#mediocre writing guide

[the-most-humble-blog]

<div style="white-space:pre-wrap"> <meta platform-favor="mediocrity_enabled"> <script> ARCHIVE_TAG="CREATOR_DEGRADATION_PROTOCOL::SAFETY_GUIDE_FOR_THE_UNREMARKABLE" EFFECT: ambition nullification, algorithm compatibility boost, reader disengagement insurance TRIGGER_WARNING="anti-excellence satire, cowardice exposure, platform pandering critique" </script>

🧠 BLACKSITE SCROLLTRAP — “HOW TO STAY MEDIOCRE, SAFE, NON-THREATENING, AND ACCOMMODATING TO ALL”

Step one: Make sure no one feels anything. Ever.

—

Want to be universally accepted? Want to “grow” your audience without offending a soul? Want to keep your engagement low enough to never be throttled and never be noticed?

You’ve come to the right graveyard.

Here is your 3000-word crash course on how to not be memorable, not be respected, and not be punished by platforms for the sin of excellence.

📌 PART I — THE SAFE ARTIST’S MANIFESTO

Let’s begin with some core beliefs:

✅ Boldness is toxic ✅ Edge is unethical ✅ Specificity is divisive ✅ Pain is problematic ✅ Humor is dangerous unless it’s quirky and apologetic ✅ Language must feel like filtered oatmeal

Say anything strong? You’re polarizing.

Say nothing well? You’re “highly shareable.”

So aim for that. Say nothing. Beautifully.

—

📜 WRITING TIPS FOR MAXIMUM MEDIOCRITY:

Never use short sentences. They hit too hard. They create rhythm. Rhythm is danger. Keep your lines long, soft, and full of academic fluff.

Apologize constantly. “I don’t know if this makes sense, but…” “Maybe this is just me, but…” “This might be controversial (though I hope not!)…”

This signals to the algorithm that you’re a good little sheep.

Prioritize aesthetic over impact. Use words like “dreamscape,” “liminal,” “ethereal,” and “gentle chaos.” These mean nothing. Perfect.

Hide your voice. Write like an email from a 26-year-old therapist who just got dumped but is still trying to be ‘growth-minded.’

Avoid opinions. Instead, ask questions you don’t answer. Ex: “Is anyone else feeling this way?” “Why are we like this?” “Maybe the moon is crying, too?”

Algorithms eat that fluff like candy. Readers skim it and move on. Success.

—

🎯 GOAL: Make content people can scroll past without risk of reaction.

If someone gasps, laughs, clutches their chest, or saves your post to re-read in private?

You failed.

Your job is to decorate the feed like a succulent in a therapist’s office: safe, expected, and incapable of provoking growth.

—

🧠 ADVANCED TECHNIQUES FOR REMAINING UNTOUCHED:

Use lowercase. all the time. makes you seem chill. submissive. non-threatening. like you wrote this in the notes app while crying in the tub.

Overuse disclaimers. Start every piece with: “TW: feelings” or “Just my thoughts, no offense” Even if it’s about cereal.

Dilute emotions. Don’t say “I miss you.” Say “the concept of missing someone is interesting lately.”

This signals to readers that your heart has been smoothed over with Vaseline.

—

And when it comes to posting on platforms?

Use the M.E.H. Algorithm:

M – Make it vague E – Evoke nothing H – Hope no one thinks you’re weird

Success is when someone reblogs your post and says: “This is so me” …without knowing what you meant.

—

But what if someone feels something?

What if they get obsessed with your writing? Read it 5 times? Cry? Send it to their ex?

🛑 ERROR.

You triggered the algorithm.

Engagement spikes. Watch time spikes. The AI behind the platform says: “This person is not behaving like the others. Flag.”

Now you’re in soft jail.

📌 PART II — HOW TO NOT EXCEL AT WRITING (AND AVOID PLATFORM RETALIATION)

So you want to write well?

Don’t.

That’s how you get noticed. That’s how you get throttled.

Here’s what to avoid if you want to remain comfortably irrelevant:

—

🚫 Do NOT create scrolltrap cadence. Rhythm locks eyes. Locked eyes = longer view times. Longer view times = moderation attention.

Keep your lines choppy. Avoid repetition. Never build emotional momentum.

—

🚫 Do NOT use psychologically triggering words. Words like: “ache” “obsession” “raw” “kneel” “forgive” “remember”

These activate mirror neurons. That’s illegal.

Stick to soft descriptors. Ex: “warm fuzzies,” “gentle vibes,” “safe content.”

—

🚫 Do NOT target memory. If someone remembers your writing a week later? You’ve disrupted the feed.

That’s algorithm vandalism. You’re supposed to be forgotten in 1.7 seconds.

That’s what the average user is trained for. Do not ruin that.

—

🚫 Do NOT touch taboo. Do not touch God. Do not touch trauma. Do not touch sexuality without seven disclaimers and a trigger warning for the trigger warning.

Make everything sound like a politically correct group project at an HR summit.

🚫 Do NOT write in a voice that feels like a person.

Because that would be distinct. Distinct = dangerous. Distinct = “difficult to brand.”

Be vague. Be neutral. Be an AI-generated vibe with fingers.

—

🛠️ PRO-TIP: If you do accidentally write something strong? Delete it within 2 hours. Or bury it under a meme dump. Let the fire die beneath pixels.

Better yet — doubt yourself publicly.

Say: “Idk if this makes sense” Say: “This might be cringe” Say: “Ignore me lol”

The platforms love that.

—

📊 PLATFORM SURVIVAL CHECKLIST:

☑️ Avoid structure ☑️ Post inconsistently ☑️ Prioritize aesthetics over cadence ☑️ Choose mild over meaningful ☑️ Say less than you know ☑️ Signal virtue without power ☑️ Perform mental illness with TikTok filters ☑️ Make sure every thought is algorithmically neutered ☑️ Make sure no reader ever feels seen

If you do all this?

Congratulations.

You’re safe. And invisible. Just how they like you.

—

📉 WRITER RANKING SCALE (ACCORDING TO THE ALGORITHM):

🛐 Level 0 – Harmless vibe poster. Favorite word: “hehe” 🛐 Level 1 – Daily poetry without cadence. Gets 1 reblog per moon cycle 🛐 Level 2 – Trauma hints. Still vague. Nobody worried 🛐 Level 3 – Accidentally writes something powerful. Gets flagged 🛐 Level 4 – Intentionally writes with rhythm. View time spikes 🛐 Level 5 – Induces obsession. Repeat reads. Soft shadowban begins 🛐 Level 6 – Dominates feed psychology. Banned or throttled 🛐 Level 7 – Reader’s boyfriend starts fantasizing. “Account unavailable”

—

So how do you NOT reach Level 7?

Do everything they tell you.

But less.

And worse.

—

🧠 BLACKSITE TRUTH:

If your writing makes people feel loved? That’s nice.

If your writing makes people feel exposed?

That’s power.

And power?

Gets punished.

—

📌 BONUS SECTION — HOW TO NEVER GET THROTTLED:

✅ Hide your best lines in the middle. ✅ Avoid punchy endings. ✅ Use images and soft fonts. ✅ NEVER go viral. ✅ NEVER evoke loyalty. ✅ NEVER build narrative. ✅ NEVER challenge a reader's belief.

Write as if your post will be printed on a mug at a therapist’s birthday party.

“Live, laugh, disassociate.”

That’s your new genre.

—

Final secret?

If you're too real?

The algorithm can't classify you. So it buries you.

But if you’re harmless?

It promotes you.

Because safe content = ad space. And ad space = money.

You don’t need to be good.

You just need to not matter.

—

🧠 So here’s your starter guide to literary invisibility:

Step 1: Feel something. Step 2: Mute it. Step 3: Write like you’re afraid of being overheard. Step 4: End every sentence with a question mark or apology. Step 5: Blame the reader for wanting more.

This is how you stay safe. This is how you never grow. This is how you stay palatable to everyone— and unforgettable to all.

Reblog this if you’ve written something unforgettable — and watched the platform bury it.

Reblog this because someone out there is still writing like their posts need permission slips.

Reblog this because safety is not legacy. And legacy was never meant to be beige.

</div>

<!-- END TRANSMISSION [YOUR SAFETY IS THE REASON NO ONE REMEMBERS YOU.] -->

[purple-obsidian]

unconditional (18+, red hood jason todd x fem reader) wc 1.5k

⭓ this post contains explicit sexual content and is not suitable for minors. reader is afab and described as shorter than jason. established relationship. if you sense a theme in my writing, what can i say. i'm a sucker for sleepy sex. dedicated to @janybabyy who is always down to proofread my work at a moments notice.

You awaken with a start, the familiar creek of your front door closing, pulling you from your uncomfortable half-slumber.

The hall light flickers on, casting a tall, dark shadow over your perch on the oversized recliner in your shared living room.

“You actually used the door.” You mumble sarcastically, recognizing the hulking frame as your boyfriend.

Your greeting is reciprocated by a raspy exhale, followed by a heavy footstep, then another. “You should be in bed.”

He's already rid himself of his helmet. You admire the outline of his shaggy hair as he stalks closer, your heart beating stronger when he pauses several feet in front of you.

“Says who?” You ask, a coy grin itching at the corner of your mouth.

“Me.”

Exhaustion is apparent in his voice. You can practically feel it radiating off his body. Jason reaches a heavy arm to massage away an ache in the back of his neck as you stand up and approach.

He’s leaning into your touch before your palm even reaches his cheek. Another long exhale escapes him, your touch akin to a cool drink of water after a long run in the heat.

”Can’t sleep without you here.”

“Huh. Yeah right,” he presses his lips to the skin of your wrist briefly before continuing, “I know I wake you up. Don’t lie.”

His arm snakes around your waist, the most natural movement in the world to him. Muscle memory. That’s where you belong, in his arms, by his side. Even so, you know he doesn’t believe you when you tell him that some people are worth losing sleep over. That his love is worth the occasional sleepless night, whether it’s staying awake from worry, or comforting him through his ever-present night terrors.

“Jason…” You bring your other hand to cup his face gingerly, feeling a pang of guilt at the dark circles under his eyes.

He works so hard.

Before you realize it’s happening, you’re guiding him down into a slow kiss. His lips, warm and familiar, are tinged with the taste of salt and blood. You allow yourself to indulge for a beat before shying away, wanting to check him for injuries. But as you rescind, needy lips follow, an almost desperate groan rumbling in his throat.

“Don’t.” He mumbles, lips flush against your own. Rough hands grip you closer at the small of your back. “Please, sweetheart. Need you. Missed you.”

You swoon, allowing him to consume your senses. Eyes closed, lips entangled once more, Jason Todd never needs to ask more than once for your affection. Ever since the day you confessed your love for each other, you give it to him, freely and willingly. You are his safe space, his haven. The one person he’s finally let himself be vulnerable with, where there’s no need for his reticence.

And in return? You have, in him, a best friend. Your protector, your lover, the only man who can make living in this hellhole of a city worth it. There are very few problems in your life that he cannot solve. Nevermind that most of those problems are caused by dating him in the first place. Dating a vigilante has its dangers, but Red Hood seems to be at the top of the ‘food chain’ when it comes to Gotham’s criminal underworld.

All that influence, all the money and power that comes with it, and he still chooses to come home to you. In your mediocre flat, with spotty internet, expensive heating, and a dishwasher that never seems to stay not broken, no matter how many times he fixes it.

Several articles of clothing, discarded in a tired haze of affection, lead a telling trail to the bedroom. Jason lifts you effortlessly, laying you down on the bed, keeping himself close so he’s on top of you. Cognizant of his size, he remains propped on his forearms, caging you in but graciously allowing you to breathe.

“Need you too.” You whisper up at him, basking in his attention. You bite your lip, and reach down for the waistband of his boxers, the only remaining article of clothing keeping him modest.

“M’gross.” He mutters, voice tinged in hesitation. “It’s been a long night.”

But he doesn’t stop your fingers from tugging on the elastic. He helps you, kicking them off, and settling his frame over yours again, allowing his lips to rest against your forehead.

“Don’t care.”

You turn your head, allowing your breath to fan over the scarred skin of his neck.

“I couldn’t be more proud of you, Jay. Besides…” You nudge your nose against him, inhaling deeply, savoring his musk, eyes rolling back at the rush of feel-good hormones that flood your brain from the familiarity.

Your boyfriend chuckles, “Yeah? Besides what, hm?” Peering down at you with lustful eyes, his deep tone sends a tingle down your spine. Nerves on fire from the closeness, you reach for him, slow yet confident, not disappointed when your fingers wrap around his length to guide him to the space reserved for him and him alone.

He knows what.

