heel of your palm up against your clit, hips stuttering into the motion like your body can’t decide if it wants to run or fall apart.

And when you feel the knot tighten, when the ache coils impossibly low in your belly, when your heart slams against your ribs—

Your thighs snap closed on instinct, your whole body locking up with the pressure—and nothing fucking happens. No release. Just a cruel surge of heat that breaks over you and then hangs there, hovering just out of reach.

“Fuuuck,” you whimper, biting down hard on your lip, trying not to cry. You grind harder, faster, desperate to chase it down, but the second you even start to get close again, it just slips away.

You're broken. You single handedly ruined your entire sex life because you were too stubborn. And now you had to pay by faking orgasms for the rest of your pitiful, miserable, unsatisfied sexless life.

You claw the bra off with a ragged noise, not even caring if you rip it. Tossing it somewhere, maybe at the wall, maybe at the lamp, whatever.

Your nipples stiffen in the air, painfully sensitive. You run your palm over one just to give your other hand a break. But it just adds to the overload.

Your chest stutters, mouth parted in a silent cry as your hand works harder, faster—desperation replacing any rhythm. The slick sounds echo, lewd in the otherwise quiet room, and it only feeds the heat in your veins.

You can’t stop. You don’t want to stop. You’re so close you could taste it—but every time it starts to crest, it dissolves through your fingers, just out of reach.

You bite down on the pillow, trying to muffle another helpless moan. Your fingers are cramped, your thighs trembling like they might give out entirely. But none of it’s enough. Not even close.

You blindly grab at your phone to try and tell him to hurry the fuck up. That you need him. That you’re dying. That this is the single most embarrassing way a person can pass away, and you’d rather not. But texting with only one hand proved to be impossible when deranged, so you ended up recording a half-breathless audio message. Where you’re whimpering more than actually saying human words.

“Joon. I can’t—” you moan. “It won’t work. I need you, i need you, i need—”

Your voice cracks at the end, dissolving into a broken gasp as your hips jerk helplessly into your palm. The phone slips from your hand and thuds to the floor, buzzing once before going still.

Then silence.

Except for your panting. The slick drag of your fingers. The crinkle of sheets beneath your thighs. The occasional weak whimper stolen from between your lips.

And then—

Thud.

The main entrance door.

Footsteps. His keys still jingling in time with his steps.

You barely register it, brain too fogged. But your body reacts anyway—spine arching, breath catching, heart thudding in time with every stomp down the hallway.

“Jesus Christ,” Namjoon breathes when he spots you, framed by the door. His eyes wide and chest heaving, like maybe he ran up the building stairs instead of taking the lift.

“Namjoon” you weep, voice thin and wobbly.

And he’s at the bed, leaning over you, one large hand pressing lightly to your forehead, then to your chest—right over your frantic pulse where a new kind of heat is smouldering. His brows pinch in concern. His palm is cold and grounding, holding you like he’s trying to piece you back together. You lean into him, shuddering, overstimulated and so under-fulfilled that even this feels like it’s too much.

“Please,” you moan.

“Baby,” he mutters, eyes flicking over your clammy skin, your damp thighs, your fingers still circling your clit—to the bruised swell of your lips, your blown, wild eyes. “You’re burning up.”

“I told you,” you rasp, clinging to his wrist like that might do anything for you. “I took two of em’”

“Do you need water?” he asks, pushing the hair clinging to your forehead back.

You’re not even sure what he asked, you just agree.

He nods, already moving—quick but gentle, like he’s afraid you’ll burn away if he’s too rough. You hear the fridge open, the clink of glass, the hum of the water filter, all from where you’re sprawled and wrecked on the bed, trying to finger yourself, chest rising and falling in frantic waves.

By the time he returns, you’re barely upright, slumped against the pillows like that ikea bear, but way less innocent, still looking just as sad.

He grabs your wrist, and you whimper, too weak to fight him, as he cradles the glass to your lips, tilting it carefully.

“Slow,” he warns softly. “Just a sip first.”

You take it—cool water against your tongue, down your throat, grounding in the best way. You gasp as it hits your stomach, then groan, letting your head fall against his chest.

Namjoon strokes your back, the glass now abandoned on the nightstand. “Still fluttery?”

You nod, pupils blown wide. “Is that bad?”

“No,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “Just breathe.”

“I tried that.”

“I know.” He squeezes your sides. “You’re okay.”

You blink fast, chest still rising too quick for comfort. “What if I gave myself a heart attack?”

He grins. “You didn’t.”

“You don’t know that, Namjoon—”

He leans in, presses a kiss to your flushed cheek. “Okay, well, if you did, it’s the sexiest medical emergency I’ve ever seen.”

You groan, and the moment he lets go of you, you plop back into the pillows, covering your face with your arms. “You are not funny.”

“And yet, you’re laughing.” He pushes your arms back, kisses your temple again.

“Stop it,” you mumble, squirming weakly, but you’re grinning now, helpless, wrecked, and delirious, but still grinning.

Namjoon kisses the corner of your mouth this time, then pulls back to study you again. “How are you feeling? Any better?”

You hum, dragging your hands down your face, wiping away some of the droplets of sweat collecting in your hairline. “Like a peach that’s been dropped down the stairs.”

He snorts. “Soft and bruised?”

“Sticky and tragic.”

“Still sweet though.”

You blink at him. “Are you seriously flirting with me while I’m this weak and can’t defend myself?”

“I missed you.” Namjoon hums, shameless. “And it’s not flirting if it’s true.”

You narrow your eyes—or try to. They don’t quite cooperate. “You’re taking advantage of a woman in distress.”

“You took double the dose of aphrodisiac and tried to go full olympic solo before i got home.”

“…Fair.”

He grins. “I’m just trying to help you.”

“By teasing me?!”

“By fucking your brains out.”

You let out a sound—half a laugh, half a moan—before it fizzles into something desperate again. The way he’s looking at you doesn’t help. Steady. Amused. So goddamn calm, while you're soaked and shaking and one more teasing word away from actually dying.

“That is only if you want it,” the smug bastard continues. You can see the glint in his eyes. He even has the audacity to wink at you, his grin slow and unbothered as his thumb brushes along your ribs, “I mean, I wouldn’t want to overstep on your whole abstinence spiel.”

You grab his wrist before he can move. Or try to, at least—you mostly just slap at it with jelly limbs. “Do not dare.”

“You said you made udon, right peach?” He smirks—quiet, low, maddening—and starts to rise from the bed like he’s actually going to leave you there. Like you’re not halfway feral and foaming at the mouth for him. Like the loss of contact doesn’t short-circuit your entire brain.

“You’re not funny!” You make another attempt to grab at him, but just end up weakly smacking at his chest.

He chuckles, like he’s finally found that one merciful bone in his body, and still decided to ruin you.

He moves slowly, rolling his sleeves up his arms, making a show of it like you aren't already delirious with thoughts of him twisting you like a pretzel. If you didn't feel this weak you might consider pouncing on him.

Or strangling him.

His hand finds your knee, gently pushing it open so he can move in between your legs, and just from that, you sob, hips hiking up immediately.

“Oh, fuck,” Namjoon groans, raking a hand through his hair as he drinks you in—topless, aroused and sweaty, legs spread and wet, the lace of your ruined panties stretched taut over your inner thigh. “Baby, you look wrecked.”

“I am.”

Namjoon’s eyes flicker—genuine now, none of the teasing smugness from before. Just focused, reverent. A little wrecked himself. “Fuck. You really weren’t joking huh?”

He exhales through his nose, steadying, and strokes his hand up the inside of your thigh, slow like he’s afraid you’ll break at his touch. And in all honestly? You might.

“This might be the best ‘welcome home gift’ ever.”

Your breath shudders. Your hips twitch toward him again, just as involuntary as the first time.

He swears under his breath again.

“Jesus, woman.”

You whimper. “I told you. It’s—it’s not funny anymore.”

“I’m not laughing,” he says softly, leaning in to kiss your knee. Then again, lower. “I’m just trying to figure out how to undo what you did to yourself without making it worse.”

“You are making it worse!”

“I am?” He trails his lips down your thigh, slow and lazy, voice low and warm. “I haven’t even touched you yet.”

“You have—” You gasp as his breath ghosts over your cunt. “You are touching me now! Namjoon, please, please, please—”

“Oh, now you’re begging?” He murmurs, but there’s nothing cocky in it this time. “Never knew you to be one to stoop so low. You usually just take what you want.” He sits back on his knees to look up at you, fingers smoothing slow up your hips, your waist, as if trying to calm you down from the inside, but only making it worse.

Your eyes flutter shut, the last neuron you have firing off warnings that maybe you should be embarrassed about all of this. Still, your breath trembles under his touch, and every inch of your body is vibrating in time with his palm stroking over your ribs.

“I did try,” you whisper, almost ashamed. “I tried so hard. I—I sent you a voice message.”

Namjoon raises a brow, then huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah. I got it. It’s my new ringtone”

You cover your face with both hands, groaning. “Delete it!”

“Not a chance,” he says, pinching a nipple. “I’m keeping that forever.”

You’re too wrecked to argue, too lost in him to care. He’s everywhere—his weight anchored between your thighs, his scent flooding your senses, his mouth dragging slow, reverent kisses down your stomach. One hand steadies him beside your hip, the other slinks lower… and lower.

You jolt when his fingers graze the soaked fabric between your legs, your breath fluttering.

“God, sweetheart,” he breathes, voice thick. “You’re dripping on the sheets.”

“I do the laundry! I’m allowed.” You try to argue, but it comes out as a weak pant, hips rising with his touch.

His head drops onto your stomach, just for a beat. Like he’s trying to compose himself. But you feel it—his quiet laugh rumbling against your skin—and you whine in protest, embarrassed and turned on in equal measures.

“God, you’re bratty when you’re desperate.” His voice is all amusement and heat, and he punctuates it with another sharp little pinch to your side.

You whine again. His name, stretched and broken, climbing high in your throat. You try to move, to grind against him, but his hands are firm and unmoving, holding you exactly where he wants you.

“Go back to begging,” he murmurs, tasting the way your restraint crumbles.

You don’t. You can’t. You just shake your head and sniffle, blinking back tears you don’t fully understand—raw and stinging, dangerously close to something that feels like overstimulation. Which doesn’t make any sense. He barely touched you. He's only teased.

And still, your body is already coming apart at the seams.

“You’re so mean.”

Namjoon’s fingers press into your hipbones, holding you perfectly still as he leans now, mouth brushing over the damp lace of your panties one last time before dragging them down slowly, watching the fabric reluctantly peel from your skin.

“Yeah, well, you’re a brat.” He says, breath hot against your core. You whimper when the air hits you, and he just shushes you gently, tossing the ruined lace somewhere off the bed. “Fuck, you’re soaked. You’re—Jesus, baby, you’re quite the view.”

You can’t even answer. You can barely keep your eyes open. Your vision blurs with heat, and you sob when his thumb finally presses against your clit, like its exactly what you needed.

You jerk, crying out, hands flying to his forearm like you’re afraid he’ll pull away.

“Ohhh, baby,” he breathes, stroking soft, slow circles with maddening care. “You really fucked yourself up, didn’t you?”

“I couldn’t—I needed—” Your words disintegrate into gasps as he slides two fingers through your folds, just barely pressing in before pulling out again, spreading your slick up to your clit and back down.“I can’t come. I tried. I—I couldn’t. I think I broke myself.”

His eyes drop to your core, swollen, to his fingers, soaked in you and glistening under the soft light, and smirks.

“No, baby,” he reassures, “You just need me.”

And finally, finally, finally, he presses the tip of his tongue along your pussy in a slow, deliberate stroke.

Your entire body arches. The sound that comes out of you is closer to a sob than a moan, raw and full of relief.

Namjoon groans low in his throat, lapping at you again like he’s starving, like he’s been waiting for this just as long, just as desperately. He flattens his tongue and drags it up from your entrance to your clit in one long, sinful stroke before closing his lips around it and sucking—just once, gently.

And you’re gone.

It hits like lightning. Your hips jackknife off the bed, a guttural cry ripping from your chest. Raw, helpless release that hits too fast and too hard and leaves you shaking like an earthquake.

Namjoon stills. Eyes wide. “Holy fucking shit. You just—” He looks down, at your cunt clenching around nothing, and then back at your face. “That was instant.”

You hiccup. “Told you I was stuck.”

He swears again, softer this time, watching you twitch through the aftershocks.

And then, instead of retreating, instead of being a good loving boyfriend, he ducks right back down like a menace. Except, this time, there’s no more teasing.

He locks his arms under your thighs, pulling you down the bed, anchoring you against his mouth like he’s intent on undoing every second of frustration you’ve ever suffered. His lips wrap around your clit, firmer now, more purposeful, while his tongue strokes in relentless, perfect circles.

Your scream catches in your throat. Your hand flies to his hair, fingers curling in tight, and he groans when you tug—deep and rough, the sound vibrating through you like a second mouth on your skin.

“Joon—” you gasp, the edge of another orgasm already boiling in your belly, coiled so tight it’s almost painful. “Too much! Too fast—”

“You can take it,” he growls against you, voice gravel-thick and dark with want.

He dips his mouth to your entrance, sucks hard—uses his fingers to push your release onto his tongue like he’s a man starved. Like he can’t get enough. Like he’s about to very willingly ruin you.

And it’s nothing he hasn’t done before. Not some new technique or secret code that promises to have any woman cumming in five minutes or less.

But right now, it feels completely new, raw and min-blowingly overwhelming.

And still not enough.

Maybe it’s the pills—amped up arousal turned to lightning under your skin, pulsing hot and endless through your nervous system. Maybe it’s the week long build-up, the nights of cold showers and dirty photos, whispering dirty things into the phone speaker because he left for that stupid fucking meeting.

Or maybe it’s just him.

The way he knows your body. The way he listens. How he adjusts his pace every time you flinch, how he flattens his tongue and grinds it just right against you when your hips twitch in that telltale way.

Either way, you’re begging.

“More! More! Don't stop! Namjoon. Don't fucking—” Your voice is foreign. So are the words, but still they leave your lips like a chant and a prayer wrapped in one.

And god—god—he’s thorough. He doesn’t stop when you cry out, doesn’t even slow down when your thighs start squeezing his head. He just wraps his arms tighter around your thighs and keeps going, lapping up everything you give him like he earned it, like he deserves it, like he’s missed it too.

“Nam-Namjoon!” You gasp again, already screaming through your next orgasm, “Fuck. Fuck, fuck. I can’t—”

It’s brutal, this one. Fiercer than the first. Your nails dig into his scalp and he moans, devouring you through the quake of it, never letting up. He doesn’t stop when you come again. Doesn’t stop when your body twitches and tries to wriggle away. Doesn’t stop when you cry out, wrecked and trembling and unable to think.

“Yes, you can,” he says, dragging his mouth up your body, voice rough and gleaming with pride. His lips shine. His chin soaked. His cheeks are flushed. He looks wrecked, like he’s the one who’s been fucked senseless. “You did, actually.”

Your head drops back against the pillow, tears streaking hot down your cheeks now. Your legs won’t stop shaking. Your breath won’t even out. Every inch of you is flushed and trembling, heartbeat thudding so hard in your ears it’s all you can hear.

“Okay,” Namjoon murmurs, catching your face in his hands. He leans in, kisses your temple, your cheek, the corners of your mouth like he remembered he might like having his girlfriend alive. “Okay, baby. Shhh. Breathe.”

You try. You do. But he's still pressed between your thighs, hard and aching and fully dressed with another stupid tailored suit. While you lie there bare and wrecked and dying. And his voice—good sweet god his voice.

“Too much,” you whimper, but it’s a lie and he knows it, because the very next thing that leaves your mouth is a whimpered “Namjoon. My baby. Love. Please. Please fuck me. Thoroughly. Hard. Now.”

He closes his eyes. Breathes once, slow and deep.

“Say it again.”

You don’t hesitate. You’re past shame. Past pride. Past whatever you ever had against begging and drag his face to yours. Wild eyes meeting his.

“I need you to fuck me.”

And you make sure to accentuate every word, on the off chance he might feel funny again and decide to actually put you in a grave early.

“God. I might need to record you.”

There it is. Bastard.

Still, he sits up, long enough to strip. His shirt goes first, buttons half undone and the rest dragged overhead, tossed somewhere blindly. His pants come next, revealing the line of his body in full. His broad chest flushed and heavy, abs flexing with restraint, cock hard and heavy and angry red where it juts out against his stomach. Your mouth waters at the sight of it.

Of him actually.

At the way his hand wraps tight around the base like he’s barely holding himself back.

He strokes once, slow and deliberate, watching the way you clench around absolutely nothing and cry out. All high and wrecked and already too close to the edge again.

It’s humiliating how little it takes, how just seeing him undo himself make your thighs fall open like a reflex, like muscle memory. Lizard brain.

“Fuck.” Namjoon breathes. “You’re still shaking.”

“Yes! I know.” You whisper, hips titling up, offering everything, desperate and unashamed. “Please, baby, please. I need you.”

Your single brain-cell had just one thought left and it was ‘fuck namjoon’. In all senses of the word.

And maybe he hears it, because he doesn't make you wait anymore.

One hand slides behind your knee, and he drags you to the end of the bed, hitching it high around his waist as he sinks into you slow, and deep, the stretch borderline sinful. He groans low in his throat, a rugged thing, like even he can’t believe how wet and tight the pills got you.

Your mouth falls open, no sound escaping at first. Just the raw stretch, the fullness of it, the dizzy pressure as he bottoms out in one long, shuddering thrust. The burn is instant, bright and devastating, but you chase it, legs locking tighter around him, hips lifting off the bed, like he’s the only anchor left on earth.

“Shit,” Namjoon groans, low and stunned. “You’re—god, you’re gripping me.”

“I can’t.” You pant, nails digging into the sheets, “Joon, I can’t—I’m gonna—”

“You can,” He laughs, pressing into you, grabbing the arch of your spine to keep you from falling, the weight of him glorious and crushing and perfect. “I’ve got you. I’ll fix you. Just hold on.”

And then he moves, drags out of you with aching slowness, just enough to make you feel every ridge, every vein, every impossibly thick inch—before slamming back in. The slap of skin on skin echoing sharp in the room. The bed jerks. You do too.

“Jesus, baby,” he grits. “You’re—fuck—you’re so tight.” And he pauses just as fast. “Fuck. Look at that.” He mutters it like he’s half-cursing, half-worshiping, his palm pressing flat against your lower belly.

“Right there,” he whispers, voice tight with awe as he rocks his hips forward just enough to feel the weight of him push back against his own hand in this position. “You feel me? Right there, baby—so fucking deep.”

You whimper, nodding frantically, hips twitching beneath him. You feel impossibly full, stretched and trembling, every inch of your body slick with sweat and burning with a passion. “Don’t do that now!” You gasp, trying to push him away. “God—Joon, I feel you everywhere.”

He gives you a dopey grin, all dimples and dark intent, like he’s proud of himself for figuring it out. Then he moves, just slightly. A lazy roll of his hips, enough to make you jolt, breath catching as heat coils tight and sharp at the base of your spine.

You whimper, all nerves and no shame, because he’s right. You’re too wound up to make sense of anything anymore. All you know is the ache, the pressure, the stretch of him inside you.

Your nails dig into the mattress as he fucks you open, slow and hard, his hips grinding at the end of each thrust to press just right against every oversensitive spot inside you.

You can’t even speak anymore—only moan, only hold on. You even lost the ability to hold yourself up properly. It’s all him. He keeps you there, hitched up with strong veiny arm under your ribs and ridiculous forearms and muscle groups you don't remember the name of.

You're not even sure what part of you is trembling anymore. Just that he hasn’t stopped and you never want him to. Not when it feels like this. Not when he sounds like that—all low and breathless, half whispering praises and swearwords above you like he’s that close to getting overwhelmed too.

“Every time I move,” he pants, “I feel you pulling—fuck—it’s like your body’s trying to keep me inside.”

You cry out at that, broken, overwhelmed, your hands scrambling for something to hold onto. Fingertips clutching at his forearms, his shoulders, whatever you could reach, nails dragging across skin like you’re trying to anchor yourself to him. And his fucking hand moves again, right there over your belly, driving you absolutely up the walls.

He watches you with heat in his eyes, then leans in, pressing his lips to yours—sloppy, desperate, as if he needs it just as badly. His voice ragged against your lips, threading between thrusts. “That’s it. Let go. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”

And sweet heaven on earth, his mouth is hot, sweet, and familiar. Exactly what you needed. The very thing that shatters you. The way he tastes like something you’d forgotten you were starving for.

You missed this.

You missed him.

And fuck him for only kissing you now.

He fucks you right through your nth orgasm, hips grinding into yours, a thick ring of cum at the base of his cock as he works you into complete, obliterated bliss. Up until he can’t move anymore. Until your body clenches too tight around him. He just groans, caught between holding on and falling apart right there with you.

You’re no longer able to say words. Just syllables that's merely semblance of his name, strung together like a mantra you can’t stop repeating.

And somehow, you’re still begging him for more.

Even though your thighs are dough. Even through your body feels like it’s been torn open and rebuilt around him. Even through every stroke now feels like too much. Too sharp, too good, too deep. You still want it.

Need it.