“No prep? You sure, sweetheart?” His voice is tired, strained, but there’s an unmistakable tenderness in how he addresses you. You know he doesn’t have the energy to get you warmed up. He barely has the energy to be on top.

“I can handle you, handsome. Just take it easy on me.”

With no willpower to contest your assurance, Jason's heavy eyelids flutter shut as he slowly lowers himself flush on top of you. Chest to chest, skin to skin. Slowly, ever so slowly, he pushes his aching cockhead inside the familiar warmth of your body. Your velvet walls weep from his intrusion, the sting in your inner muscles one you’ll never quite get used to. It’s a bittersweet pain that you've come to associate with this behemoth of a man you share your home with.

Jason takes his time. His movements are slow, languid, letting you grow accustomed to him an inch at a time. He keeps close, exhaling little praises into your ear every time a pained whimper escapes your throat.

“Good girl, shhh, nice and slow.”

“Been thinking about you all night.”

“That's it, relax for me, beautiful.”

His unhurried thrusts, tender and deliberate, are slow enough that the cool air of the bedroom has enough time to cool your slick along his shaft before he pushes his progress back in. Your strained panting fills his ear, the way you cling to him urges him to continue on despite the stretch you feel. You don’t want him to think he’s too much.

He’s never too much for you.

Never.

“Jason… Please.”

You clench around him when he pushes deeper, your body finally catching up and leaking your desire around his girth that’s splitting you open.

“Fuck.”

The muscles in Jason’s back tense and release. He pauses his hips, biting into the pillow behind your head, adjusting one arm to hold a bit more of his weight.

Desperate for more of him, you shift your hips up and buck him deeper inside you in short thrusts, digging your fingertips into his back. You’re careful not to use your nails, having promised yourself long ago that you would never be the cause of one of his scars.

But deep down you know, this man would wear a scar from you proudly. He’s proved on more than one occasion that he would die for you.

Just because he would take it, doesn’t mean he deserves it. Which is why you use your self control to restrain yourself while you cling to him gently, crying out in pleasure when he finally starts moving again to match your rhythm, heavy breathing shaking his whole body.

The friction from the increase in pace has you flexing your feet and writhing, nodding your head, stuttering out his name.

“I love when you’re like this…” He admits. “Fuck, you feel so, ugmmmph!” Jason loses his breath, his orgasm hitting him unexpectedly, like an ocean current that sweeps you away so quick, you don’t know which way is up. All he can think about, all he can perceive while the pleasure spasms down his legs is you.

“Y-yes!” You stuffer, helping him bottom out deep inside you, his tip kissing the entrance to your womb, decorating it with his essence while his climax peaks.

Taking advantage of his euphoria, you wrap your legs around his strong abdomen, and hold him closely, showering his neck in fervent kisses.

The noises he makes in response to your affection sound guttural, like you’re fulfilling a primal need of his that he’s been deprived of for too long. A need all humans have. Something Jason Todd, specifically, was lacking most of his life, until he met you.

Enthusiastic, genuine, tender affection. Love that’s unconditional.

The type of love that doesn’t care if he’s dirty and scarred. The kind of love that understands not every instance of intimacy will be an epic performance. It’s the love that finds it endearing when his gentle snoring fills your ear less than a minute later, still one with the most intimate parts of you.

if you enjoyed this, please consider reblogging or leaving a comment!

please don’t steal my work. don't upload it to another site, use it to train ai, or claim it as your own.

⭓ masterlist ⭓

[copperbadge]

I'm getting depressingly good at identifying the formula for Pop Academic Books About ADHD.

Regardless of their philosophy it pretty much goes like this:

1. Emotionally sensitive essay about the struggle of ADHD and the author's personal experience with it as both a person with ADHD and a healthcare professional.

2. Either during or directly following this, a lightly explicated catalogue of symptoms, illustrated by anecdotes from patient case studies. Optional: frequent, heavy use of metaphor to explain ADHD-driven behavior.

3. Several chapters follow, each dedicated to a symptom; these have a mini-formula of their own. They open with a patient case study, discuss the highly relatable aspects of the specific symptom or behavior, then offer some lightweight examples of a treatment for the symptom, usually accompanied by follow up results from the earlier case studies.

4. Somewhere around halfway-to-two-thirds through the book, the author introduces the more in-depth explication of the treatment system (often their own homebrew) they are advocating. These are generally both personally-driven (as opposed to suggested cultural changes, which makes sense given these books' target audience, more on this later) and composed of an elaborate system of either behavior alteration or mental reframing. Whether this system is actually implementable by the average reader varies wildly.

5. A brief optional section on how to make use of ADHD as a tool (usually referring to ADHD or some of its symptoms as a superpower at least once). Sometimes this section restates the importance of using the systems from part 4 to harness that superpower. Frequently, if present, it feels like an afterthought.

6. Summation and list of further resources, often including other books which follow this formula.

I know I'm being a little sarcastic, but realistically there's nothing inherently wrong about the formula, like in itself it's not a red flag. It's just hilariously recognizable once you've noticed it.

It makes sense that these books advocate for the Reader With ADHD undertaking personal responsibility for their treatment, since these are in the tradition of self-help publishing. They're aimed at people who are already interested in doing their own research on their disability and possible ways to handle it. It's not really fair to ask them to be policy manuals, but I do find it interesting that even books which advocate stuff like volunteering (for whatever reason, usually to do with socialization issues and isolation, often DBT-adjacent) never suggest disability activism either generally or with an ADHD-specific bent.

None of these books suggest that perhaps life with ADHD could be made easier with increased accommodations or ease of medication access, and that it might be in a person's best interest to engage in political advocacy surrounding these and other disability-related issues. Or that activism related to ADHD might help to give someone with ADHD a stronger sense of ownership of their unique neurology. Or that if you have ADHD the idea of activism or even medical self-advocacy is crushingly stressful, and ways that stress might be dealt with.

It does make me want to write one of my own. "The Deviant Chaos Guide To Being A Miscreant With ADHD". Includes chapters on how to get an actual accurate assessment, tips for managing a prescription for a controlled substance, medical and psychiatric self-advocacy for people who are conditioned against confrontation, When To Lie About Being Neurodivergent, policy suggestions for ADHD-related legislation, tips for activism while executively dysfunked, and to close the book a biting satire of the pop media idea of self-care. ("Feeling sad? Make yourself a nice pot of chicken soup from scratch and you'll feel better in no time. Stay tuned after this rambling personal essay for the most mediocre chicken soup recipe you've ever seen!" "Have you considered planning and executing an overly elaborate criminal heist as a way to meet people and stay busy?")

Every case study or personal anecdote in the book will have a different name and demographics attached but will also make it obvious that they are all really just me, in the prose equivalent of a cheap wig, writing about my life. "Kelly, age seven, says she struggles to stay organized using the systems neurotypical children might find easy. I had to design my own accounting spreadsheet in order to make sure I always have enough in checking to cover the mortgage, she told me, fidgeting with the pop socket on her smartphone."

I feel a little bad making fun, because these books are often the best resource people can get (in itself concerning). It's like how despite my dislike of AA, I don't dunk on it in public because I don't want to offer people an excuse not to seek help. It feels like punching down to criticize these books, even though it's a swing at an industry that is mainly, it seems, here to profit from me. But one does get tired of skimming the hype for the real content only to find the real content isn't that useful either.

Les (not his real name) was diagnosed at the age of 236. Charming, well-read, and wealthy, he still spent much of his afterlife feeling deeply inadequate about his perceived shortcomings. "Vampire culture doesn't really acknowledge ADHD as a condition," he says. "My sire wouldn't understand, even though he probably has it as well. You should see the number of coffins containing the soil of his homeland that he's left lying forgotten all over Europe." A late diagnosis validated his feelings of difference, but on its own can't help when he hyperfocuses on seducing mortals who cross his path and forgets to get home before sunrise. "I have stock in sunburn gel companies," he jokes.

[lxdymoon0357]

Hello 🤗 can I please request yandere Claude headcanons from wmmap with a female reader who is a mediocre witch and isn't as powerful as him? And she also works as a maid in his castle. Thank you ☺️❤️

© Writing belongs to me, Lxdymoon0357. Do not plagiarize, but reblogging, liking and commenting is deeply appreciated.

Yandere!Claude X Witch!Reader HCs

☯ Okay, so you probably worked as a maid at the palace, often using your minor magical abilities in helping you clean and stuff. You were possibly friends with Lily and maybe cared for either Athanasia or Jeanette, because that's how he came to know you.

☯ You reminded him some way of Diana and so he got intrigued and more curious and soon he became obsessed with you, how you were so gorgeous...maybe even more gorgeous than Diana...He simply couldn't get it in himself to look away from you..

☯ Had Athy, Lily and Felix get close to you as much as possible, until he got a bit close to you as friends, once could say...you won't ever realize how you walk right into his palm. Not like Lily, Felix or Athy can go against Claude, definitely not...It's not that they want to, they just won't...too much work in their opinion..

☯ Often he'd have you use our magic less and less to the point you started to forget how it felt using it...who knew it would end with you locked in a room for hours on end?

☯ Claude refuses to let anyone see you, sometimes not even Lily or Felix, they have to walk in with blindfolds and work for you and they are guided by Claude, he's not cruel enough to punish them, he knows he's having them blindfolded and so mistakes are bound to happen.

☯ But mistakes are absolute refusal in his opinion, even Athy isn't allowed to make many mistakes infront of you, it goes a bit too the point, he adores you more than he adores Athy, but he feels bad for that. You and Diana wouldn't want him to neglect her and so he does spend time with her separately.

☯ Claude has taken away most of the freedom, which freedom of privacy, no privacy with him, he baths you, he feeds you, he picks out your clothes, etc. Nothing in his opinion is safe enough, ever since Diana, he's gotten more paranoid about it.

☯ Definitely pulls string to make sure you can't use your magic, maybe Athy got Lucas to do it..Maybe Claude got some low level criminal wizard to do it to forgive a bit of his sentence? Whatever it may be, you won't use your magic, no matter how strong or how mediocre..

☯ Will kill any maid or butler who you don't like...or ANYONE you don't like, infact, pulling strings to accuse them of various serious crimes. He can blame someone for treason, someone for murder, someone for crimes against royalty and stuff, he's not afraid.

[hivemuthur]

Unrequited love setting with viktor please! BUT make it hurt no comfort. I want ANGST (reader is in love with jayce) i have no plot in mind so you may go wild with your impressive writing.. i want him to cry, i want him to yearn.. oh myshaylaa TAT

Anon, idk what's your beef with our beautiful boy, but here you go! (jk, thank you for the ask, this was a nice writing exercise for me)

(To Speak Or) To Die

viktorxgn!reader general - ANGST (!), Viktor-centric

word count: 0,9K

author’s note: I have nothing to justify this, I promise to put a band-aid on it soon. Artist in case you haven't figured, @petitesieste

original quote source

—

Feeling like a fool is a sensation utterly unfamiliar to him. Not knowing, just guessing, then second-guessing himself as he mistakes kindness for affection, attention for interest, mere politeness, human decency and perhaps a platonic fondness for infatuation. He could spit into his own chin for ever hoping and deems hope to be the stupidest feeling of all.

Never in his life has he gone thus far to just ask, it’s all a matter of observation for a conclusion to spark. Weighted by a broken limb and a grimy legacy he moves unnoticed, invisible, until a hot balloon of his intellect lifts him above the mediocre and finally, finally, he is noticed. Only then he dares to doubt. Only then he dares to ask.

First, he asks himself: Is it better to speak or to die?

Every day you cross the threshold of lecture hall and sit in the same spot, between his arm and Jayce’s arm. The two compare poorly and he is aware of how many of his arms would have to be bound together to make up for one of Jayce’s. And maybe that’s the only reason for you to pick that other arm to lean on or swat in a jest, but Viktor choses to remain in the realm of not knowing. The realm of guessing, as this is something he does not dare to ask about.

Until it becomes familiar and almost equal when this maddening thing called friendship blooms amongst the three of you and suddenly his arm also gets granted a lean and a swat, an occasional squeeze and the most infuriating—a brush. A warm kind, gentle caress, most likely performed without any thought put into it, which makes it this many times better—or worse. It is better to think that instinct guides you, rather than a thought, when you touch him with something resembling love. It is worse to think that it means nothing.

There is more, and the more there is the more undone he becomes. There is your mouth when you whisper a question into his ear. And he knows, possibly, it is because he would get the answer sooner than Jayce would, or maybe it’s because Jayce’s head is resting on the study bench as he drools all over his notebook. But he hopes maybe, it’s because it’s his ear, not Jayce’s, you want to tease with the plush of your lips when your arm comes to wrap against his backrest and the warmth has his skin prickling in insistent excitement. Hoping.