He pulls back just enough to look at your face. His brow is damp, jaw clenched, eyes wild as he makes sure you’re okay, before going right back at it. “Yeah? you want more?”

You nod so fast it’s practically a sob, mouth falling open like a fish out of water as he drags out just enough to make you feel empty, before slamming back in.

He cusses once you tighten around him again, your pleasure a constant build you no longer have the mind to announce now. What’s the point when you’re constantly there?

But he feels it. The way you twitch, the way you babble his name and trash against the mattress like you’re trying to hold on and let go at the same time.

And this asshole, this absolute jerk, this mean, mean, mean man you love leads you back to the edge, and then pulls away at the last second, completely ruining your orgasm.

You scream—raw, desperate, tears spilling hot and uncontrolled as your voice cracks into broken sobs. “Nooooo—“

But Namjoon smirks, breath ragged, chest damp with sweat, his hands already gripping your hips tight. “C’mon,” he rasps, flipping you with so much ease it makes your head spin. “You wanted this. You asked for this, remember?”

You're too fucked to react. Too dizzy to register just what he’s doing, or when he’s shifting, dragging you along with him.

You’re on top now, straddling him—but you’re trembling, useless, barely able to hold yourself upright. Your thighs are sodden and weak, your arms shaking as you try to brace on his chest, the last thread of control slipping away.

“Go on then,” he says, teasing but tender, watching you through lidded eyes. “Ride me.”

You try. You do. But it’s pathetic—your knees buckle, your hips twitch uselessly forward, and you let out this pitiful, breathless sound of defeat before your upperbody decides to go boneless and melt into his.

Namjoon groans. “Jesus, woman.” He sits up, pulling you in until your chest presses to his, his hands splayed wide across your back. “You really are gone, huh?”

“Baby,” you whimper, helpless. “Please. I can’t—”

He silences you with a tender kiss to the temple, all sweet and soft—then suddenly, without warning, he trusts up into you with a force that knocks the air out of your lungs.

You jolt, hands scrambling uselessly at his shoulders as your entire body clenches down around him. “Fuck! Namjoon!”

His mouth is at your ear now, hot and panting, voice shredded. “Look at you. Taking all of me like you were made for it.”

You can’t do anything but cling, legs barely hooked around his waist as he fucks you—deep and hard, using the leverage of his arms wrapped tight around your back to keep you in place, chest pressed flush to his.

“J-Joon—” you sob, no longer even pretending to participate. You’re just there… held up entirely by this man.

“I got you,” he grits, pace stuttering only slightly as you clamp down again. “Shit—fuck, I got you.” He moans, before shifting, “Just—”

And then he groans low in his throat and pushes you back. You don’t have half the brain to even brace yourself. You just flop. Legs still spread, arms flopping weakly at your sides, a total wreck as he stays inside, braced over you on trembling forearms.

You can’t think. You can’t move. You’re just…open. Shaking. Flattened against the sheets and panting— barely the shadow of the woman you once were.

Your body’s twitching, over stimulated and overwhelmed, but he’s too far gone now—his thrusts hard, measured, brutal in how slow they are.

“You begged for it,” he reminds you, voice dark and tight, his hips grinding in deep until you cry out again. “You said please and everything, remember?”

You nod—or try to—but your mind’s gone syrupy and mushy, melting under him.

Tears are collecting at your temples. That lingering ache in your belly still humming, the knot in your absomen barely giving, and you’re just as overheated as you remember.

And truth be told, it’s only his relentless teasing that kept you tethered, stopped you from completely losing it and passing out half-way.

Even if he is impossibly evil for it.

Though, you’re pretty sure you’ve disconnected from reality. At least a little bit. Long enough for him to reposition you again.

Before you can process it, your face is buried in the pillows, and his hands are on your hips, lifting your ass up, just so—but you slide back down.

You hear his laugh—low and breathless, completely undone. “Fuck, baby,” he pants, dragging a hand down your back. “Still with me?”

You can’t even answer. Don’t even bother. You’re drooling into the pillow, arms sprawled out limply, trembling all over. The only sound you manage is a whimper when he shifts behind you—lining himself up again, one hand steady on your hip, the other gripping the back of your thigh to hitch it higher.

“Can’t even hold yourself up anymore,” he mutters, not even teasing now—just wrecked, amazed. “You’re so fucked-out I could do anything I want.”

And he does.

He sinks in again, thick and slow, watching the way your back arches for him, the way your whole body breaks down into shivers. You twitch around him the moment he bottoms out, another ragged cry punching out of your lungs.

“Still so tight,” he groans, thrusting once, then again, and again, each stroke pushing you further into the mattress. “And so wet.” He says it like it’s a compliment. “Baby, you’re—shit—you’re dripping down my thighs.”

You sob into the pillow, thighs trembling as your body gives out completely, splayed and helpless and used. “C-can’t,” you gasp. “Too much, Joon—”

Or you think you do, because he never responds, he just grinds in deep, not giving you a second of peace.

“Last one. I promise.”

His hand slides under your belly, palm flat against the tremble of your skin—holding you up, holding you still—as he fucks into you, deep and mean and unrelenting. His chest is plastered to your back now, breath hot against your neck, lips brushing your ear every time he exhales.

“You can do that, right?” He challenges, voice hoarse but somehow still fond.

You move—barely. It’s pathetic. You’re wrecked, ruined, a soaked mess beneath him. But you manage a broken little noise, somewhere between a whimper and a sob.

He chuckles—low, rough, breathless. “Good girl.”

Your fingers twitch where they’re splayed against the sheets. Your mouth is open but no sounds come now. Just air. Just heat. Just the slick drag of him inside you, thick and relentless and perfect.

And then his fingers find your clit.

You scream—a raw, cracked sound that rips through your throat like your body doesn’t know how else to respond. You’re already right there, already fluttering and gasping and barely conscious—and still he circles it, slow and cruel, groaning when your walls clamp around him again.

“That’s it,” he pants, almost shocked at how hard you come. “Fuck, baby, you’re squeezing the life out of me.”

You spasm beneath him, legs kicking uselessly, toes curling, nails scraping weakly at the sheets. You don’t even feel the tears anymore. You just shatter.

And Namjoon—God, Namjoon—he doesn’t stop. He presses you down, one hand on your back, the other still working your clit, chasing his own high now as you whimper through the aftershocks.

He groans when he feels you weakly squeeze him, each trust growing more desperate than the other, like he’s finally arrived at the end of his sanity. And you feel everything.

Every pulse, every drag, every wet, filthy sound your bodies make when crashing together—he stutters, slams in deep, and stays there, groaning raggedly into your shoulder as he finally lets go.

It’s hot. It’s deep. It’s endless.

You died and went to heaven.

Heaven is sticky and salty and dripping down the back of your thighs. Heaven is you squeezing the life out of him and milking him dry him. It's the rugged cry that sounds like you stole it straight from his chest.

It’s the way his arms wrap around you and hold you close to him, like he can’t bear the thought of being even an inch away from you.

And when he finally stills, he collapses forward to bury his face in the mess of your hair.

“You alive?” He mumbles, voice gone.

You think you nod.

Eventually.

Maybe.

Namjoon laughs again—barely breath, barely sound. Just a puff of warmth against your shoulder as he kisses the curve of it, soft now, reverent.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “You’re alive.”

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move. Just stays there, draped over your back, one arm tucked underneath you to hold you close, the other smoothing over your side like he’s grounding both of you. His thumb strokes idle patterns into the sweat-slick curve of your hip.

You twitch, and he stills instantly.

“Too much?”

Your body jerks in response—maybe a whine, maybe a shiver. Maybe both.

“Okay, okay,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss to your spine. “I’m sorry. I’ve got you.”

He eases out slow, careful, whispering quiet apologies into your skin when you whimper at the stretch. You feel the wet slide of him between your thighs, the obscene mess cooling against your skin—and then the weight of the bed shifting as he finally pulls away.

“I’m gonna clean you up, alright?” He says, already reaching for tissues or a towel or whatever he can find, voice hushed like he’s afraid to scare you off the edge of consciousness.

You groan in response, more of a gurgle, face still mushed into the pillow.

He huffs a soft, fond breath. “You’re gonna kill me one of these days.”

You don’t even have the strength to smirk. But maybe, just maybe, you manage to reach for him blindly with one hand—fingers curling in the direction you think he is.

And he catches it immediately.

“Got you,” he says again, like a promise. Like a fact. Like he always will, kissing your knuckles.

When he returns to wipe between your thighs, he’s almost maddeningly gentle. You flinch at first—overstimulated, sore, still twitching—but he hushes you softly, kisses your temple, and takes his time.

Eventually, after an entire lifetime, you find your voice again. Cracked. Shaky. Thread-thin.

“Joon?”

“Mm?”

“I will kill you.”

He snorts. “Yeah. I’ll browse for coffins in a bit. Right after I hydrate you and carry your limp ass to the shower.”

You open one eye. Just barely. “You broke my legs.”

“You asked me to.”

You try to scowl. Fail. “I was delirious.”

Namjoon just grins, dimples flashing as he leans in to kiss your forehead, sweaty and salt-warm.

“You were beautiful,” he murmurs, mouth still pressed to your skin. “You still are.”

And somehow—somehow—you manage to smile. Even if you’re still lying there like a starfish. Even if your brain’s mush and your thighs ache and your lungs don't remember how to work.

Namjoon doesn’t rush you.

He could. He’s already done unspeakable things with his mouth, his hands, his cock—but now, he moves like he’s afraid the whole moment might shatter if he breathes wrong. Like he’s suddenly remembering you’re human. Fragile. Made of muscle and bone and too-soft fucked-out nerve endings.

You feel the warm weight of him between your legs again. One hand cups the back of your thigh, gently easing it to the side to clean you better.

You groan faintly, half-protest, half-exhausted praise. “You’re… thank you.”

Namjoon’s hand stills. Just for a moment.

Then it’s on your hip, firm and grounding, his thumb pressing lightly into your skin like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

He leans in, voice lower now, rougher with something that sounds suspiciously close to adoration. “You’re welcome, baby.” He lets his breath go shaky through his nose. “You should’ve seen yourself.”

“I felt myself.” You mutter, cheek still mushed into the pillow. “I felt you too. Every inch. Repeatedly.”

A breath of laughter stirs your hair.

Then, quietly, “You scare the shit out of me sometimes.”

You hum. “I scared the shit out of me too this time.” Then you shift, painfully sore, just enough to meet his eyes. “I’m never arguing with you ever again. You’re right.”

“About what?”

“Whatever you like,” you mutter.

He huffs, soft and stunned, his expression somewhere between pride and disbelief (because he knows who he’s dating, afterall).

“Oh yeah?” He murmurs, brushing your hair back from your damp cheeks. “That’s all it took? A few orgasms and a psychological rewrite?”