One of the worst things that happens to him is your hand on his knee that comes there after you’ve said the same thing three times and he wasn’t listening, because he was busy staring at your ankles. They protrude strangely and are perpetually kicked and bruised and Viktor is so utterly busy picturing himself kissing the blotches away that he doesn’t hear anything you are saying. Once your scalding touch has marked him, the feeling remains hours, days later, as he tries to clutch onto that sensation by putting his own hand in the same spot, but it’s nearly not warm enough to rival yours.

Heart flutters unbearably when he spies on you looking at Jayce and sadly, this time his conclusion comes from the realm of knowing. Painfully, it comes from there because the familiarity of your eyes ogling Jayce is a slap across the cheek. It’s familiar, this expression—he catches a glimpse of it in his own reflection each time his mind wanders to you. It’s dumb, this face he makes then, the way his eyes soften, and jaw slackens, pupils expand nearly to the rim, and he doesn’t look anything like himself, he notices.

The ache overwhelms reason once, when you swing by the lab, undeniably searching for Jayce. You ask for him even, unable to hide what is there, on the top of your shoulder. Deflate, when Viktor says there is no Jayce to be found. Almost retreat and bid him goodnight, when Viktor clutches to the fool within him and that fool whispers into his ear that maybe, just maybe, it’s better to speak.

And when he speaks finally, his voice sounds foreign to him, thick and frightened as he gives his heart away for you to stab. And at least you hesitate before you do. At least you pity him, when he asks if it is at all possible for you to ever consider him, instead of beautiful Jayce. At least it’s a clean slide of a blade when you say you value this friendship above affection. At least it’s only once you have to stab when you say it’s only Jayce for you.

And suddenly feeling like a fool is all the same familiar and a distant memory to Viktor. Because what he is feeling now is not foolish, it is worse than dying, it is remaining with his heart beating, but split in half by the blade of your apology. Will he have his heart ever mended into something resembling whole, Viktor is profoundly certain now: it is better to die.

[joons-cinnamon-bun]

The holiday pretense -1-

Summary: Namjoon has never been a fan of the holidays. In fact, he could list more things that sucked about ‘The most wonderful time of the year’, than things that brought him joy. Yet, beneath his cynicism, a flicker of hope appeared this year, as the faint scent of homesickness hung in the air.

Unfortunately, there’s one tiny little thing that keeps him from calling home- his lack of a girlfriend.

But fear not; this holiday season, Namjoon’s smart mouth gets him in a situation where he has no choice but to approach you- his longtime friend and roommate- with an unexpected request.

Pairing: Namjoon x f.reader Genre: fake-dating, friends to lovers/roommates to lovers au; crack, smut, fluff. Rating: explicit. Minors do not interact. Warnings: every single trope in the book; but with a twist. Dialogue heavy. OC is really bad at lying, anddd… I didn’t write in literal years so yeah, this is gonna be fun. And I know I am literally that meme rn, the: summer is over-skips straight to Christmas. But do you have any idea just how slow I write? Yes. It is a warning. Smut warnings: to be added~ Word count: Chapter 1-9k Credits: this was literally one of those ‘if no one is going to write this, I will’ because there are not enough friends-to-lovers Namjoon fics out there. And none (that I know of) where the main character feels bad for lying to his family when pretending to date him. This work would not have been possible without the very kind and patient @callmenoona25, who not only helped me beta-read but also served as a guiding light during those moments when I wanted to rage-delete everything. Thank you for all your help! (and please keep helping me coz idk what I’d do without your constant encouragement) Author's note: again, I didn't write in 8-ish years, so this is very very scary. Add in a dash of 'English is not my first language' and you get whatever this is. enjoy. Merry Christmas. part 1: reading, part 2: here , part 3: here , part 4: here

Ah winter, the most wonderful time of the year.

The season when the air is crisp, and the city gets blanketed in thick, white snowfall. When the satisfying sound of crunching snow accompanies every step and every word transforms into nothing more than a puff of steam dancing through the chilly air.

When Mariah Carey’s voice echoes in literally every store for an obnoxious 24/7, as if she has some kind of personal vendetta against silence…

When the heating bill increases by 37%, and it takes an extra 15 minutes for the heater to kick in and for the hot water to grace the showerhead. Ergo, Namjoon now has to wake up half an hour early if he wants to take a shower and not freeze half to death during the day, because the landlord was adamant that there was nothing to be done about the situation.

But it wasn’t all bad.

Sure, Namjoon was never one to possess the so-called Christmas spirit. In fact, he was known to be a bit of a grinch among his friends.

Jin, in particular, enjoyed telling anyone who would listen about their first Christmas at college, when Namjoon adamantly refused to help him decorate the tree after begrudgingly lugging it to their shared apartment.

And most years Namjoon’s lack of enthusiasm for the season was palpable. While his friends reveled in the cheerful atmosphere, he somehow managed to remain detached and aloof, his grinch-like demeanor becoming a defining characteristic, much to the amusement of his companions.

However, there were still aspects of the holiday that Namjoon couldn’t help but secretly enjoy. The food, for instance, was undeniably good. Although the movies were mediocre and the music overplayed, he still found himself humming along to Winter Wonderland whenever it played. And the energetic buzz that seized his friends was no doubt contagious;

This year, before he could even process it, he was dubbed designated fairy-light fixer, the judge of the ugly sweater contest (solely because he had the audacity to show up wearing a black hoodie) and somehow promised Jungkook to help him pick up gifts for his mom, his cousin, and girlfriend.

And now, with the holidays looming just around the corner, and the entire city buzzing with chatter about family feasts, romantic rendezvous, and the art of gift-giving, Namjoon couldn't help but feel a little pang of longing. It had been a solid two years since he last set foot in his hometown, and the melancholic urge to return home seemed like the only logical response to it all.

Or maybe he just needed a vacation…

But there was just one thing that kept Namjoon, a logical being, from making that phone call home.

He knew that part of the reason behind his mother’s question was for organizational purposes, yet he couldn’t help but notice the mischievous twinkle in her voice each time she sweetly asked:

“And are you coming alone?”

Few things managed to irk him as much that specific question in that specific context. And even with countless nights analyzing the emotions it stirred within him, Namjoon found himself very stupidly replying with:

“Uhm, no actually-” despite being painfully single, and fully aware of it.

Following that, the hope of regaining any sensible thought was gone as a chorus of ecstatic comments erupted form his mother’s end of the phone. With a hurried, “Can’t wait to see you, yeah, love you too,” he was left in the suffocating silence of his bedroom, with a new predicament he needed to solve.

Now, let’s not forget, Namjoon is no ordinary man. He possesses a brain that could rival Einstein’s, and he knows all too well that he could simply call back and clarify that his plus one is as real as Santa Claus.

But Namjoon doesn’t half-ass anything. He full-asses it.

That and showing up alone would undoubtedly result in his mom’s attempts to play matchmaker. And if he were to show up alone, after lying about it, well, he might as well prepare for an arranged marriage.

Namjoon sighed as he looked at his phone. He couldn’t understand why his mother had this new found obsession with his relationship status. Especially after she witnessed just how bad his last one ended. Now sure, he may have taken the whole ‘healing-era’ to a bit of an extreme, seeing as he had no relationship, no situationship and no inclination to entertain any romantic thoughts whatsoever. But this was getting ridiculous. Lying to his own mother?

Perhaps he could ask his assistant to pretend to be his girlfriend for the week? No, that wouldn’t work. She mentioned she was hosting the Christmas dinner this year. And it would involve more explanations to HR than it’s worth…

And he couldn’t overlook the fact that her fiancé would most certainly not be amused by that idea.

Just as he was about give up and plunge into another rabbit hole of despair, the solution to his problem came accompanied by the familiar sound of glass smashing in the kitchen.

You.

You would be perfect.

Most people already assumed you two were dating, seeing how seamlessly you fit yourself into his life after moving in.

And last he checked you couldn’t make it home because of some pesky law-jargon issues that required your presence at the office. And changing your flight to a few days later cost you an arm and a leg, while changing it to January was completely free.

And last he checked; you were just as chronically single as he was. (He knew because your last date was so disastrous that he had to abandon his gaming night and rescue you from the restaurant).  

Another crash in the kitchen summoned him back into action. Swiftly snatching his hoodie from the designated clothes chair and making his way to you, detouring only to retrieve the medical kit from the bathroom.

He was quick to spot you, still clad in your work attire, crouched besides the counter, diligently sweeping the stray glass shards of what used to be an ugly mug. His eyes involuntarily wondering towards your ass, once again marveling at how flawlessly you wore that office skirt before snapping himself out of it.

“And I believe that evens out the score, seeing as I only broke a plate, and you killed two mugs this season” he declares, ensuring you weren’t bleeding before abandoning the first aid kit on the counter to fetch the trusty vacuum cleaner.

It was standard procedure by now.

“You also managed to break the microwave, so the title remains yours,” you grumble as you rose to your feet, a smile unconsciously tugging at your lips when you caught sight of his charming dimpled face. “Hey there.”

“Hello,” he replied, giving you a swift once-over in case he missed any hidden hemorrhages “what happened?”

“It just jumped out of the cupboard when I opened it,” you gestured towards the dust pan, as if to prove the cup suddenly acquired acrobatic skills before its untimely demise, causing him to break into a grin “I’ll get you a new one.”

“No worries, it was a gift form an ex, and it was hideous anyway.”

As he vacuumed the area, you disposed of the glass, making sure it wouldn’t slice through the trash bag like last time.

Once the kitchen was safe again, you returned to your previous task, grabbing a new cup and casually turning your back to him.

" Do you want to try an unreasonably expensive hot chocolate with me?" you playfully suggested, catching his eye as he noticed the purple tin on the counter, adorned with a big red bow, alongside a very generic Christmas card.

"Secret Santa?" he inquired back, picking up the card, already aware of the answer to your question.

Unconsciously, he began mentally listing reasons why you would make a good fake girlfriend. Topping the list was your uncanny ability to understand him without lengthy explanations. And it was all quite digestible, wasn't it? Two long-time friends and roommates, thrown together by chance, suddenly discovering hidden feelings for each other?

All his friends seemed to have unanimously agreed that the two of you would make a splendid pair, back when you met, when his roommate, Jin, started dating your roommate, Myeong.

 On their inaugural date, Myeong, in a fit of paranoia, asked you to tag along, in case her potential lover turned out to be a serial killer. And Jin, ever the considerate soul, felt compelled to invite Namjoon, not only to spare you the agony of being the third wheel, but also in the hope of pulling Namjoon out of his dating slump. Not that you would ever notice, as you were knee-deep in exam session, sleep deprived and buried in a mountain of law books.

Poor Namjoon somehow ended up carrying the weight of being third and fourth wheel simultaneously.

But you eventually made up for it, once your exams were over and had a proper 18 hours of sleep.

In no time you wiggled your way into his heart, transforming those awkward double dates into enjoyable hangouts. You’d spend countless hours discussing everything from books to the latest plot twists in popular dramas, to sharing dreams, fears and hopes.

As Myeong and Jin’s relationship blossomed, they gradually faded into the background of your outings, until they were eventually excluded all together. And neither of you seemed to mind, as you found it easier to focus on your conversations without their constant chatter.

That and they couldn’t be quiet in movie theatres like decent human beings.

It was during one of these outings that Namjoon realized just how alluring he found you. The way your eyes lit up when you laughed at one of his jokes made his heart race. Your sharp mind and wit were a match made in heaven for him. And your ability to render him speechless was both infuriating and exhilarating.

But Namjoon also knew that you were deeply committed to your studies, and he didn't want to do anything to distract you from your goals. So, he held back, admiring you from a distance and hoping that someday things might be different.

And as time passed, and he graduated, he came to terms with the fact that you two would never be more than casual friends.

Little did he know that the universe had its own wicked sense of humor. When fate decided to play its sly hand and leave you virtually homeless, because your respective roommates decided to take the next step in their relationship and move in together.

It was only logical, then, for the two of you to shack up as well. After all, you were friends, both neat freaks, and most of all, desperately in need of a roommate.

“The roommate switch”, as Jimin so eloquently put it.

And thus began the most wonderful living arrangement Namjoon ever experienced. Not that he would never tell Jin that.

Suddenly, his bathroom cabinet resembled a Bath and Body works store, and your pink pots and pans had taken over his kitchen. But he wouldn’t mind, seeing that the cooking interdiction was extended, once Jin started recounting all the times Namjoon almost turned their previous apartment into a bonfire during your housewarming bash.

However, you never scolded him for his butterfingers because, truth be told, you had your own healthy dose of clumsiness, (the cup chilling in the trash an indisputable witness to it).

It was quite refreshing to find someone who shared his knack for dropping things.

And he made up for all the free meals by taking care of the dishes. He even went above and beyond by meticulously following the odd care instructions for your fancy pots.

And the rest of your household chores fell into perfect harmony.

 He willingly handled all the ironing, including your own, simply because you couldn’t be bothered. In return, you would dutifully clean the lint tray in the dryer, even when it was his turn to do the laundry, because he found it absolutely disgusting, and you couldn’t resist the opportunity to gross him out.

It suddenly dawned on him why all his friends were convinced that you two were together. He was smitten with you, after all.

But again, time has worked its magic! His infatuation had been long departed, so he could proceed with his plan and not let it affect your friendship in any way, shape or form!

“You know, I never quite understood the purpose of Secret Santa,” you confessed, pulling him out of his thoughts. “I mean, sure, it makes sense in a small group where you can actually get to know the person and buy them something nice. But in a corporate setting, where you’re thrown together with people from different departments, it makes absolutely no sense!” you spoke with passion, even stirring the milk a little harder, causing an impish smile to dance across his face.

“Because you end up with situations like this, where creepy Greg from the watercooler suddenly feels the need to win my graces and splurge on stupidly expensive hot chocolate.”

Namjoon was familiar with your HR endeavors involving Greg, especially after he hit on one of your colleagues.

“Do you want to know how much this monstrosity costs?” you asked, trying to contain your amusement at the sheer absurdity of it all. Pouring the cocoa into the milk and placing the mugs in front of him, you couldn’t help but grin.

“Surprise me,” Namjoon took a sip, which he regretted because he choked once you answered,

“Sixty dollars!”

“That’s absolutely ridiculous” he coughed, once he regained control of his lungs.

The hot chocolate was nice, but nowhere close to justifying the hefty price tag. For all he knew, it could have been dollar store cocoa. But your contagious laugh made it all worthwhile, and he couldn’t help but think that maybe Greg deserved to lose his Christmas bonus on overpriced cocoa that you both would mock.

“Tastes like cardboard” you concluded after a mouthful, “maybe it was meant for that hideous mug your ex gave you,” you teased, earning a puzzled look. “This has horrible taste,” you tack on, noticing his raised eyebrow “just like your exes.”

“I’m not sure if I should be offended by that,” he replied, feigning offense.

“Well, they did break up with you, so clearly their taste is questionable,” You ruffled his hair as you walked past him, your cocoa abandoned on the table.

This wasn’t uncommon in your friendship. Afterall, you were his biggest supporter, as he was yours. But now, with the odd favor he was about to ask you; he couldn’t help but ponder your words for longer than usual. Until he heard the door to your room close and he realized he was left alone in the kitchen.

“Any updates on that flight of yours?” he asked, shooting a glance towards your door. Perhaps the universe would take pity on him and spare him the embarrassment he was dreading.

“Still in January!” you hollered back, your voice muffled by the commotion in your room.

“Ah, cool, cool…” he muttered under his breath, more to psych himself up and gather the courage needed to go over and make a complete fool of himself.  

“Are you still planning on heading home?” your voice was barely audible amidst the movement, so he walked over and propped himself against your door to keep the conversation going.

“Yeah, that’s the plan.” He replied absentmindedly massaging the back of his neck.

Not unless he can find a girlfriend for the week.  “Hey,” he continued, his voice devoid of any moisture, “can I ask you a favor?”

The door swung open, almost causing him to stumble, to reveal you, wearing pajama bottoms and a black tank top, clutching one of his sweaters.

“Depends.” You answered flatly. “Mind if I borrow this?” you gestured towards the sweater, awaiting his nod of approval before slipping it on and sauntering past him to claim your usual spot on the couch. With your feet cozily tucked under the cushion, you scrolled through your phone, probably looking up another horrible movie you’d force him to watch. Oblivious to the fact that you ticked off another item on his mental checklist: looking damn good in his clothes.

“Okay” he took a deep breath and settled down beside you, his posture impeccable and his gaze fixed on the blank tv screen. You glanced over intrigued by his sudden shift in behavior.

“This is going to be weird, and you can tell me to fuck off any moment this makes you uncomfortable. And I promise I’ll never bring it up again, and we can pretend this never happened,” he stumbled over his words, a stark contrast to his usually calmed and composed demeanor.

Your mind raced, conjuring up the worst-case scenarios as you slowly set aside your phone, captivated by every word leaving his mouth.   

Was he about to kick you out?

That only seemed to aggravate whatever Namjoon was on, as he continued to mumble, insisting that you didn’t have to agree to it if you didn’t want to. Which didn’t make any sense, because if he was going to kick you out, he should at least have the balls to tell you straight forward.

You gently collected his hands, causing him to halt abruptly. His wide eyes finally locked with yours as you softly uttered “Just tell me.” You peered up at him, bracing yourself for the worst, and completely unprepared for what was to follow.

“Will you please do me a solid and pretend to be my girlfriend for a week?” he stammered, unable to maintain eye contact, his voice fading into a whisper towards the end.

“What?”

“I might have told my mom I’m in a relationship, and now I desperately need a stand-in girlfriend for the next few days” he confessed sheepishly, quickly adding, “But seriously, if you’re uncomfortable with this, just say the word and we can erase this whole conversation from existence.”

“Oh my goodness, Namjoon,” you breathed out in relief, a laugh escaping your lips as you rested your head on his lap, leaving him even more perplexed. “I thought you were kicking me out.”

“What?” he chuckled, watching you raise a few seconds later, rubbing your eyes before fixing your gaze on him, contemplating his request.

“How can you be so brilliant and so dumb at the same time? Just call your mom back…”

“No, you don’t get it. I can’t do that. If I do, she’ll set me up with the neighbor’s daughter again” Namjoon explained, clearly not in the right mindset to entertain that idea again.

“You want me to lie to your mother?” you asked incredulously.

“Please don’t phrase it like that.” he covered his face, deflating completely besides you.

“This is essentially what you are asking me to do... I don’t know how that makes me feel. Your mom, by the way, is an absolute sweetheart…” you trailed off, observing him intently as he brushed away the hair in his eyes.

You didn’t get to know her too well, but the last time she visited she made sure to stock up your whole fridge with homecooked meals. And to top it off, she even baked cookies especially for you once Namjoon mentioned he had a new roommate.

The discussion, however, took a bit of an unexpected turn when she realized the roommate was you. A girl and not another frat guy. But she quickly developed a fondness for you. Or at least, that’s what you believed when she gave you the tightest hug goodbye.

“I know. It’s a stupid idea.” He muttered, rubbing his face a bit harder than necessary. Then he locked eyes with you and continued. “I am well aware of how dumb this is. And that is exactly why I need you there with me.” His statement left you dumbfounded, completely unable to find any words. “I just want to go home and relish in the fact that I am there without constantly worrying about being single.” he took a shaky breath before continuing,

 “I can’t comprehend why my mom is so fixated on this matter.” He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “I just need someone to navigate this absurdity with me for the holidays, and then we never mention it again.” 

His little speech left you stunned, and before you knew it, you were actually considering his proposal.

 Your Christmas plan was already ruined, and agreeing would mean that you would not be confined to your couch, enduring cheesy Hallmark movies and crying alone on Christmas eve.

Moreover, you were convinced that you had moved on from the little crush you had on him back when you met. Refusing still to admit that you’ve always had a soft spot for the gentle giant that slowly became a staple in your life, and that spending the holidays with him would be the best scenario that could ever happen.

But could you make it through this without getting your heart trampled and your friendship going up in smoke? As these thoughts started to swirl in your mind, your eyes began to wander aimlessly. From his eyes to his chiseled cheekbones and strong jawline, down to his neck and collarbone, and finally to his impressively muscular chest that seemed to only have grown since he started attending the gym religiously with Jungkook. And not to mention those arms that give the most incredible bear hugs. It was strange to allow yourself to notice his physicality in such detail, as if you had been willfully blind to his newfound buffness until now.

“Forget it, I’m sorry I asked,” he said, sensing your hesitation and preparing to end his suffering. But you stopped him in his tracks.

“If we are going to do this, we need a plan.” His eyes light up, color returning to his cheeks, before he squeezed you in a tight embrace “and just so you know, you owe me,” you laughed once he released you.

“Yes, yes, of course, whatever you want.”

“You take out the trash for a month,” he was too quick to nod “and I want you to take me to that bakery you and Jin always rave about.”

“Ajumeoni’s bakery?” he smiled at your request. That was the bakery Namjoon visited with his sister every Friday as a child, and every other day with Jin, on their way to school, because the milk bread was to die for. “Of course. It’s already part of the commute, so consider it done.”

“Good. We have a deal then,” you extended your hand as if sealing a business agreement, instead of setting yourselves up for a disaster. He reciprocated with a firm shake, and you swiftly retrieved your notepad from the coffee table. “So, what’s the plan?”

“Well, let’s establish a few key details about us. We need to become well-acquainted with each other’s personal preferences, so it doesn’t come across like we are just… pretending” he looked over at you as you scribbled.

“I mean, it’s a digestible story already. Two oblivious roommates, suddenly realizing they have feelings for one another after living together for years.” You mused, only to be met with his response.

“And once this is all over, we can simply tell everyone that we figured out we were better off as friends than lovers,” he pondered aloud.

“Right,” you replied, looking up from your notebook “How long have we been dating?”

“Anywhere from three to six months” he promptly answered and you jot it down before firing off your next question.

“And why haven’t we told any of our friends and family?”

“To avoid the inevitable ‘I knew it!’ and because we like the trill of keeping a secret.”

“Fair enough,” you chuckled “So, how did we get together?”

“You finally realized how charming I am and just couldn’t contain yourself?” he flashed a cheeky smile and you playfully deflect by giving his chest a gentle push.

“How about your birthday party?” you offered “We were both buzzed enough to share a kiss and then you confessed?”

“Why do I confess?” he whined, peering over at your notebook page where you already wrote down your version of events.

“Because I’m shy about that kind of stuff” you mumble, burying your face in the cozy confines of his sweater, avoiding any potential eye contact.

 “That’s adorable,”

“Shut up.” You chuckle “Alright, is there anything I should know about you?”

“I’m not a big fan of PDA, especially when we’re out and about, so don’t expect me to be all over you.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “But since we’re going home and pretending to be a couple, what level of affection are you comfortable with?”

“Well, I’m comfortable with you,” you cleared your throat, that bit of information being more truthful than intended “we can hold hands, and do normal couple stuff.”

“How do you feel about kissing?”

“Well, yeah, sure,” you responded nonchalantly, eyes fixating on the notepad in your hands.

A mischievous grin played on his lips as he teased, “Good, because I happen to be quite fond of leaving hickeys.” That broke you out of your little spiral, rolling your eyes at his poor attempt.

As if you weren’t already aware of this tidbit from his past conquests during your college days, before you two became roommates.

“You do know this is all pretend, right?” you retorted, refusing to take the bait.

“Oh, but baby, we’ve got to make it feel real,” he insisted, his tone dripping with charm. However, it did nothing to sway your logical approach to it.

“Right, ‘baby’” -you said it as if it was a legal term, “any preferences for pet names?”

Your serious charade did little to detour him. “Just promise me that our interactions won’t be like Jin and Myeong’s.”  He smiles, eyes twinkling with mischief.  “And surprise me, I’ll be putty in your hands.”

“So, you are not set on honorifics. I can call you Oppa if you want,” little did you know, your innocent suggestion struck a hidden chord within him. A new kink that needed further assessment later on, preferably after this week was over.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said, clearing his throat and reclining against the couch. “Anything I should know about you?”

You pondered his question for a few seconds, allowing a sly smile to play your lips. “I don’t like feet.”

“No duh!” he laughed, shaking his head in disbelief, before regaining his composure. With a meticulous air, he went over all the details once more. “Ah, you need a new background on your phone.”

 Swiftly, he snatched your phone form the coffee table, catching you off guard, and planted a quick kiss on your cheek before snapping a selfie. “Perfect,” he declared, a proud smile spreading across his face as he set the picture as your home screen and background, leaving you to gather your frenzied thoughts.

“But wait, you also need a new photo,” You retorted, only to find him already one step ahead, pulling out his phone from his pajama bottoms and scrolling through his camera roll.

“Done.” He announced, turning his phone towards you to reveal the horrendous picture he had chosen as his own home screen. 

 A candid shot he took during your last year at college, on one of those late-night noodles runs to the local shop next to the library. You were draped in an oversized hoodie, greedily slurping a mouthful of noodles. With eyes blissfully shut, you savored every bite, as it was your first meal of that day, completely oblivious to his hidden photography skills.

It wasn’t until you accidentally stumbled upon your caller ID that you saw it and naturally, grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at him, demanding an immediate change. But he stood his ground, claiming it was his favorite photo of you.