“So many orgasms,” you groan. “I think II saw God.”

“Pretty sure it was me.”

“Shut up.”

You try to glare at him. You really do. But your face is too slack with afterglow and your body’s too wrung out to hold any expression. It melts halfway, leaves you grinning against your will, all content and defeated.

Namjoon watches you like he’s trying to soak you in. Memorizing you like this—pliant and undone but still cracking jokes, still sharp underneath all the softness. His thumb traces the line of your ribs, warm and slow.

“C’mon. Bath time.”

“No. I don’t have legs.”

Namjoon laughs—really laughs, breath hitching with the kind of post-sex giddiness that only comes when you’re both totally, utterly wrecked. “I’m well aware,” he says, tossing the towel somewhere vaguely behind him. “That was kind of the point.”

You grumble something unintelligible into the pillow, but he’s already sliding one arm under your knees and the other around your back. And when he lifts you—limp, boneless, ruined—you let out a tiny, pathetic squeak.

“Oh my god,” you gasp. “You’re just rubbing it in now.”

“You love it,” Namjoon says, smug as hell, voice all syrupy and fond as he cradles you against his chest.

“I hate it,” you whisper, face burrowed into his shoulder like you haven’t just been absolutely desecrated.

“Sure.” He presses a kiss into your hair. “That’s not what you were screaming twenty minutes ago.”

And he doesn't stop smiling, not even when your head lolls against his shoulder and you pretend to bite him. You don't have the energy to commit to it though, not really. He laughs anyway, smug and a little breathless.

You feel it in his chest, under your cheek. The way it rumbles. Warm and content.

You grumble something that might be fuck off, but it’s lost in the thick haze of goat weed and whatever catastrophic chemical cocktail he’s left wrecking your bloodstream.

He carries you with irritating ease, like you don’t weigh a thing. Like he didn’t just demolish you in every position except missionary, and maybe even invented a few new ones in the process.

Namjoon pushes open the bathroom door with his foot, flicks the light on with his elbow, and sets you down on the counter like some fragile, sacred thing. His eyes scan your face, still glazed and heavy-lidded, and then flick to your chest—rising a little steadier now. You can tell he's checking. Again. Like he’s memorizing your pulse just in case you decide to have a random cardiac arrest.

“I’m fine,” you mutter, but your voice is still slurred and cotton-soft. “You broke my back, not my heart.”

He gives you a look. Stern. Fond. “You sure?”

You nod, and then wince, because apparently nodding also uses a muscle group he absolutely obliterated earlier.

He swears under his breath—affectionate, worried—but still laughs at your pain. Because you deserve it. Because he knows you know you deserve it.

He gently cradles the back of your head with one hand, steadying you like you might just tip over from a particularly sharp exhale. “You're a menace,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss your forehead, slow and deliberate. “A very sexy, very broken minx.”

You hum, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re the one who overdid it. I was just a passenger on this ride.”

Namjoon scoffs. “You brought us here.”

“Under the influence,” you mumble.

He huffs a laugh through his nose and turns on the faucet, letting the tub fill while adjusting the water temperature with the practiced ease of someone who’s done this for you before. His bare back moves with every reach, broad and golden under the soft bathroom lights, and you take a moment to shamelessly ogle him through your post-orgasm haze.

“I can feel you looking at me.”

“You’re pretty,” you say, unapologetic, cheek pressed against the mirror. “I missed you.”

Namjoon glances at you over his shoulder, hair tousled and lips still pink from everything he’s done to you. He narrows his eyes playfully. “You’re not allowed to be horny again.”

“I’m not,” you lie, blatantly. “I’m just admiring my choices.”

“Which ones? Overdosing on aphrodisiacs?”

You hum. “No. The one where I decided you’re taking them tomorrow. You’re a big boy—you can handle it without the risk of heart failure.”

He laughs and shakes his head as he walks back to you. “Don’t say shit like that unless you want round…whatever the fuck we’re on.”

Your lips tilt up. Your body is beyond wrecked, but your mushy brain? Already plotting the comeback as he steps between your knees again, hands settling on your thighs like he’s already forgotten about the bath.

“I’m just saying,” you murmur, feigning innocence “I need to bring some balance back in this relationship.”

“Are you saying you want to ruin me, baby?” he murmurs, dragging his palms up, thumbs tracing the bruises blooming on your hips.

You grin, teeth flashing. “No, I’m saying I will.”

“Dear god help me.”

“I will, baby. Don’t worry.”

[thecorefrisk]

Tw: for pseudo-incest, yandere batfam x reader, nsfw talk, I’m talking about DICKS babe, things of that nature.

This post is inspired by the lovely series made by a wonderful writer that I believe is called ‘Oh my god, who wrote this?’ Or something along those lines. (It’s basically a fanfic about how the reader finds out there are fanfics written about them. Fanfics about them with Gotham’s vigilantes and possibly outside of Gotham. Don’t remember if or if not.

The same vigilantes… that are technically their siblings. The reader doesn’t really see themselves as a part of the family since they’re not exactly the most inclusive when it comes to them. The general neglected reader stuff.)

But anyways. I love when writers make Tim a freak. Like an actual FREAK. Because I love writing him like that.

Like, yes girl he WOULD write fanfic you are so correct.

But that series got me thinking. Where would the attraction from the batfam towards the x reader even have come from? And how would they have realized it?

And then I got this image of Dick having stumbled upon one of the fanfics involving him and the reader, brushing off any arousal he might or might not feel/register, he goes to bed thinking that he’s fine… then he wakes up with a start because he just had a wet dream. About the reader.

And I don’t think he would be one of the ones that walks around afterwards shameless. He’s avoiding eye contact, moving away from even slight brushes, laughing stiffly.

…But it doesn’t mean he doesn’t later go back to the fic he read to see if there are similar ones.

Because maybe the author managed to hit all the right notes. Maybe he found out things about himself while reading it.

And maybe he’s now starting to see the reader differently because of it.

(Imagine Tim was the one to write the fanfic lol.)

I, personally, like when Dick views the reader as something sweet and innocent and cute— even when the reader isn’t. In a rose tinted glasses sort of way. He views us as something fragile and delicate even when he witnesses us, like, beat someone up or something.

Like, yes, Dick they are a gentle creature even though they’re wanted in seventeen different countries. (Like his shame is making him delusional about how ‘virtuous’ we actually are.)

I would love to write about that guilt and shame. Especially if the reader was perceived to also be religious or in any way someone who would abstain from sexual or generally ‘bad’ things??

Omg did I just give him a corruption kink. I might’ve. That’s fun.

(Just imagine the flashes throughout the day. Glancing over to the reader only to be hit full force by a scene pulled straight from his dream in which he had them pleading for mercy over his knee or whimpering a soft ‘I’m yours’ as they look up with big eyes. And then he’s knocked back into reality by the sound of a plate being set down onto the wooden table and he remembers he’s literally at breakfast.)

Also, can you imagine Tim as an ao3 writer?? ‘Sorry this was late, I lost my spleen.’ Or some shit like that.

If we’re going by freak types then Tim is an ao3 writer who used to read a lot on Wattpad (specifically those billionaire ones). And I want to make Jason a booktok girlie…

[moonstruckme]

hi, i was wondering if for the new girl au you could write about reader going on a date? maybe the tinder thing worked and all the boys are fussing over her before she goes, and remus feels strangely protective of her but is too oblivious to know why? if not all good <333

Thank you for requesting angel!

cw: some french slander (mostly to fuck with Sirius)

Who’s That Girl AU

roommate!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.4k words

You want to go straight to your room upon entering the flat, but first you need a snack. This is somewhat of a calculated sacrifice, because your whole way to the kitchen your flatmates stare at you like a zoo animal let out of its enclosure. Sirius has muted their film. 

“So,” says James after a moment, drawing out the o, “how was it?” 

“Bad,” you reply shortly. 

He makes a sound so disappointed you actually feel bad for him. You pivot with a bag of crisps in your hand to find James fully turned around on the sofa with his chin resting on his fist, pouting. 

“Well, don’t just stand there,” says Sirius. “Come, spill.” 

You sigh. “I’m tired.” 

“Too bad. You have to debrief with us, it’s in your lease agreement.” 

You give him a dry look. “Is it really.” 

Sirius mirrors you. “Read more carefully next time.” 

You heave another sigh, tearing open your crisps as you go to the end of the couch and curl up against the cushions. James immediately reaches into the bag for a handful. 

“Okay, so remind me,” Sirius says, taking a few from James’ hand, “which one was it that you were with?”  

You frown. “You make it sound like I have dozens of prospects. I’ve only been messaging with three guys.” 

“Malcolm, Tom, and Liam,” James rattles off. 

“Right.” Sirius waves his hand. “And which one of these dull names were you with tonight?” 

“Tom,” you say, crunching down vengefully on a crisp. 

“What was so awful about it?” asks Remus. 

“It was just—” You sigh helplessly. “Honestly, I sort of knew we weren’t going to get along. Even over text, he was dry, sort of boring. I had to ask all the questions. I only went because he’s French.” 

James lets out a startled sort of laughter. “Why?” 

“Because, you know.” You shrug. “It’s kind of a bucket list thing.” 

“Babe,” he laughs, “you can find French men all over London.”

“It’s no wonder he was a prick.” Remus is smirking now, too. 

“Hey!” Sirius objects as James nods his agreement. 

“If you’d told us you were going out with a French bloke,” he says, “we’d have told you not to bother.” 

“Every one of them is pompous, shallow, whiny—”

“Oh, fuck off,” Sirius snaps, scowling when James curls an arm around his neck to ruffle his hair. Remus looks to be hiding a grin. 

“Are you French?” you ask, confused. 

Sirius looks over at you despite James’ loose chokehold, managing to arch a brow. “N’est-ce pas évident à cause de ma peau impeccable et de mon aura cultivée?”

“Goodness.” James blows out a breath, sitting back to fan himself. “I will take you to bed right now.” 

“That,” you clarify. “That is why French men are a bucket list item.” 

Sirius looks smug. “Did he at least like your outfit?” 

“Um,” you hesitate, “he didn’t say—”

“Can’t be that French, then. No taste.” 

“—but to be fair, I don’t think he was paying me much attention.” 

“Definitely no taste,” James seconds. “What do you mean, he wasn’t paying you attention?” 

“He just seemed a lot more interested in talking about himself.” You roll your eyes, gratified when Remus makes a judgemental humphing noise. “It was all about his job, how much money he makes, stuff about cars. He was a big car guy.” 

“Uh oh.” James is smiling again. His eyes slide over to Sirius, who looks already prepared for a fight. “Cars, eh? And are you quite certain your date wasn’t Sirius wearing a hat?” 

“Jar.” Sirius slams his fist down like a gavel. “I demand a contribution to the jar.” 