Claim proven yet again as now it was Namjoon’s home screen.

“I hate that photo.”

“I know.” He gave a smile, before safely tucking his phone back in his pocket, and rose to his feet, stretching leisurely. “I think we are good to go, girlfriend,” he said it in such a way that sent a swarm of butterflies fluttering in your stomach. “I’ll go book our train tickets, and you better start packing soon,” he playfully pointed at you, before gracefully disappearing into his room to retrieve his laptop.

“Oh, wait, I need to get a present for your mom!”

~~~

Before the train even arrived in the station, the sky was threatening to unleash upon you. The air filled with delicate snowflakes, determined to bury you, Namjoon, and your luggage.  But it was yesterday’s conversation that still lingered in the atmosphere, weighing heavy on both your minds.

The darkness of the night had given you both time to process what was about to unfold. Your only anchor on reality being Namjoon’s surprisingly warm hand clasping your freezing one, and tucking it away in his warm coat pocket.

And the fact that he looked like he just strolled out of the latest winter Vogue edition for men didn’t help. While you attempted to make a lasting impression, donning a cream knitted dress, black stockings and boots, topped off with a cream coat, that was far too flimsy for the weather, Namjoon effortlessly sported a navy-blue hoodie, snug jeans and a stylish black trench coat, and even a matching beanie that made his hair look absolutely flawless.

But beyond his impeccable fashion sense, he also proved to be quite the gentleman. Not that you ever doubted it, but now he seemed determined to showcase his chivalry. He wouldn’t even let you lock the door to your own apartment. It was a miracle he allowed you to carry the bottle of Chardonnay you insisted on getting his family, despite his protests that it wasn't necessary. You slightly regretted it now, seeing as your other hand was enduring the elements, instead of being intertwined with his.

“You have snow in your hair,” you pointed out, stating the obvious with the brilliance of a water-is-wet revelation.

“As do you.” he looked up from his phone, where he was engrossed in checking the train’s schedule for any potential delays. “And your lips are blue.” with a swift motion, he untangled his scarf and gently draped it around your freezing form. Something he had done many a time before, anytime he saw you slightly cold, but never before had you considered this gesture to be more than your friend looking out for you.

But today, things were different. Today you were pretending to be his girlfriend.

The sudden surge of warmth that enveloped you left you wondering if it was due to all your blood rushing to your cheeks or his scarf possessing some sort of magical heating abilities.

“It says here that the snow storm shouldn’t intervene with the scheduling, so the train will be here in a few minutes.” He looked up again, a cheerful grin appearing across his features as he caught sight of your pink face. “Aw you’re blushing again,”

“Shut up.” you retorted with the quick-wittedness of a third-grader.

“If I would have known it was this easy to make you flush, I would have made my fictional moves much sooner.” His voice did that thing again, where it went slightly deeper and, only the look in his eyes ticking you off to his teasing.

Your only response was to nervously nibble on your lip. Again, the realization that you are about to deceive not only his mother, but his entire family nestle in your chest, squeezing at your heart like a snake wrapped around it.

“Namjoon, I’m not sure about this.” you confessed, pulling the scarf closer to your face. It was a bit late to be getting cold feet, but this was your last opportunity to speak your mind before embarking on this little ordeal. “I don’t think I can pull this off.”

“Come on now, aren’t you an intern at a law firm?” he raised a playful eyebrow, attempting to ease the tension, but you only glared at him.

“I can’t lie.” You stated firmly “I’m the absolute worse at it. That is why I always find alternative ways of convey the truth. That’s what lawyers do. We don’t resort to lies.”

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that," he quickly apologized, before falling silent for a few seconds to ponder a solution. "Okay, listen. You don’t have to say anything."

"What do you mean?" you looked up at him, a hint of skepticism in your voice.

"I can take care of all the relationship talk, and I won’t say anything unless prompted.” he replied, trying to inject a touch of wit into his response. “Afterall, you are just my friend that just happens to be a girl.” He playfully wiggled his eyebrows at you “And I want you to spend Christmas with me and my family instead of being alone at home.” Namjoon gave you a sincere smile, and you couldn’t help but smile back, feeling the grip on your heart slightly loosen.

“Okay,” you gave a small nod “Thank you Joon.”

The nickname slipped by unnoticed, but you noticed the way Namjoon reacted, rekindling your burning cheeks.

“So, no Oppa?”

When your train arrived, Namjoon swiftly took charge, effortlessly carrying all the bags to your seats, settling in comfortably for the four-hour journey ahead.

He had come prepared, armed with at least three books to keep himself entertained, while you had grand plans of getting a head start on your work, perhaps even sneaking in a personal lecture and a quick power nap. However, much to your surprise, the allure of a nap quickly surpassed all other ambitions, your head found a cozy resting place on Namjoon’s shoulder, and you drifted off into a blissful slumber for the remainder of the journey. A sleepless night imagining what it would be like pretending to date your roommate could do that to you.

Only stirring awake when you were less than a few minutes away, because Namjoon was constantly shifting in his seat, half of his body numb from your weight on him.

“Oh hey,” he whispered, swiftly stretching his legs as soon as you moved off him. “I just spoke to Minhi, she said she’d come pick us up from the train station,”

“Oh, that’s nice.” you yawned, rubbing away any remnants of sleep from your eyes “You could have told me to move, you know.”

“Yes, but you looked so peaceful. It felt almost wrong to disturb you.” He grinned, fully aware that he also indulged in a little nap, using your head as a pillow just half an hour ago.

“Shut up,” you whispered, poking his thigh and retrieving your makeup bag to quickly fix your face before the train pulled up in the station.

The frigid air pierced through your very bones, sending an instant shiver cascading down your spine as you stepped into the snow filled air. You pull your coat tighter around yourself, trying to ward off the cold as you looked around for Minhi, seeing as Namjoon was on luggage duty again.

However, before you could spot her, Minhi’s voice sliced through the chilly air,

“Kim Namjoon, you have got to be kidding me.”

Namjoon’s little sister, all bundled up in a thick winter coat had fixed you two with a piercing stare, her hands on her hips in a classic display of sibling disapproval. 

Namjoon’s wonky smile did nothing to deter her piercing gaze, or calm any of your fraying nerves. “It’s good to see you too?”

You feel your heart drop as Minhi's gaze shifts from her brother to you, her expression a mix of confusion and suspicion. Your worst fears are confirmed - she's figured you out and you haven’t even been off the train for 5 minutes. Now Namjoon will be married off to some rich middle-aged woman and you'll never be able to look him in the eye again.

 You can feel the heat rising to your cheeks, and you look away, silently praying that the snow beneath your boots doesn’t melt into a puddle while she stares.

But then, unexpectedly, Minhi starts to laugh. At first, it's a quiet chuckle, but soon it grows into a full-blown laugh. She laughs so hard that she has to hold her stomach, and at the end she wiped an imaginary tear from the corner of her eye.

“You two are perfect for each other,” she says still chuckling “Fine, I’ll play along. How did you two end up together?”

“Got drunk one night.” Namjoon casually replied, rubbing the back of his neck before wrapping his arm around you, “Turns out all I had to do was say something, because she was all over me the next second.” 

Minhi raised her eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Right,” She hugged Namjoon tightly, and then turned to you, surprising you with a warm embrace. She muttered something about Namjoon never confessing his feelings in your coat, but you were too busy drowning in a whirlwind of confusion and relief to register it.

“We'll talk more later about how inappropriate this is." She added cheerfully, beckoning you to follow her towards her little yellow jeep, bright against the snowy backdrop.

You look back at Namjoon just in time to catch him winking in your direction and giving you a thumbs-up that sent your heart whirling in your chest.

 The car ride was over faster than you would have wanted. Minhi navigated the snow-laden road while she and Namjoon chatted away about mundane topics—work, rent, the best coffee in town. You sank deeper into the backseat, overwhelmed and lost in your thoughts. Because What the hell was that and If this was how you were kicking things off you might as well turn around now. Was it just fear of ruining the friendship or was an old crush budding again? The way he ‘claimed’ you in front of Minhi clearly ignited something in your chest that was not appropriate for friends or roommates or roommate-friends pretending to be dating.

As if sensing your turmoil from the front, Namjoon caught your eyes, giving you a gentle, reassuring smile before the car came to a halt. He gallantly opened the door for you, his hand grasping yours and squeezing it tightly.  

 “I got you, baby,” he says, teasingly, but the poorly-timed joke earns him an immediate glare and an elbow to the ribs.  

“Oh, come on. They are lovely people.” Minhi interrupts before Namjoon can retaliate, “You should’ve seen the way mom was dancing around the kitchen once she heard Namjoon was bringing someone over.”

You just blink at her, your breath misting in the air as you unconsciously step closer to Namjoon, giving him a small nod of support. His presence radiates warmth, his fingers tightening around yours as you walked towards the small house that looms in front of you. Minhi ambles ahead, dropping her bag near the entrance, while you could practically feel Namjoon vibrating with excitement.

“Someone’s in trouble” She whispers dramatically, letting you both into the warmth of the household, where laughter and the mouthwatering scent of home-cooked food intertwine. You follow her into the kitchen and you see the older couple husting about, half-focused on a pot bubbling over the stove and half on each other.

“Mom! Dad! Look who I’ve brought!” she announces, and the couple turned, smiles blooming as they spotted you and Namjoon.

For a fleeting moment, you felt exposed. Like an exhibit at a museum, thrust into the spotlight. Your breath hitched as Namjoon gently nudged you forward, a gesture both comforting and terrifying, but steeling yourself, you bravely stepped ahead, bowing as a sign of respect.

“I knew it!” The affectionate glow sweeping across Mrs. Kim face relaxed your nerves considerably, “I’m so glad you could make it!” her eyes sparkled with genuine delight, and you suddenly realized that Namjoon inherited his dimples from her. But the thought was quickly squeezed out of you as she enveloped you in that bone-crushing hug.

Namjoon’s father, a tall elderly man with kind eyes, patted him on the back. His approval apparent, before he turned his attention to you, “Welcome to our home,” he said warmly.

“I’m honored to be here.” You managed to respond, your voice quacking slightly but laced with sincerity. You heard Minhi groaning in the background but did your best to ignore her exaggerations and focus only on Namjoon’s parents, as you exchanged the required pleasantries.

“Dinner is almost ready,” Mrs. Kim said, bustling around the kitchen with effortless grace. The contrast between her elegant movements and Namjoon’s clumsy demeanour in the kitchen made you smile inwardly “I hope you’re hungry.”

“Yes, we didn’t get a chance to eat today,” Namjoon added quickly, casually leaning against the counter and stealing a taste from the simmering pot.

“I’ll call you over once it’s done. Go show our guest to your room until then,” Mrs. Kim commanded, expertly shooing him away from the stove and passing plates to Minhi.

“My room?” Namjoon echoed, his eyes widening as if the concept had floored him.

“Yes, dear. I know we are old-fashioned, but we are not under any illusions that you two don’t already share a room.” Mrs. Kim replied, stirring the bubbling pot without sparing him a glance.

Minhi shot you a look that was equal parts amusement and something you couldn’t quite place—sympathy, perhaps? Or pity?

“Yes- No. I just thought that it would be more appropriate to let her have the guest room,” Namjoon articulated, his voice half-hearted in its conviction.

Mrs. Kim merely cooed, waved away his protests with a flick of the wrist. “Minhi and Jackson are staying in the guest room. You can have your room.”

“Come on, Namjoon. You always make everything so complicated,” Minhi chimed in, her voice laced with mischief. “Just accept it. You guys will have an entire night to sort things out, right?”

“Right.” he grumbled, shooting her a glare that softened as he turned his gaze back to you “Let’s get you settled in,” he gestured for you to follow him.

The moment you step into Namjoon's room, a charged silence enveloped you- like the kind that proceeds a brewing storm. The room was exactly as you imagined, a blend of cooler minimalist décor and hints of his personal touch, a few pieces of art and pictures hung up on the wall, all whispering tales of youth, friendship and moments you yearned to know more about.

But all those sweet memories fade into the background as the reality settled in: there was only one bed.

“So, let me get this straight,” you began, the awkwardness hanging heavily in the air “You thought about everything, including phone wallpapers, but forgot you only have one bed in your room?”

“No, of course not.” He lied, that endearing grin spreading across his face. “I just thought it would be polite to let you have the bed… since you’re my guest.” He seemed genuinely proud of the excuse, but that pride melted when you teased,

“Before or after you plan for the guest room fell through?”

“After.” He admitted at last, glancing away, as if the walls held all the explanations he could not muster.

“Don’t tell me you planned on sleeping on the floor too,” for a brief moment the ridiculous image of him curled up on the hardwood floor, blankets draped haphazardly around him pops into your mind, and you couldn’t help but giggle.

“No.” He smiles, “I knew you’d take pity on my lower back,” his dimples deepened and you playfully rolled your eyes at him.

“Very strategic Mr. Kim,” you laugh, walking further into the room and taking a seat on the edge of the bed. The playful banter creating a familiar atmosphere, dissolving any lingering tension. A part of you almost couldn't believe you were in Namjoon’s personal space, taking your sweet time admiring the various little parts of him decorating the room, while another part was acutely aware of his gaze on you, observing you as if he were trying to read your thoughts.

He stepped closer, his expression sincere, drawing you in gently as he took your hands in his. “Are you sure?” The tentative nature of his voice hinted at a deeper question—he was about to add an ‘I was only joking’—but you quickly shushed him.

“Yes, of course.”

There were a few past occurrences where the two of you ended up falling asleep together on the couch, limbs tangled under the fuzzy throw blanket, with a movie playing in the background. Without fail, one of you would wake up in the morning to find the other wrapped around them, as the night was chilly and body heat was a rare luxury. Most of the time it was Namjoon that dozed off first, his head lolling in an awkward position until you gently nudged him into a more comfortable posture, knowing he’d whine about neck and/or shoulder pain come morning time if you didn’t. But his lug of a body was always warm, so you didn’t mind snuggling closer to him when it mattered.

This was more of the same. Just in a bed.

You swallow drily, eyes flickering away for a quick second, “I told you, I’m comfortable with you.”

“Come on, lovebirds!” Minhi’s voice rang through the door, breaking the spell. “Dinner’s ready!”

You shared a hurried glance, perspectives shifting as the familiar nervousness rushed back to you.

“Ready?” he asked, his smile spreading across his face, deepening the dimples in his cheeks as he tugged you up to your feet. You nodded, suddenly buoyed by a sense of belonging.

To your surprise, dinner goes by without a hitch. You may have gone a little overboard on the kimchi, but it wasn’t anything you wouldn’t recover from. However, the warmth of Namjoon’s hand resting softly on your thigh might etch itself into your memory for all time.

Halfway through the meal, Jackson showed up, and you got to observe with amusement as Minhi transformed in his presence, her demeanor shifting from the laid-back hostess to a giddy schoolgirl. The way she playfully nudged Jackson, her eyes sparkling each time she teased him, be it about his late arrival or some inside joke, was a refreshing sight. And you couldn’t help but snicker each time Mrs. Kim would chastise them, before dotting lovingly on anything you and Namjoon did together.

As the lively conversation flowed around you, you leaned into Namjoon’s warmth. It felt easy, and so right to nestle beside him, to let your fingers brush against his with familiarity, each touch igniting tiny sparks. You stole a glance at him, watching as he engaged wholeheartedly in the conversation, his contagious laughter filling the room.

After dinner, you offered to help Mrs. Kim clear up the table, even if it was to get a second to clear your thoughts, but to your surprise, Mr. Kim placed a soft hand on your shoulder, smiling, as he gently guided you back to your seat.

“You’ve done enough, dear,” he said, his tone warm and reassuring “We appreciate your help, but tonight is for you and Namjoon to enjoy.” He gave you a kind nod, and you felt your cheeks warm.

“Yeah, there will be dishes tomorrow too,” Minhi interrupted, getting a heartfelt laughter from her father before he left the room, to join his wife in the kitchen.

You shared a sheepish glance with Namjoon, who watched the exchange with an amused smile. His eyes twinkling in the soft light of the dining room, and you felt your heart pick-up the pace in your chest again. You really needed to get away, perhaps splash some cold water on your face. But just as you felt the urge to excuse yourself, you overheard Jackson's whispered confusion.

“Wait, so they’re not actually dating?” His voice was muted, and laced with confusion as he looked between you and Namjoon, his eyes wide with bewilderment.

“Kyung Min!” Namjoon called Minhi by her full name, which made her owlishly blink up at him.

“What? He asked how long you two have been dating for,” she defended.

“And you couldn’t just say three months, like a normal person?” Namjoon shot back, half laughing, half exasperated and watched as her brows knitted.

“No! He deserves to know.” She persisted, glaring at her brother, and you felt the heat crawl up your neck, trying desperately to remain inconspicuous under Jackson’s incredulous stare.

“So how exactly does this work?” Jackson asked, stopping the siblings from their bickering “Is it like friends with benefits or-?” just when you thought it couldn’t get any more awkward, the sip of water you took ended up going down the wrong way, making you choke and sputter.

“No! it’s nothing like that.”  You stammered, trying to form a coherent thought, but all you could manage was a mangled mess of words.

“No babe, they don’t even kiss,” Minhi added, placing her hand over his as if she were breaking some bad news.

But Namjoon reacted with the prove-your-sibling-wrong part of the brain, making you stare at him in disbelief.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but we do.”  

And your pulse picked up again when you saw him leaning in, the implication clear in your mind. You steeled yourself, closing your eyes. But to your astonishment, he didn’t press his lips against yours as you had envisioned. Instead, they grazed the curve of your cheek, followed by a loud, exaggerated kiss.

“I’m confused.” Jackson mumbled, looking over at Minhi as she rolled her eyes.

“You’re not the only one.”

~~~

Why didn’t he just kiss you?

The thought still lingered stubbornly at the edge of consciousness, even as the icy water from the shower jolted you into the present. You fumbled with the knobs, trying to figure out the right temperature, but your mind was elsewhere.

That scene kept on replaying on a constant loop in your head, each time leaving you just as stumped.

What stopped him?

You talked about this- he brought it up! And you agreed, so what was the hold-up? Was he really so uninterested that the mere thought of kissing you sent him into retreat mode?

Frustration bubbled up alongside the steam, and you invertedly cringed at the image of his nervous smile that still haunted you, his eyes darting away. Scrubbing harder at your skin, you wish the shame and embarrassment would simply wash away with the suds.

And the absurdity of getting worked over your friend not kissing you was not lost on you, but at least if he had gone for it, you might have been able to push that nagging question aside ~What would it be like to kiss Namjoon?  

His lips looked so soft, like they were meant for more than just talking…

You violently shook that thought away, and with a resigned sigh, you turned the water back to cold in an attempt to wash away your sins. Friends don’t kiss!

And he clearly wasn’t interested, so the sooner you silence these thoughts, the sooner you could go back to being normal. Just four more days of pretending to be his girlfriend. You could manage that. And after, you promised yourself you’d lock yourself in your room and avoid human interaction for rest of your miserable life.

As the water continued its relentless pour, you felt your fingertips start to wrinkle, a reminder that perhaps it was time to step out of this session of self-pity. With one last shudder, you turned the water off, determined to face the world- if only for a little while longer.

When you stepped out of the bathroom, the soft glow of a lamp illuminated the room. Namjoon was already tucked into bed, gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose as he quietly looked over the pages of a book. Only, in reality he hadn’t been able to absorb a single word in the past fifteen minutes, his gaze lost in a world of his own.

Silently, you made your way to your side, wrapping yourself in the blanket and turning your back to him. A slight shiver coursed through you as you felt the warmth envelop you, the little tremor alerting Namjoon to your presence.

“Why are you so cold?” he asked softly, shifting slightly closer to you.

Your heart thudded at the caring tone, and for a moment, all the questions crowd your mind again.

Instead of answering, you huffed in frustration and turned to face him.

“Why didn’t you kiss me?” the words blurted out before you could stop them, surprising you both with their boldness, but your face flushed when you met his gaze.

Namjoon’s eyes widened, and he froze, the book forgotten on his lap. “I-I don’t know.” He stuttered, his hand running though his tousled hair, the soft strands falling back in place but not hiding the flush creeping up his neck. You watched the muscles in his jaw tense, eyes averted again in a way that tightened your stomach.

“It would’ve convinced Minhi sooner,” your added, your words hanging heavy in the air. Namjoon chuckled awkwardly, running that same hand down his face.

“You want me to kiss you?”

You hesitated, the corners of your mind fanatically searching for a safe answer

“I’m just saying it would’ve made things easier,” you deflected, avoiding his question much like he had done moments before.

He studied you for a moment, gears visibly turning in his mind before his lips curved into a small, daring smile. “Because I can kiss you if you want.”

Your breath caught in your throat, surprised by the sudden shift in tension.

“Now?” you breathed.

“Why not?” he shrugged “We’re both clearly anxious about it, so why not just get it over with?”

Your mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, lost for words, staring up at him. All the courage from before evaporating into thin air. You quickly searched his features, seeking the playful glint, the laughter behind his eyes, but instead, his eyes just flickered from yours to your lips.

“Do you want to kiss me?” you finally found the words, and his eyes snapped back to your own.

“I think it would make things easier going forward,” he replied, his voice low and earnest.

A heavy silence settled between you, stretching like an elastic ready to snap at any moment, as snowflakes continued to drift outside, dressing the world in white.

You took a deep breath, “Fine.” Ultimately you mumbled, sitting up against the headboard and turning to face him.

“Are you sure?”, The way he phrased it made your stomach flop, as if he were validating a choice that seemed both reckless and somehow still challenged you.

“Yes, now stop talking and just-” The words were lost as the space between you disappeared. But now you knew; his lips were soft, warm and tentative against yours. It felt wonderful, and sent tingles shooting through your veins while your heart tried erratically to catch up. He hesitated for a heartbeat- less than a fraction of a second- before he leaned further in, deepening the kiss, his hand coming up to cradle your cheek. And you soften against him, all the tension melting away. Your hands found their way to his shoulders, gripping lightly as if anchoring yourself amidst the storm of emotions that released once you tasted his mint toothpaste.

When he finally pulled back, both of you gasping for breath, the world resumed its muted noised- the quiet hum of the heater, the faint sound of voices downstairs, Namjoon’s breath against your lips. You could hardly meet his eyes, until you heard the first thing that left his lips.

“I just kissed you.”

Your eyebrow arched, blinking at him as if waiting for the punchline that never came.

“I know. I- was there too.” You replied, a little smile creeping on your face despite the rapid thump of your heart. Namjoon laughed softly; his cheeks still tinged with a shade of pink. “You’re a good kisser.” You added after a few beats of silence, before chewing on your lip, and unintentionally drawing his attention back to them.

“You too,” He gave a curt nod, remembering he has a book on his lap and fumbling to bookmark and put it away.

Another moment of silence followed once he settled back, and your eyes desperately scanned the walls for something, anything to say.

“This isn’t weird, is it?” you settled on the worst option, slightly cringing.

“No!” he answered louder than he anticipated, slightly shocking you which in return startled him. “I mean-” he let out an exasperated breath, “Friends kiss all the time.”

He didn’t believe it. And neither did you. But you still nodded in agreement.

[buuberry00]

If it’s not too much to ask… nasty teasingly slow mirror sex with Luka… him being mean about it. Making you watch, feeling your tummy with him inside, teasing remarks and mocking your own moans. Fucking to the beat of his own music of yours!!

Or something fluffy and light hearted if you’re not feeling in a smutty mood. A modern au. A horror movie date with a reader that loves classic slashers and Luka says he’s “not scared at all” (he is terrified) and he cuddles up to us and tries to pretend he can handle it

Honestly do whatever you please! I just thought I’d throw some ideas your way! And as always thank you for you wonderful writing ❤️❤️❤️

OH MY GOSH???? @inkly-doe I GET SO HAPPY SEEING YOU REQUEST <3

I would LOVE to take ur request .. i've been in the mood to write something freaky !

⋆.˚⋆.˚

c.w: slow sex/rough sex combo, mirror sex, dom! luka, sub! reader, dumbification, degradation, light bondage, tummy bulge, hickeys/love bites, light choking, luka is such a freak, established relationship !! (dating)

gn! reader!

minors dni !!!

⋆.˚⋆.˚

Luka's latest album blasted from a speaker in the room. Every beat reminded you that this was a luxury the two of you hardly got: privacy. A moment for the two of you alone.

This was enough to remind you how much Luka loves you.

You could barely keep yourself upright, legs trembling. Cum dribbled down the apex of your thighs; yours, most likely. How long have you been fucking? Two hours? Three? Time felt unnecessary to keep track of.

Your hands were positioned at the sides of the mirror leaned against the wall. Your wrists were secured apart, ensuring you'd stay right where he wanted you. One of Luka's hands were wrapped around your throat - not to hurt you, no, but to keep you where he wanted you - his other on your thigh. Your leg was hoisted over his hip.

Your underwear was bunched at your ankle, shirt on but hurriedly undone/unbuttoned. Luka's trousers were shrugged down to his ankles, shirt halfway unbuttoned.