“Sorry,” says Remus drily, “no.” 

“I may like working on my bike, but I know better than to talk about it! I won’t accept car guy slander in relation to my good name.” 

“Did you or did you not,” says James, with the air of a lawyer in a courthouse drama, “spend twenty minutes telling me about your new muffler?” 

“You fucking liked it, you prat.” 

You hide a smile behind your hand. It does make you feel immensely better coming home to this place of laughter and teasing after the awkwardness of silence across a small table, looking over a full pint of beer that your date ordered for you and you didn’t want. 

“He did actually send me a picture of the inside of his car before we went out,” you say, taking out your phone to show them. 

Remus groans. 

“See?” Sirius spreads his hands. “That’s the difference between me and car guys. I would never do that.” 

“Hold on, let me find it…” You scroll through your messages—large text bubbles of attempted conversation starters on your end, single-word responses and the occasional unsolicited selfie on his—only to gasp and drop your phone when the screen changes without warning. “Oh my god.” 

“What?” James and Sirius ask at once. 

“He’s calling me.” 

“He—Tom?” James’ eyes round behind his glasses. “Tom is calling you?” 

“Yes!”

“Why?” 

“I don’t know!” You toss the phone to Sirius.

He tosses it back to you like a hot potato. “Well, fucking decline!”

“Don’t decline!” says James. “Answer it!” 

“I can’t answer it! Why would I answer it?” 

“Because what if he needs something?” 

“What could he possibly need from her?” Remus asks, frowning. 

“I don’t know—what if—he might want to apologize for how things went. Maybe he was just nervous and he wants to try again!” 

You shake your head. You admire James’ way of looking for the best in people, you really do, but you don’t ever want to see that man again. You’ve worked yourself up too much about it. “I’m not answering it.” 

“Then give it to me.” He reaches into your lap before you can stop him, plucking up your phone. 

“James,” you hiss, as Remus makes a strangled sound and Sirius reaches to snatch the phone from him, but you all turn to statues when James presses a button and says pleasantly, “Hello?” 

You hold your breath. 

“Oh, hi. Tom, is it? I’m her flatmate. What can I do for you?” 

He pauses, listening intently while you and Sirius trade panicky looks. 

“Her lip balm?” James raises his eyebrows at you. You pat your pocket, wincing when the familiar shape of a small tube is missing. “That was kind of you to grab it for her. Right…well, I don’t think all women are forgetful. I wouldn’t say that.” 

You look at your flatmates like see? Sirius’ face screws up in seeming abashment for their gender as a whole, while Remus remains impassive. His eyes lack the warmth you’ve become accustomed to even when he’s frowning. 

“Yeah, sure, you can bring it by—” You jolt, shaking your head vehemently, and James’ eyes widen. “Erm, actually, you can keep it.” A pause. “Yeah, well, it’s just that she’s not in a state to be seeing anyone right now. She’s, um. She’s very sick.” 

You bend over, putting your head in your hands. Sirius reaches over James to pat your back. 

“Yeah, no, rather sudden. What did you have tonight, by the way? It’s really—I mean, are you feeling alright? She’s had her head in the toilet from the moment she got back. Really awful.” 

You hear Remus murmur quietly, “Alright, wrap it up.” 

“No, um, I don’t think tomorrow would work either. For one thing, we don’t know how long the vomiting will last, and for another…she’s…moving?” 

You look up, incredulous. 

“Yes.” James nods, seeming almost as if he’s reassuring himself. “She’s moving. Back home. Just at the end of the week, actually, and you know, um, you can’t bring lip balm on an airplane. Really, you can keep it. I’m sure she’d want you to have it.” 

“Why is he making it sound like I’m dead?” you whisper to Sirius, who only shakes his head, resigned. 

“No, she had a really lovely time with you—she managed to tell us that, through all the vomitting—so she’d…want you to have something to remember her by. Yeah, alright. You too. Thanks, mate.” James ends the call, blowing out a breath. “You owe me so big for that.” 

“I owe you?” you ask, astonished. “How did all that end up with me owing you?” 

“I got him to leave you alone,” James points out. “And he thinks he was your great British love affair. Everyone’s happy.” 

You make a breathless sound, locking eyes with Remus, who grimaces sympathetically. Sirius, however, pats James on the back. 

“Yeah, fair enough,” he says. “Well done, Jamie. Tom’s going to make out with that lip balm for weeks to come.” 

[demonic0angel]

Hi!!! I just wanted to tell you thank you!!! Like, every time you post a dpxdc something, I just go feral. I come here after screeching at one your posts like a pterodactyl....inna good way I mean! Your writing just makes days better and brings a smile on my face when I need it. So, thank you for feeding my gremlin brain and sustaining my dark soul!

Anyways! My ask is if the recently posted 'Tim thinks Danny is a vampire but cute' would get a 2nd part????

Thank you!!!!!!!!!😄😄😄😄

(Wahhh tysm! I’m glad you like my stuff :D)

Part 1, Part 3, Part 4

Tim leaned on a fist as he watched Danny doodle on his notebook instead of taking notes. He was drawing constellations and cartoony stars everywhere, his face dazed even through the camera screen. Tim stared at him, knowing that no matter what Jason said, he was still extremely suspicious and needed a careful eye.

A figure suddenly approached Danny, a tall boy with red hair, freckles, and a face that oddly looked similar to Danny’s. He gathered Danny’s stuff without another word, even as Danny jumped up with a start to protest.

Danny floundered. Tim began reading his lips with narrowed eyes. ‘What! Hey, what’re you doing?’

‘We have to go,’ the boy said tugging on Danny’s wrist. His familiarity with him made Tim bristle as he opened another tab to look into the school records and use his face recognition program to find out whoever the hell this was.

A girl with a bandanna pulling back her curly hair then strode towards Danny. She reached over to hold Danny’s hand and pulled him away from the other boy, both of them urgent. Danny asked her something, his face tilted away enough that Tim couldn’t decipher his words.

Hissing, Tim hurriedly changed perspectives so he could catch the tail of his words. When did Danny have so many friends?! After weeks of watching him, Danny hardly interacted with many people at all! These two people were ones that Tim had seen often lingering about, but how did they know Danny?! And why were they so close to him?!

‘— see something?’

The girl nodded hurriedly, her eyebrows furrowed. ‘Someone’s watching you. We need to get you to safety.’

Tim’s heart dropped into his feet. He stood up from his seat to focus as he clicked on his mouse, trying to figure out what was happening. Were they onto him? But how? His cameras were the state of the art in tech and none of it should’ve been detectable!

Unless they were all vampires…? Or maybe his hypothesis was wrong and Danny was even worse than a bloodsucking creature.

In the cameras, Danny froze. Then he turned and all three of them looked at the camera that Tim had chosen to watch them, making direct eye contact with Tim behind the screen.

In an instant, Tim self destructed all of his cameras, listening devices and trackers (which honestly hadn’t worked at all since he attached them to various belongings of Danny.)

He was sweating as he erased all of his tracks expertly. When he was done, he cursed. All of his tech was destroyed completely and none of it could be traced back to him, but now he didn’t have a way to observe Danny.

He sighed and drew a hand through his hair. He picked up his phone and gave a call.

“Hey, Steph? Can you find a way for me to get into Gotham University right now?”

[lanf1an]

DREAMS lando norris pt.1 When your childhood bestfriend Flo had convinced you to get the fashion design job at her brother's company Quadrant, it finally paid off when Louis Vuitton was announced as the new sponsor for F1.

pt.2 pt.3 pt.4 pt.5 pt.6 pt.7 wordcount: 1378

Flo's voice filled the room as she scrolled through her phone, her excitement palpable.

"I'm telling you, this is perfect for you," Flo said, thrusting her phone in your direction.

You squinted at the screen, trying to make sense of the email she was showing you. "A job at Quadrant? Flo, I’m studying fashion design, not... whatever that is."

Flo looked up, her brows furrowed as if you’d just said something ridiculous. "What do you mean? It can be. Look at Tommy Hilfiger. Or Lewis Hamilton—his fashion work, hosting the Met Gala, working with big brands. F1’s bigger than you think, and it’s not just about cars."

"Haha, Flo, what are you talking about?" you said, shaking your head at the idea. "F1 is not really the place I want to be for my fashion stuff."

You paused, realizing you hadn’t really thought about it like that before. You’d never paid much attention to Formula 1, aside from the occasional updates Flo gave you about Lando. It had been years since you'd spent any real time with him. As kids, you'd catch fleeting glimpses of each other whenever he wasn’t off karting or, later, racing. But you knew Lewis Hamilton. He had enormous influence. He’d collaborated with brands you admired and pushed boundaries in the fashion world.

"Maybe not," Flo said, leaning forward with a knowing grin. "But there could be great opportunities"

"And trust me, Quadrant desperately needs someone like you. You’ve seen their merch, right? It’s..." She continued.

"Basic?" you offered, arching an eyebrow, Flo had already showed you the designs before in an attempt for you to improve them.

"Exactly! They’re looking for someone to revamp their designs. You’re always talking about how things could be better.''

You sipped your coffee, considering her words. It wasn’t your dream job, but the thought of improving a brand and the opportunities that came with it was oddly tempting.

"Fine," you said, setting your mug down. "I’ll think about it."

Flo grinned like she'd won the lottery. "You’ll kill it. Trust me."

-

The buzz around Quadrant’s new merch started slowly but picked up pace when a few photos of Lando wearing your designs at the paddock made their way online. Suddenly, it wasn’t just fans buying hoodies and tees, people in the fashion and sports world were taking notice, and journalists started to make comparisons you weren’t sure anyone expected.

“Is Lando Norris the next Lewis Hamilton?” one article headline read.

Another went deeper: “From driver to brand icon: How Lando Norris and Quadrant are reshaping athlete influence.”

It had been surreal to watch the shift, you had worked hard. Max had been supportive from the start, seeing the vision. Keegan had actually become a reliable creative partner, having similar styles and taste. Lando had been the same as when you were kids, you had barely seen him, too busy racing, handling his CEO duties from afar.

And now, after months of hard work, it was all leading to something bigger.

-

The first time at the paddock was overwhelming. The heat, the constant movement, the blur of media, mechanics, and drivers navigating their way through the chaos—it was a world you still didn’t quite belong to. Even though it did bid a uncanny resemblance to the chaos of the fashion world, which intrigued you.

You watched as the photographers snapped pictures of Lando and the team in their latest Quadrant pieces. The collection had taken months to finalize, and the response had been overwhelming—more press than usual, more attention, more recognition.

“You’re the one behind all this, aren’t you?”

You turned at the voice, surprised to find yourself face to face with Lewis Hamilton. He was dressed effortlessly, a silk LV shirt under an unbuttoned suit vest, sunglasses perched on his nose.

You blinked. “I—uh. Sorry?”

Lewis smiled knowingly. “The Quadrant collection. It’s you.”

You hesitated. “I mean… it’s a team effort.”

“Sure,” he said, his grin widening. “But I know talent when I see it.”

Her stomach flipped. Compliments were one thing, but this—coming from him—felt different.

“I’ve been following your work,” Lewis continued, slipping his hands into his pockets. “You’ve got a fresh perspective. Louis Vuitton is partnering with F1. They want to bring in new talent, I tipped you.” Your breath caught. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.”

You stared at him, waiting for the catch, but there wasn’t one. He was just… offering this. Just like that.

“I—” You glanced over at the Quadrant shoot, where Lando was laughing with the guys, completely unaware of the conversation happening across the paddock. “Thank you so much.”

Lewis smiled. “You’ll be hearing from them soon. Excited to work together.”

And with that, he was gone, disappearing into the paddock like he hadn’t just cracked your entire world open in a two-minute conversation. Flo had turned to be right after all.

-

Louis Vuitton had officially announced their F1 partnership, and with it, their campaign featuring a select group of drivers. The second she saw Lando’s name on the list, you knew there was no avoiding it. You hadn’t expected it, even though it made sense after Quadrant’s succes and having already worked together. Still, you hadn’t expected to be working with him again, especially not like this. He hadn't shown too much emotion when you left Quadrant, but you knew he wasn't happy about it.

Now, standing in the Louis Vuitton studio, flipping through the fitting schedule, you could feel his glare when the door opened before looking up.

"From Quadrant to Louis V," Lando mused, his voice light but edged with something unreadable. "Look at us."

You finally glanced up. He walked around inspecting the room, sunglasses perched on his head, fingers brushing against the fabric of a tailored jacket. His expression was casual, like he wasn’t really thinking about what he’d just said. Like it was just an observation.

You gave a small shrug. "Who would've thought."

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he turned toward the fitting area. "Thought you could get rid of me, huh?"

“Alright, first look,” you said, flipping through your notes without looking up.

Lando sighed dramatically. “Do I really need to try all of these on?”

You shot him a look. “Unless you suddenly developed a sense of style overnight, yes.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, grabbing the set from the rack.

You turned you back as he changed, focusing on adjusting the pins on one of the outfits. It wasn’t the first time you’d been in a fitting with Lando, but this was different. The Louis Vuitton studio was quieter than Quadrant HQ, the lighting softer, there was no Max, no Keegan, no distractions.

“Okay,” Lando said, stepping forward. “What do you think?”

You turned—and fuck.

The suit fit him unfairly well. The sharp tailoring, the way the fabric moved with him—it was annoyingly perfect. Which meant you had done a great job.

You forced yourself to be professional, stepping closer to fix his collar. “Hold still.”

Lando stayed quiet as you smoothed the lapels, fingers brushing against his chest. The silence felt thick, aware of how close you were.

“Looks good,” you said, voice even. “But the pants need adjusting.”

You knelt down, reaching for the hem.

You could feel his eyes on you as you adjusted the fabric, fingers skimming his ankle, making sure the length was right. You refused to look up, but you could hear him breathe in, then exhale slowly.

“Comfortable down there?” he asked, voice casual, but you could hear his smirk.

You rolled your eyes, unable for him to see. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Lando huffed out a laugh, but when you did glance up—just for a second—his jaw was tight. Like he was the one struggling.

You stood, smoothing out the jacket. “Alright,” you said, stepping back, regaining distance. “I think we’re done here.”

Lando tilted his head. “You sure? Thought you liked bossing me around now.”

You smirked. “If I really wanted to boss you around, Lando, you’d know it.”

He blinked, caught off guard for just a second.

Then he grinned. “Noted.”

WN: new storyyyy wooooop, literally already had this fashion job at quadrant in my drafts and then the LV partnership was announced i had to implement that and post it

[misspermitted]

I’m so unbelievably feral for the idea that, while the rest of the Saja boys are singing to the audience in Your Idol, all of Jinu’s verses are directed towards Rumi. I mean, in all fairness, the entirety of Your Idol is filled with jabs at Rumi and Huntrix, but while the others are singing to the audience directly counteracting Huntrix’s influence, Jinu is just talking to Rumi. Actually just the pure fact that Jinu 100% wrote Your Idol right after singing Free with Rumi drives me insane.

In fact, it makes me so insane I’m gonna meta analyse the entire song right now:

The Pop Industry Commentary

Let us begin with the base level analysis that we shall build off for the stuff that my shipper heart goes feral for:

So naturally the entire point of this song, which is why it’s such a good villain song, is to straight up just tell everyone watching that they’re planning to kill them and the audience not giving a fuck because of the power of celebrities. But what makes this song extra awesome is that it’s also essentially explaining about how teach member’s k-pop trope has manipulated the audience.

Abby and Escapism

Like you got Abs McGee going:

“Keeping you in check

Keeping you obsessed

Play me on repeat kkeuteobsi (endlessly) in your head”

Which is SO COOL because it totally fits with what we’ve seen from Abs. Which is that both Mira and Zoey get repeatedly distracted by him and stare at him (“keeping them obsessed, playing endlessly in their head.”) And one of his only lines is “I know they would (follow us in here), that one keeps looking at me” ie. keeping them in check.

Then his next line:

“Anytime it hurts

Play another verse

I can be your sanctuary”

Really clearly explains how him being, literally, eye candy distracts from things being serious. And further, a meta commentary on using media and simping over pretty abs to escape from life and things that do matter.

Romance and Parasocial Relationships

Then you’ve got Romance’s lines are:

Yeah you gave me your heart

Now I’m here for your soul

Now we don’t see much of Romance but what we do see is really interesting, and very much expands on my interpretation of him. Which is mainly his interactions with Mira (namely, staring) which the movies actual audience went crazy about as cute and romantic.

And that’s really funny because that’s totally what Romance supposed to be. He’s supposed to be the soft sweet one who people transfer onto and trust “Look at him looking at her, surely he’ll get a redemption arc” (he doesn’t)

Making me think this audience reaction was 100% intentional is Romance’s next lines:

Nae hwangholui chwihae (intoxicated with my ecstasy) you can’t look away

Don’t you know I’m here to save you

God the fun meta commentary on K-pop and fandom culture in this song and movie is so awesome. Like Romance being a whole satire on the one band member that has a relationship and gains peoples trust by sharing their personal life. This movie is so good!!

Mystery and Making Celebrities Superhuman

I won’t fully go into Mystery because I’m only analysing the movie song and not the full song which gives him more lines, but my reading of his small amount:

No I’m the only one right now

I will love you more when it all burns down

More than power, more than gold

Is that he’s about the celebrities that are put on a pedestal and have to remain carefully mysterious to stay there, whose fans do literally anything to try to impress them. I could go into how him being Zoey, the established people pleaser’s favourite is a really interesting exploration of who the act of “pedastal”-ing celebrities appeals to, but that. Is. Not. The. Point.

The point is that, in this song, the Saja boys are taking to the audience about, essentially, how they manipulated the hell out of them.

The only exception to this rule is Jinu, and this is because he isn’t a satire of K-pop bands. Jinu’s character is a narrative foil for Rumi.

Jinu’s Lines as Directed Towards Rumi

Now the counter argument to Jinu actually singing to Rumi is that he’s “just singing his master’s song/on behalf of Gwi-Ma). And at some points this is true, especially in the latter half of the song, ie.

I will set you free

When you’re all apart of me

Where “me” is clearly Gwi-Ma. (You may notice the “free” mention here. We shall address the little jabs at Rumi throughout this song in p2).

However there are other parts, particularly the first half, where Jinu is clearly not singing for Gwi-Ma because his tone is wildly different. At least in my opinion.

I saw a comment that really succinctly summed up the tone of Your Idol as someone who has already gotten what they wanted. They’re not asking for the audience’s adoration, they’ve already got it. They’re literally just bragging about it. And you’ll see that’s congruent with my interpretation of the other Saja boys who are just explaining how they’ve gotten such control.

Jinu is the only one who actually asks the audience to do something. And it doesn’t actually make sense that he does:

Listen cause I’m preaching to the choir

Can I get the mic a little higher?

Give me your desire

I can be the star you rely on

Why is he asking the already enamoured audience to listen? Why is he asking them to give him their desire when they clearly already have? Why is he saying that he “could” be their idol when he already is? It’s a completely different tone from the others’: “You gave me your heart” and “You can’t look away” and “I’m here to save you”

Also the phrase “listen cause I’m preaching to the choir” really doesn’t seem like something you’d say to the choir. Just saying.

Let’s Just Assume Because it’s Fun

In all fairness, no matter how much I try to justify it, I can’t actually prove that he’s singing to Rumi But let’s just head canon it because then we get to have some fun.

So Jinu’s first chorus is:

I’m the only one who’ll love your sins

Feel the way my voice gets underneath your skin

Listen cause I’m preaching to the choir

Can I get the mic a little higher

Give me your desire

I can be the star you rely on

Yeah I’m all you need imma be your idol

Now what I love about this is firstly, Jesus Christ the “I’m the only one who’ll love your sins” is so close to “I understand what it’s like to have patterns, I’m the only one who will.” Which is crazy shit. But also so clear in how shame is isolating and Jinu purposefully uses that tactic against Rumi to isolate her while also believing it himself.

Like before that first interaction with Rumi Jinu tells Gwi-Ma he’ll use Rumi’s shame to isolate her from her friends. And his “I’m the only one who understands” is absolutely the first step in doing that. And it works. She questions her order and feels isolated as hell.

But that tactic slowly morphes into something that actually makes Rumi and Jinu healthier, love and acceptance. While Gwi-Ma’s whole thing is seeing your sins and guilting you, Jinu sees Rumi’s patterns and accepts her. And in Free, which Jinu sings like right before writing this one, it gets explicitly stated that Rumi felt like the only time she’s felt like she could breath and like she could be more than her sins is with Jinu.

Jinu’s lyrics here is such an interesting response to “Free” in that he is saying, from this reading: “We can’t fix our sins, but I love you for them.” And, especially with him exposing her in front of her friends, “I’m the only one who will love your sins.”

In fact, it could be said that the entire of his chorus is him saying that Rumi is worshipping a false idol as a hunter. That she is a demon not a hunter. That he can be the code she follows, “the star you rely on.” That what Rumi desires, to “fix” them both, is wrong. Which, though incredibly concerning, is also not wrong. Rumi does realise that the hunter code is wrong, that the thing she is protecting is wrong. That she doesn’t need to be fixed. To a certain extent, Jinu’s points about Rumi and him always being demons, that she can’t fix it, is correct.