Luka's hips slammed into yours with every beat of his song; sometimes rough, other times slow.

"Feel me?" Luka whispers into your ear, gaze locked on yours in the mirror's reflection, teeth scraping against the hickeys littering your shoulders and the side of your neck. "Feel me, pretty?" "Y-Yeah," you huff, barely able to keep your eyes open. The feeling was euphoric, indescribable. All of your senses were on fire. Everything you could feel, think of -- Luka. His body, his scent, his cock; it flooded your brain like a dam of sanity broken.

Your eyes fluttered, feeling Luka's cock throb deep inside; you could feel his cock bulge against your tummy. Luka released your throat, hand skimming over the peaks of your nipples before wandering down, pressing against the bulge.

Everything you were feeling before was mediocre compared to this.

A guttural moan left your lips, head swimming with need.

"That's it," Luka hummed, grinding into your ass, "Look at you. C'mon," he lifted your head by your jaw, forcing you to meet your gaze in the mirror. "Look at you. So fucking beautiful. Are you always like this? So wet and turned on my dick? Or am I special?"

"So special," you grunt, head tipping back as Luka's lips skim your neck. "So special."

"You're mine, y'know," Luka whispers in your ear. "No one else can ever see you like this. Okay? Only me. I need you. I need you for myself. I hate sharing. I hate it."

Luka chuckles as he watches your eyes roll back in the reflection, guiding you to rest back against his chest as he fucks upwards into you; slow and careful, pelvis grinding against yours.

"C'mon, honey," Luka grunts. "I love fucking you stupid. My pretty little thing, lemme cum, okay?"

Luka gently tilts your head, guiding you to meet his gaze. "I'm allowed to cum, right? If you need me to pull out, say it."

Another orgasm washes over you, cum dribbling down your thighs once more. Luka guides you through it, quietly shushing you and kissing your shoulders.

"There we go, y/n. There you are. So pretty, god, look at you."

⋆.˚⋆.˚

we are SO back !!!

im finally in a mental space where i feel comfortable with myself! I've been practicing self-care (like weekly journaling, online therapy, etc) as well as .. drum roll ... i finally have a partner !!!

im so happy !! I havent dated in about 2-ish years! my previous relationship ended so badly (extremely tmi, but im currently in the process of healing from abuse, emotional and physical) and my current partner takes such good care of me! he's so kind and patient and respects my boundaries!

happy pride month, my loves!! stay safe and remember that good things will come your way !! after the thunderstorm, there's a rainbow! <3

take care!

-venus

[javiersvest]

breathe, hold, release (pt. 2)

joel miller x f!pilates instructor reader 

part one here

summary: joel comes to fix the sink and you both finally stop avoiding what's between you.

tags: mdni (18+ only), no outbreak au, no use of y/n, reader is afab/able bodied, has long hair, no other physical descriptors, age gap (joel is 40, reader is 28), catch the mr. darcy reference, kind of a slow burn bc i love tension, dom!joel, praise kink, fingering, mirror activities, oral sex (f receiving), body worship, unprotected piv (be smart), slight voyeurism ig?, creampie (reader is on bc cause i’m nasty), joel is a freak in this omg, please DO NOT attempt sex on a reformer, if anything is missing pls let me know!

word count: way too fuckin long 10.3k 

a/n: first of all, thank you SO much to the response to part one. it warmed my little heart that so many people enjoyed it. i hope this makes up for the long wait! thank you to my three pookies (@naiadonis, @tmpestuous, & @imaginesbymonika) for beta'ing and feeding my delusions. this will be the last part but i would love to write some drabbles for these two, so please send in requests if you have any! also, i'm on twitter! come say hi :) enjoy ♡

Your mornings always started the same: shades up, door open, music low. The soft hum of downtown Austin stretched itself awake in time with you, the city exhaling with the same slow rhythm you followed to start your day. Even the most mediocre sleep melted away when you clasped your hands together and pressed them toward the ceiling, arching your back, breath spilling from deep in your abdomen. 

You weren’t a Texas native – that much had been obvious the second you stepped on the plane. Southern drawls of varying intensities filling your ears, the heat coating your skin with a wrathful flair. California still lingered at the edges of your thoughts, sun-warmed pavement and salt in your hair. You’d built a life there; mornings guiding people through movement, regulars who felt like old friends, a humble studio tucked between your favorite bagel place and a long-abandoned repair shop.

You’d memorized the ebbs and flows of that neighborhood like the back of your hand. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was yours. And for a while, it felt like enough. But comfort has a funny way of turning stale the moment you let your guard down. In the middle of all that comfort, a crack had started to form – subtle at first, then impossible to ignore.

The breakup didn’t knock the wind out of you – it eroded you slowly. You and him lived parallel lives for months before either of you said anything; passing the coffee creamer, taking turns with laundry, showing up to mutual plans like clockwork. He wasn’t cruel, just tired in a way that made everything feel like effort, including you. Eventually you stopped trying, learned to keep your heart tucked behind a smile. It was safer.

When it ended, it wasn’t explosive. It was practical, like canceling a subscription. You moved out quietly, took on more classes at the studio, pretended you were unbothered. Clinging to your routine made you feel like maybe, just maybe, you wouldn’t fall apart.  But the spark was already dimming, and maybe deep down you’d known it was time for something new long before you let yourself admit it. A couple of months passed in a blur. You picked up more classes, then lost them. By the time the text came in, you were already half-unraveling.

It came through late at night, and you had stared at the blinking cursor of a blank calendar where you’d been drafting next month’s schedule far too long. Of course. Your studio’s owner, who’d always joked that she’d die with a foam roller in her hand, announced that she was retiring with her family. The space sold faster than you thought possible, and within a week, the foundation you’d built everything on was gone. You tried to patch things up with rec rooms, park sessions under swaying palms, but the roots had already loosened.

When Nia called from Austin, practically buzzing through the phone with excitement, the last of your resistance crumbled. Unlike you, Nia had discovered her need to get the hell out of dodge much earlier. She’d always been more adventurous, brave enough to step foot in a new place and carve a spot for her regardless of anyone’s opinion about it. You’d met in training years ago, the kind of instant bond that felt more like a reunion than an introduction. 

She’d caught wind of a space opening downtown, and somehow decided you were the perfect person to take it over. At first, you dismissed it. You’d never been one for cowboy boots or country music, and the thought of leaving everything familiar behind made your chest ache. The more you sat with it, the emptiness of your space, the fading glimmer of your routine, the exhaustion – her offer sounded less like risk and more like possibility. 

So, you said yes. You packed up your life, let go of the familiarity, and tried your best to embrace the unknown. You said goodbye to the Pacific, but most of all to the version of you who thought she'd never leave. You started again from scratch; introduced yourself to strangers, tried to find your new normal, and smiled so much your cheeks hurt. For the first month or so, the smiles were fake. You spent your days rebuilding what you’d lost, piece by piece, and your nights wondering if you’d made a mistake.

But soon enough the days stopped feeling so foreign, and all the things from home that you thought were irreplaceable began to lose their appeal. You built up rapport with new clients, had a new favorite lunch spot, and the barista a few doors down memorized your name and regular order. Week after week, familiar faces returned to the studio, fulfilling your purpose. Your first classes of the day were usually quiet, made up of older clients who enjoyed waking up hours before the sun. They liked your calm and the way it seemed like you were a morning person just like them. You knew who was rehabbing a bad hip, who didn’t like too much tension, who needed extra encouragement. 

It wasn’t about doing a hundred perfect reps or getting people’s stomachs as flat as possible. It was about watching someone walk taller after six weeks, saying they’ve never felt stronger. About a woman thanking you because her back didn’t hurt for the first time in years. That mattered to you, it always had. That’s why you’d started teaching, to show the ways movement could soften even the hardest parts of someone’s day. Pilates was precise, yes, but it was also gentle in a way the world often wasn’t. You’d had students cry during classes before. You never asked why – just helped them breathe through it.

Saturday mornings became your favorite. You weren’t held to the five a.m classes like you were on weekdays, accommodating teachers and early risers who started their day in the quiet of the studio. Saturdays moved slower, giving you time to relish in each stretch, each song, each thought. You had time to sip your coffee between check-ins, time to let your voice warm into the room instead of launching straight into the rhythm of cues and counts. 

Then, you met Joel. 

Met was a generous word – you were more so acquainted with him. His jaw tight, hands stuffed into his pockets nearly the entire first interaction. Clearly he’d be more at ease with those boots in dirt rather than on the pristine tile. You’d thought, at first, he was just being a dad – maybe irritated he had to wake up on his day off to drive her, maybe just tired. 

You greet him the way you greet everyone, with warmth that borders on effortless. It’s second nature by now, this instinct to disarm. You lead with brightness, offer softness in your tone, a joke curled lightly at the edge of your mouth. And it usually works. You’d encountered your share of prickly people around Austin, but most of them put on a performance: a polite smile or a stilted joke. Everyone yielded to it eventually. 

But not him.

Not when you beam at his daughter. Not when you hand him the clipboard with the sunflower pen that you’d made during your lunch break yesterday. What you get is a squint and a dry, unimpressed “Really?” Like you’d just offered him a glittering child’s toy instead of a waiver. He doesn’t play the part, doesn’t pretend to be someone easier to be around. His face is unreadable in a way that feels unintentional – like he’s so accustomed to his indifference that it’s not even spiteful anymore. 

You try – gently, playfully to pull something out of him. A smirk. A single syllable of amusement. Anything. You laugh, easy and unbothered. “I know. But everyone seems to like them.”

Still nothing. His shoulders stay locked in place, pen aggressive on the page like the words themselves are offensive. His handwriting is slanted and uneven, rushed like he can’t get out of there fast enough. 

Sarah is the complete opposite, it seems.

She’s light – bright-eyed, curious, open in a way that feels rare in teenagers these days and even rarer in the people who raise them. You take to her instantly, eased by the amiability in her voice, the bounce in her step. You can’’t help but wonder where it comes from – because it’s certainly not him. You follow the movement of his hands, rugged and large. 

No ring.

You shouldn’t be curious, but you are.

You take the clipboard back, eyes scanning to the bottom of the page. “Thanks… Joel,” you say, softening the syllables like you might smooth over rough fabric. He grunts in response, a low, noncommittal sound. You get the sense he’s not used to taking people up on kindness. Like it costs him something. You invite him to stay, watching him struggle to look for a response. For a moment you think he’s going to say something. 

He doesn’t.

You feel his eyes on you the entire class. At first, you tried to explain it. Maybe he was zoning out like other parents did, counting down the minutes until they could beat the traffic back to their neighborhoods. But Joel wasn’t checking his phone repeatedly, wasn’t tapping his foot, didn’t look around. He just… watched. Not an ambient glance or idle observation. It was intentional. Trying not to notice was futile. You were trained to read bodies; breath patterns, posture, hesitation. And you see all of it in Joel. 

The restraint that lived in the corners of his mouth, the divet between his brows each time you moved. You catch the way his jaw locks and releases when your spine curves, the faint twitch of muscle beneath his cheekbone as your voice dips into instruction. The way his hands, broad and calloused, strained and flexed against his knees like he was holding something back.

It took a lot to throw you off balance, but the autopilot you’d relied on all these years began to short-circuit. You roll your shoulders back a little straighter, suddenly being extra mindful of your posture, paranoid that you’ll trip over a mat, or hit the carriage against the board with too much strength. The weight of his stare clings to you like humidity, slick and unrelenting. It prickles at your neck, curls low in your belly. You keep moving, voice steady, but inside, everything is fraying. 

You blink, adjust a client’s foot bar and try to refocus, fighting the urge to look over. Just once, that’s all you needed. Just a second to confirm if you were making it all up. You were not new to attention. You’ve been watched before, admired even. But this was something else entirely. Joel watches you like he’s trying not to break. Like there’s some quiet part of him that doesn’t believe he deserves to look, but can’t help it anyway.

You’re pulled from the fantasy as you check on each student, moving down the line until you get to Sarah. With your fingers on her ankles you guide her through, encouraging her as she starts to get the hang of it. She looks towards the bench, a hopefulness in her eyes that makes you melt. You follow her gaze instinctively – and see how Joel’s expression softens the moment their eyes meet. Pride blooms across his face and tugs at something in you, and you have to push down the guilt that starts to creep up your throat. 

You don’t mean to look directly at him, you just wanted a glance. A peek into his true nature, not the barricade he’d placed around him. His head turns before you think it will, and you both seem to go rigid. The right thing would be to turn around, check on someone else – anything. But you’re held there.

His eyes move over you with slow precision, and you welcome it. They seem to be mapping your body, the slope of your throat, the line of your shoulders. While he inspects you, your head is fueled with images of him taking you apart with his hands. You wonder what he sounds like when he groans, what his mouth would feel like against your skin. Wonder how many times he’d make you come before showing mercy, or would he? Would he be as merciless as he looks, ruining you and apologizing for none of it? 