I love that if you read the lyrics in this way, you can hear the frustration in some of his lines. Like “Give me your desire” and “No one is coming to save you!” Taken in the context of his lines in Free, where he says that no one sees him the way she does, that it feels right to let her in, that he wants to be free with her, but doesn’t sing along to her chorus about healing what is broken and fixing him. And their later argument where he says that they can’t be fixed.

Why would he be singing to her?

What is also interesting is that Jinu clearly doesn’t expect Rumi to be there. When he hears her voice you see panic flick over his face. So why would he be singing to her?

I think this really gives a bit of insight into Jinu’s character as someone who is way more comfortable singing his feelings then saying them. And someone who is so scared of rejection. Almost every time him and Rumi have a conversation she gets the last word and he is usually quite frustrated with himself about it.

But he doesn’t want to be vulnerable with anyone. Even if he could communicate his feelings he’s incredibly hesitant to because he has been told for 400 years that he’s a terrible person and is both certain and terrified or rejection.

So when Rumi gets mad at him, like in their third meeting or in the argument before this, he leaves before she can say anything else. And probably cries like the boy failure he is. But the entire point of Your Idol is to counteract Huntrix’s influence so he can say what he wants to. About how he doesn’t like the hunters code, about how he wants Rumi to join him. And it’s actually incredibly useful song wise.

I also keep in mind with this headcanon that Jinu wrote this song after Free. Incredibly internally conflicted.

I had other things to say about Baby’s part and all of the subtle digs Jinu put into the song but this has already been insanely and unnecessarily long so, part two incoming for that (maybe).

[littlcdarlin]

My Burning Sun Will Someday Rise

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 || read on AO3

summary: Joel and reader's vacation continues and lines start to blur. tags: daddy kink, big age gap (Joel is 49, reader is 23), dbf!Joel, Joel has a lovely belly, Joel is a little mean, praise kink, Joel calls reader "kid", unprotected piv, creampie, cunnilingus, sexual tension, blow jobs, smut with a little bit of plot, no use of Y/N, afab!reader, reader has hair (will add more as I add more parts)

note: happy new year to all of you, and sorry for the long wait! I was completely flashed by the love you showed for part 1 (THANK YOU!!!), and wanted to live up to your expectations. I’ll try to write part 3 as quickly as possible! Sorry if there's any typos, I edited this while severely hungover

The afternoon at the beach was relaxing and lighthearted after you agreed with Joel and stopped studying so much, and you find that apart from having a body that makes you clench your thighs together, he’s interesting to talk to. He doesn’t give you the same bullshit about university and acting responsibly, but rather accepts that there are things you dislike about your degree. He doesn’t offer advice on how to learn to enjoy those things, he just nods when you tell him you’ve learnt to deal with them. He treats you like an adult, someone who makes their own informed choices – something your life has been sorely lacking.

You head back to the rooms in comfortable silence, and you enjoy the way Joel’s arm almost grazes yours. When you think about the flutter in your stomach for too long it’s ridiculous, but it’s so easy to leave behind the morals and expectations of home when all you’re facing right now is an all-inclusive dinner and as many cocktails as you want. You aren’t planning on getting drunk if Joel isn’t, but you want to have fun tonight. You haven’t been on a real vacation in ages.

 You take another shower once you’re in your room, wash away the sunscreen and sea salt, until your hair is all soft again and you smell like shampoo. The hotel restaurant isn’t super fancy, but you feel like putting in a little effort, so you pick out a black dress you like, and wear your sandals again. You wonder if you’ll get cold – the days are burning hot, but at night there’s a cool breeze that might make you regret your choice of clothes. Fuck it, you think, you haven’t had an occasion to dress up in ages, and getting Joel all flustered again sure seems like reason enough. You grab your purse, phone and keycard, and head to the door.

Joel opens his door at the same time you do, and you swallow when you see he’s changed outfits, too. His hair is slightly damp and all curly, he’s wearing black jeans and a simple black t-shirt with an unbuttoned, flowy linen shirt over it. The sleeves are rolled up to reveal his forearms. It’s stylish. You didn’t expect Joel Miller to look stylish.

"Wow," you say with a smile. "You clean up nice."

Joel just huffs, but his eyes ghost over your dress for a second too long. He doesn’t answer.

When you get to the restaurant, Joel pulls out your chair for you, which earns him a blinding smile. Stylish and a gentleman, who would have thought? Back home he always seemed like a grumpy lumberjack to you, and although you do find him excruciatingly attractive in his flannels, you’re intrigued to find out what else you didn’t know about him.

"Is it really all-inclusive?", you ask, gazing at the menu and not quite believing you can order anything you’d like and not pay for it. 

"Sure. You want a cocktail?"

"If you’ll have one with me?"

Joel holds your gaze, but shakes his head.

"I think I prefer whiskey over that sweet stuff," he says, and you make a face.

"Fine, whiskey it is, then," you say, and Joel frowns.

"You don’t have to drink what I’m drinkin’. Have a cocktail."

This time you’re the one to shake your head.

"It’s no fun, having cocktails on your own. But I haven’t had whiskey in ages, maybe I like it better now."

The corner of Joel’s mouth twitches.

"Ages, huh? How long have you been allowed to drink again?"

You smile, but don’t dignify his question with an answer, and after a moment Joel chuckles and looks back at the menu.

"Fine, I’ll have a Gin Fizz," he says, looking up again. "You?"

He wants to order a cocktail, just so that you can enjoy having one, too. Your stomach flutters.

"Joel, you don’t have t-"

"I know I don’t. I’m having a Gin Fizz."

There’s a finality to his tone, but his voice is friendly. You give him a reluctant smile, one that isn’t ironic or half-joking. He smiles back, and leans back in his chair, eyes still on yours. You study the menu again, this time having a closer look at the cocktails.

"Sex on the beach," you say seriously, and Joel snorts.

"Clever."

***

You do end up drinking a sex on the beach, and Joel actually enjoys his gin fizz. The food is delicious, Joel lets you try a piece of his steak and you offer him a bite of your fish, but he declines with a disgusted look on his face that makes you grin. No seafood for Joel Miller, then.

Joel orders you another cocktail when the waiter clears your plates, and you smile to yourself. He’s being courteous.

"Are you trying to get me drunk, Miller?", you ask, the corner of your mouth twitching. Joel raises an eyebrow.

"I think you’re managin’ that without my help."

He’s right, of course – your long day of traveling makes the buzz in your head more prominent, and although you’re nowhere near drunk, your tongue is a little looser than usually, and you find it much easier to hold Joel’s eye-contact.

"I’m glad I came here," you say all of a sudden, the thought fleeting, but true. "I needed a break."

Joel’s smile is honest, when he answers.

"I’m glad you came, too. It’d be boring, bein’ here on my own."

"Right," you say, "who would get you to drink cocktails? You’d be stuck drinking disgusting whiskey and wallowing in your loneliness."

Joel smiles, shaking his head slightly, and takes a sip of his Gin.

"You wanna head down to the beach?", you ask when your glasses are empty and you feel a little woozy from the second cocktail. Joel looks surprised.

"I love the sea at night," you say a little dreamily, voice trailing off.

"Sure. Let’s go," Joel just answers.

The air outside is cool, just like you anticipated, and you shiver slightly, wrapping your arms around yourself to keep the goosebumps at bay. Joel notices, and immediately shrugs out of his linen shirt, handing it to you. You stare at him.

"Take it," he insists, and you do, the fabric soft in your hands. You slip it on, the sleeves coming down to your fingertips, the collar smelling of Joel’s cologne. You wonder why it took you two cocktails to notice how good he smells. When you’re done rolling up the sleeves, you look up and find Joel watching you quietly. Your eyes meet – he looks away, and starts walking again.

You’re pleasantly tipsy, walking to the beach at night, wearing Joel Miller’s clothes and brushing his arm with yours every once in a while. It feels a little surreal.

"Aren’t you cold now?", you ask after a couple of minutes of quiet.

"No," Joel answers, his voice a little rougher than before, "’sides, you wear it better anyway."

You flush, and when you don’t answer, he looks at you.

"Jesus, sorry," he mumbles. "I didn’t…it slipped out. Just meant you look pretty, is all."

Your stomach swirls pleasantly, and you want Joel to put his arm around your shoulder, or kiss you, or take that shirt off again. You clear your throat.

"Thanks," you answer quietly, toying with the hem of the shirt. "I think you wore it well, too, though. Suits you."

Joel doesn’t answer, but when you glance at him, you notice the ghost of a smile on his face, half-hidden by his patchy beard.

You walk the rest of the way in contemplative silence, each of you lost in your thoughts. You’re always amazed to see the sea at night. The darkness somehow elevates its vastness, water and sky bleeding into each other at the near invisible horizon. It’s easy to forget about your exams here, with the whole expanse of the planet spread out before you, the relentlessly calm sound of the waves, and Joel’s scent in your nose. You sit down on an abandoned deck chair and watch Joel walk up to the water, pick up a seashell, and drop it into the water again. He seems content to be here, you think. Relaxed. You don’t know him well, but his body language seems more at ease than it did back home. Perhaps you’re not the only one who needed a break.

You get up again, and walk over to Joel, who smiles when he sees you coming.

"You were right," he says, "it’s different in the dark."

You know he means the sea, the beach, the lack of people around, the sand that burned your feet only hours ago now having a cooling effect. Still, his words leave room for interpretation and you don’t miss the way his gaze moves over your form in his shirt.

"Thanks for the cocktails," you say quietly, "and the shirt."

Joel looks over at you, but you don’t have the guts to look at him. You can’t quite be sure what the moonlight and scenery will make you do, not when he’s never looked more handsome, and you’re more than tipsy.

"You’re welcome," he says honestly. "I know you’re doin’ this for your Dad more than anything, but I hope you’re still havin’ fun."

He’s self-conscious, or something close to it, wondering how he could make this trip more enjoyable for you – so he orders cocktails he doesn’t like and lets you wear his clothes.

"I am having fun," you reassure him. "I’m at the beach at night wearing a guy’s shirt who got me all the cocktails I wanted, instead of studying at my desk for the millionth night in a row."

Joel chuckles.

"My Dad should break his leg more often," you sigh, digging the heel of your foot into the sand. Joel doesn’t answer.

When you walk back to the hotel, you feel the ghost of his hand on your lower back, not touching, but lingering, as if he instinctively wants to stir you in the right direction, or keep you from stumbling. It makes that flutter in your stomach reappear.

You pass reception to get to the elevators, and the same woman is still there, smiling when he recognizes you.

"You two enjoying the sea?", she asks.

"Very much, thank you," you answer, "we had cocktails and walked to the beach."

The lady looks pleased at how happy you seem and smiles at Joel.

"I’m glad to hear it! Well, you two enjoy your Daddy-daughter trip," she says, before answering the telephone that starts ringing just as you’re about to say good-night.

Joel’s brows are furrowed when you look at him, which makes you suppress a grin. The lady assuming he’s your father is clearly bothering him, and you get the feeling it might not entirely be about his age.

When you’ve made it up to your rooms, you turn to Joel to find him already watching you. He looks different here, in the harsh light of the corridor, dark shadows falling over his features, his form somehow looking broader.

"Breakfast at nine?", he asks you, voice quiet so as not to disturb any other guests in their rooms.

"Yeah," you say, and before you can change your mind, you kiss his cheek. His expression is unreadable, when you pull away.

"Goodnight," you say with a tired smile, before teasingly adding "Daddy."

Joel holds your eye contact, and doesn’t flush this time.

"Careful," he says gently, voice low and dark. You swallow.

Before you can forget, you shrug off his shirt, but Joel doesn’t move to take it from your outstretched hand. After a beat, his eyes flicker over your face.

"Keep it," he says curtly, "I like it on ya."

And then he’s gone, the door to his room shutting with a soft thud. You shake your head slightly, and press the soft linen fabric against your nose, inhaling the scent of his cologne and sweat. You ache just at the thought of it having touched his skin, and him now wanting to see you in it, but it would feel like a violation if you relieved that ache now, even if Joel wasn’t there, so you ignore the dull throbbing between your legs best as you can and go to bed with Joel’s shirt right next to your bed.

***

The next morning you feel a little nervous about breakfast – something shifted between you and Joel after your good-bye in the hallway. He seemed so sure of himself when he told you he liked you in his shirt, so unwavering, and you’re a nervous wreck just thinking about saying good morning to him.

Instead of putting on the white sundress you wore yesterday, you slip into a bikini, a pair of comfortable shorts, and Joel’s linen shirt, half unbuttoned so that your necklace peeks out. This time you leave the sleeves un-rolled, liking how big it feels on you, a constant reminder of Joel’s size.

You wash your face and brush your teeth, but don’t shower since you’re going to have to do that in the evening anyway. Although you’re mostly excited to see Joel again, you also can’t wait to have your morning coffee and something to eat – you hope the breakfast buffet will be as good as dinner was.

You wait for Joel in the hallway, but when he doesn’t come out of his room, you knock on his door.

"One second," his voice comes from inside, and you wait leaning against the wall just like he did the day before. When he opens the door, you can’t suppress a smile – his hair is charmingly tousled from his sleep, he clearly didn’t know what to do with it without taking a shower first.

"Nice hair," you say, the corner of your mouth twitching. Joel doesn’t answer, with his brows slightly furrowed he keeps staring at you. Anxiety floods your veins, and you wonder if it was the best idea to dress the way you did, if Joel might think of it as strange or creepy or pathetic.

"You’re wearing my shirt," he says, voice quiet and still rough from sleep. It’s not a question, just a statement, no judgement behind it. You swallow, watching his brown eyes trail over your arms, torso, your shorts.

"Yeah," you answer timidly, fighting the urge to cross your arms. "You said you liked it on me."

Joel’s eyes snap up to yours, and with all the courage you can muster up, you hold his gaze for several long seconds.

"I did."

Again, just a statement. One that doesn’t require an answer, but you feel like shrinking under Joel’s gaze, so you offer him an out out of the situation.

"I’ll take it off, if you want me to," you mutter, and quickly add "I’ll put on something else."

Joel watches you quietly, and finally runs a hand through his messy hair.

"No need, kid," he says with a defeated sounding exhale. "’M glad ya like it."

***

Breakfast is a welcome distraction from whatever happened in the hallway – you drink too much coffee, and try all of the delicious food offered: bacon and eggs, colorful fruit you have never seen before, yoghurt and pancakes. Joel sticks to coffee and toast, though he does steal one of the peaces of fruit from your plate.

"I’ll get one more cup," you say when you have drained the last of your coffee, and Joel chuckles.

"Might as well do a line," he says and you snort, but stay seated – he’s right, you should watch your caffeine intake. He watches you, and after a second raises an eyebrow.

"I didn’t mean anything by it. You drink as much coffee as you want."

His voice is apologetic and soft.

"No, I’ll do as you say," you answer, "or I’ll die of heart failure."

Something flashes over his face at those words, but you can’t pinpoint it. Still, your stomach flutters, when Joel doesn’t break the eye-contact.

After breakfast the two of you get your towels and the rest of your beach-belongings from your rooms, and Joel changes into his trunks again. You walk past reception quietly, the lady from the day before isn’t there, and Joel’s arm brushes against yours casually. Suddenly you wish you weren’t wearing his shirt, just to feel his skin against yours. It’s a little pathetic.

Joel gets you two deckchairs – the beach is still relatively empty – and you put on sunscreen. When you’re done with your limbs and stomach, you offer Joel the bottle.

"Do my back, please?"

"Sure," he mutters, taking the bottle from you, and gently stroking your hair out of the way. He’s quiet, holding you steady by the shoulder when you instinctively squirm away from the initial cold of the liquid on your skin, his hands calloused but gentle. From time to time, his fingers slip under the shoulder straps of your bikini, and you feel heat pool between your legs when he starts covering your lower back in sunscreen. His hand is dangerously close to the waistband of your swimsuit.

"All done," he says, closing the bottle. You raise an eyebrow.

"Don’t need sunscreen," he explains, "I don’t burn easy."

"You’ll get skin cancer," you argue. "Everybody needs sunscreen."

He huffs, but hands you the bottle and turns around to sit down on the deckchair. You watch his beautiful back, the way the skin ripples over his muscles, how broad and solid it seems. You squirt some of the sunscreen onto your hand and apply it to Joel’s shoulders, rubbing gently. He relaxes under your touch, the tension leaving his muscles, and you move your hands more deliberately, focusing on his shoulders, until Joel’s head falls forward slightly, giving into the sensation.

"Good?", you ask, a little shy.

Joel hums, and you wonder if his eyes are closed, if he’s enjoying your touch so much he can’t form a full sentence. You dig the heels of your palms into his muscles, the sunscreen making the slide easy. His skin his littered in freckles and birthmarks, marked by years of working under the sun.

"You always apply sunscreen like that?", Joel asks suddenly, and you flush.

"Most people aren’t this tense," you quip back, fingers gliding over Joel’s neck. "Actually, nobody’s ever been this tense, I think."

He shakes his head slightly, but lets you carry on, working your way down his back, the tan line of his trunks visible and oh so tempting. You imagine pulling them down and try to refrain from clenching your thighs together.

When you’re done, Joel’s muscles feel a little looser, more relaxed, and he turns around to look at you.

"Thanks," he says quietly, and you nod. Now that he can see you, look you directly in the eye, it feels almost absurdly bold to have touched him like that. Still, things have started to unravel a little. Lines have blurred.

Although you don’t know where you get the courage from, you hold his gaze, put one hand on his shoulder, and squeeze.

"Any time, Joel," you answer, and watch him swallow. Then, his own hand comes up to yours, and you half think he’s going to remove yours, but he just loosely wraps his fingers around your wrist, eyes not leaving yours.

"That’s a dangerous game you’re playin’, kid," he says quietly, but doesn’t let go of you. You hope he never does.

"Do you…want me to stop?", you ask him, because you will if this is making him uncomfortable, if you read him wrong. He’s silent for a second.

"No," he says so quietly it’s almost inaudible. His thumb starts moving over your wrist, right over the pulse point, and it makes you weak in the knees. You didn’t know a touch as small as that one could be so erotic, but with Joel it seems, everything is. You fight to not let a whimper escape your mouth, and close your eyes for just a second.

"God," Joel mutters, more to himself than to you, "look at you."

Your eyes snap open when you feel him move, hand still locked around your wrist securely, and suddenly he’s towering over you. You gaze up at him, his eyes bright under the blazing sun, his hair still tousled, his beard patchy and flecked with grey. He’s all man, in a way you didn’t know you found desirable before him, but there is undeniable proof of your want leaking into your swimsuit, sticky and hot between your thighs.

He watches you, intense eyes moving over your face, your eyes, your mouth, your hands, your body in your nicest swimsuit, your throat as you swallow. His other hand comes up to stroke the hair away from your neck, and goosebumps erupt on your skin. Joel almost chuckles, but it’s more the ghost of a breath. You flush.

"It’s fucking stupid to go through with this," Joel says seriously, like he wants to inform you of it – as if you don’t know.

"Yes," you breathe, because he’s completely right.

"Your Dad would kill me, and rightly so," he adds.

"Oh, fuck my Dad," you answer, trying to reach out to touch Joel, but your wrist is still tightly locked in his grasp. You tug a little, but he doesn’t budge.

"You doin’ this to get back at him?"

You detect something in his voice you don’t like – uncertainty.

"No, Joel," you breathe, "God, no. Have you looked into a mirror recently?"

That makes him smile, and you wonder if he gets compliments a lot, but by the way his cheeks gain color, you don’t think he does. Stupid, stupid world, stupid people who came before you. He should be told every second of the day.

"It’s still stupid,“ he says, but his eyes are more intense than before now. You’re on holiday, away from all judgement. You can do whatever you want to do to each other.

"Thought I was the smart one in my family," you tease, reminding him of his words on the plane. You want him to lean down and finally kiss you, or throw you down on the deckchair and fuck you right there, your face pressed into his linen shirt. His thumb keeps moving over your wrist, relentlessly building tension.

"Take me to your room," you whisper, eyes wide, and anticipation pooling deep in your belly. Joel curses.

"You have any idea of the things I wanna do to you?"

His voice is low, dangerous, and you’d be at least a little afraid if this one anyone else. But it’s Joel, who lets you hate your degree without judgement, drinks cocktails he doesn’t like just so you can enjoy yourself, and through his permission allows you to stop studying, lets you enjoy this trip.

"Do them," you breathe, "I’ll let you do anything."

"Jesus fucking Christ, kid," he answers, and finally lets go of your wrist, one hand coming to rest on your waist, tugging you towards him, the other gently cradling your face. His breath ghosts over your mouth, and then he brushes your lips with his in a needy, slow kiss. His tongue slips into your mouth and you open up for him willingly. He tugs your hips against him, making you whimper and feel his bulge dig into your stomach.

The only thing keeping you from pulling him out of his swimming trunks right then is the fact that there are people around, and you’re pushing it already with the way his hands grasp at your skin and his tongue licks in your mouth. Any further and you could be arrested for public indecency.

"Please," you ask him between kisses, "Please, Joel, just take me to your room."

His teeth dig into your lower lip, and you fight a moan.

"Ask me again," he says, voice a little wrecked, and the need you feel for him deep in your stomach burns white hot. He wants you to beg.

"Please," you say, like he isn’t stripping you of your dignity instead of your clothes, but you can’t bring yourself to feel embarrassed, not when Joel groans at the sound.

"Alright, kid. I’ve got you.“