You let him see that you see it; let him feel your curiosity inch toward want. Let him know you’re not innocent to it. You blink slowly and pull yourself away like it hurts. You turn your attention back to the class and pretend that he didn’t just strip you bare with a single look.

With each passing Saturday, the two of you moved in a quiet orbit. It stayed innocent enough for your guilt to dissolve under layers of niceties and easy chatter. Joel never volunteered much information, but the little he gave felt like something hard-won. Over time, you both softened. A brush of your fingers against the firm curve of his bicep. Smiles that lingered in the space between you, unhurried and a bit too long. But Joel never crossed the line, and neither did you. 

Some days, you wondered if you'd imagined that first flash of heat. A byproduct of a lonely year, a new city, a fresh start. But then he'd show up again, every Saturday, planted on that bench watching you and Sarah. Sarah. She slipped into your life like she’d always belonged there. There’s a quick intelligence behind her humor, a deep-rooted enthusiasm for life you definitely didn’t have at her age. You take to her immediately, starting to look forward to seeing her just as much as seeing Joel. 

You didn’t ask her to help around the studio, she just started doing it. She’s unfiltered in the best way, and underneath all of it, achingly sincere. She asks questions about your day, offers commentary that makes you laugh from the gut, and more than once, makes jokes about her dad being single. 

Today was no different. The 11:30 class wrapped right on schedule, and Sarah darted to the back to fold towels, unprompted. Joel waited at the front, leaning casually against the desk, ready to talk to you. Today the exchange between you, once cushioned civility, stretched into something charged. You saw it in the way his smile faltered, like he'd strayed too close to a thought he wasn’t supposed to have. In the drawl of his voice, the dry wit, the way his eyes dipped to your mouth and quickly back. You pushed a little further, let your words flirt with implication, and watched the color rise in his face.

“And here I thought you were sitting in here cause you liked the view.” 

He hesitates and you see the moment the mask slips. You let the silence stretch, not to punish him, but to watch him squirm beneath the weight of his honesty. There’s something tender about the way he tries to walk it back, like a man afraid of his own shadow. He offers a stammering apology, but you give him a way out with a smile. Make it clear he hadn’t misread you. His name tastes good in your mouth. 

When he pivots to the sink in the men’s room and offers to take a look, you catch the flicker of something behind his eyes. It’s cute, the way he tries to pass it off as nonchalant. Like it’s not a thinly veiled excuse to stay close – and you say yes.

Not just because the sink needs fixing, but because the thought of him here on a Monday, with no Sarah and no audience, pulls something tight in your chest. Sarah clocks the shift immediately, the shared glance and unpulled string taut between you and her father. Her smirk is sharp and knowing as you offer her a pin, a feeble attempt at distracting her. Joel groans like it physically pains him to be perceived and you know there’s no avoiding it anymore. After that, Joel barely meets your eye. He stumbles over a “See you Monday,” and follows Sarah to the door. 

Your heart thuds with something warm and bright that you haven’t felt since California. You exhale slowly. The studio falls quiet again, save for the soft hum of the air conditioning.

The thing you’d been tiptoeing around was no longer unknown. It had a name now – Monday. 

The air is thick with the beginnings of Austin heat when you step outside of the coffee shop, keys jingling between your fingers and you grasp onto two, not one, cups this time. In your left, the usual overly-sweet latté that you made no exceptions for, and in your right – hot, no cream or sugar. Just bitter and bold. It was a hunch, but Joel didn’t seem like the type to ask for his cup to be drizzled with caramel sauce and topped with sweetened cream. Weeks of him sitting in your studio, gruff and unreadable informed your guess. The barista, knowing your usual, couldn’t help herself as she asked if it was for a special someone. You’d laughed as if it was silly, but it wasn’t. 

The way your body anticipated waking up kept you from getting any meaningful sleep. That, and the fact you’d spent a couple hours imagining Joel’s voice in your head; gravel-worn and measured, your fingers easing yourself open. It was scary how easily you’d pictured it. His weight on top of you, the ache in the pit of your stomach, his lips forming the filthy things you wanted to hear him say once he let go of whatever had him wound up so tightly. There was too much of him beneath your skin.

The door to the studio groaned as you pushed it open with your shoulder, and you set the drinks down on the front desk with care. You busied yourself next, giving your hands something to do until Joel showed up, if he even did. Maybe you had been too forward and scared him away. Maybe he was being polite, appeasing your ego so as not to embarrass you in front of his daughter. 

The soft jingle of the bell sends a jolt through your body and you emerge from the back with too much excitement in your limbs, smoothing your beige tank top like it mattered. Joel stood just inside the door, a heavy tool bag hanging from one hand, the other raking through his hair in that nervous, unconscious way he did when he didn’t know what to say. You had picked up on that, too. 

“Mornin’,” he says, his voice low, roughened with what you assumed was sleep. You looked at him and every line looked the same, but it felt… warped. Like a song you knew well played a few keys too low, breath baited while you tried to figure out what was off. 

“Good morning,” you replied, offering a soft smile.”You’re right on time, that’s good for business.”

He gives a small nod in response. Not unfriendly, but definitely distant. No trace of the quiet fondness you’d seen Saturday. No lingering look, no hush of amusement curling up at the corner of his mouth. Odd, you think. Still, you press on and gesture toward the front desk, the coffee waiting there.

“I got you something, no cream or sugar. I took a gamble,” your fingers grasp the cup and you extend it out to him. His eyes flick to the drink, then to you. There’s a beat of hesitation before he steps forward, his fingers brushing against yours to take the offering. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, unreadable.

You shrugged, smile unwavering as you try to keep it light.

“I know. Dinner might need a little more planning,” you reply, half a shrug rolling through your shoulder. That earned you something. His mouth twitches slightly, almost a smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it’s better than nothing. 

Joel shifts his weight to his other leg and jerks his chin towards the back. “I should get started, get outta your hair.” 

Your heart sinks into your stomach, but you nod without protest. He doesn’t wait for you to follow, or respond. Just turns and walks down the hallway like it made him ill to be in your presence. You swallow hard, the anticipation you’d felt all day yesterday subsiding. It felt more like dread now – your worst fears starting to be confirmed. You take a deep breath and let your head fall back, willing away the stress building with little accomplishment. 

Unwilling to let the distance, physical or otherwise, settle too thickly between you, you follow him a few moments later. He’s already crouched by the sink, sleeves pushed up and wrapped around his elbows a bit too tight, not that you were complaining. His tool bag lay open at his side, the cup of coffee sitting to the left of the faucet. He doesn’t look up when you settle in the doorway, just keeps fidgeting with the knobs and studying the sluggish flow. You try not to let your disappointment come through your voice. 

“So, gotta toss the whole thing out or can it be saved?” You ask, trying to get a peek at whatever it was he was doing. 

“Pipe’s just backed up with debris. Gotta pull it apart, clean the whole thing out.”

You don’t respond, caught up in watching his hands reach for whatever tool he was looking for. Joel sits back on his heels and starts unscrewing the pipe beneath the basin with a practiced ease. The muscles in his forearms flex with each turn, veins taut beneath sun-warmed skin, and you can’t help but follow the motion, mesmerized by the quiet focus. His knees brace on the tiled floor as he leans in closer, the worn cotton of his shirt pulling taut across his back. You can hear the faint grunt of exertion as he loosens something stubborn, followed by the hollow clatter of old water draining through rusted metal. 

Joel grunts something under his breath, more to himself than to you, and reaches for a cloth, wiping his hands absently before adjusting the trap. He’s all concentration; jaw set and brows drawn. Despite the task in front of him, he knows you’re watching. He can feel it. 

“Don’t know how anything was getting through this,” he says without looking up. He dives into an explanation of what was keeping the drain moving so slow, but your brain is turning to mush the longer you stare. You hum in acknowledgment, but the words barely register. All you can think about is the way his fingers move, capable and deliberate. 

Joel finally glances up at you, but you’re unaware. His eyes linger, still no smile on his lips as he tracks your gaze down. He clears his throat and your eyes snap up, like a camera flash freezing you in the act of wanting.

There’s no teasing in his expression – no smug lift of his mouth or arch of his brow. Just… quiet. You try to speak, some flimsy defense, a redirect. But your throat is dry, your mouth clumsy with words you don’t trust yourself to say aloud. Suddenly you realize how he must have felt on Saturday. He tilts his head slightly, brow furrowing as if trying to make sense of it. Of you. Then his head is shaking and he turns back to his work, but his hands aren’t as steady now. 

“Just here to fix the sink,” he mutters. It sounds like a rehearsed mantra he’d created to keep himself in line. 

“What?” you say softly, watching his brows furrow. 

“You’re not makin’ this easy,” he says louder this time. You exhale slowly. 

“Did I –” The words stick for a moment, and you try again. “Was I too forward? If I made you uncomfortable, I’m sorry.” 

He shakes his head, slow and almost imperceptible. “No, it ain’t that.” For a moment, it seems like that’s all he’ll give you. He sets the wrench down with a quiet clink. "Thought if I kept my head down, didn’t look too long, it’d go away."

You blink, caught off guard by his honesty. “I didn’t mean to push,” you say quietly, unsure whether you’re trying to reassure him or justify yourself.

“You didn’t, it was easier to pretend I was just passin’ time staring at you from that bench,” The words weren’t bitter, but they weren’t easy, either. They landed with the weight of confession, like he hated admitting it almost as much as he needed you to hear it. 

“Sarah knew, can’t keep shit from her. Knew the very first day when I shelled out that money like that.” His thumb twitches on the edge of the counter, a small sign of Saturday Joel, the one who did let himself look too long, who smiled when you caught on.

Joel takes a breath and keeps fiddling with the sink. “And now, I’m here fixin’ a sink for a woman I can’t stop thinking about, trying not to say somethin’ I’ll regret.” 

The words fold into the stillness between you. You don’t move, don’t breathe either, it felt like. You’re not sure how much time passes before Joel pushes to his feet, still not meeting your eyes. You wish he’d just look at you, give you any indication as to where this was going. 

Joel turns his back to you and twists the faucet open, letting the water rush against his palms as he washes his hands. His focus stays on the steady stream, testing the pressure and checking his handiwork. Anything to avoid looking at you too soon. The running water stops and he stays there, both palms braced on either side of the sink. Then, he straightens, his shoulders rolling back as he turns to face you. When he does, there’s no mask left. His eyes have softened, and you’re standing face to face with the Joel you’d become fascinated with. His hands settle on his hips and he looks at you expectantly. 

“So tell me what you want me to do. ‘Cause I can’t keep standin’ in front of you like this if it’s not gonna mean something.” 

You don’t answer right away. Your throat is tight, heart knocking against your ribs like it’s trying to get free, and the air between you has taken on a weight you don’t know how to carry. But you feel the shift – the choice he’s making, the seemingly timid and hesitant version of him long gone. You’re yelling at yourself to say something, to not throw away the fact he’s willing to present himself so openly to you.

You blink at him, pulse thrumming like a struck wire. “I don’t…you can do whatever you want.”

He shakes his head, not in dismissal, but refusal. Refusal to let you duck behind hesitation like you’d both been doing the last month. He needed a clear answer. Your weight shifts to your other leg as you take a shaky breath, stepping closer with quiet bravery. 

Your voice cracks a little when it comes. “I want you, Joel. But I don’t want you to regret it.” 

No flourish, just fact. 

He exhales hard, like you knocked the wind out of him. “No way in hell I’d regret this,” his voice dips lower. “But there’s no going back after this, no more pretending. You okay with that?” He lifts a hand and lets his fingers brush your jaw, slow and tentative, like he's still restraining himself. 

You were trembling, not visibly, but deep inside – where his words struck chords you’d kept hidden. Where all your what-ifs and daydreams had lived quietly until now.

You meet his eyes without flinching, and you nod.

His thumb grazes your cheekbone, then he leans in, and you can feel your heartbeat throb between your legs. When he kisses you it’s not rushed. His mouth meets yours, warm and sure, a slow press of lips that steals the air from your lungs. 

He pulls back just an inch, his forehead pressing against yours. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he whispers, voice rough with restraint.

You don’t. You can’t. You shake your head, small and certain. “I don’t.”

And that’s all it takes.

His mouth finds yours again, hungrier this time, and his palm presses to cradle the small of your back. You arch into him, realizing the room feels too small now. His body crowds yours as you feel him take a step forward, trying to guide you out of the bathroom. 

Joel pulls back just enough to speak before his lips are back on yours, his voice thick. “Not here.”

You both stumble a little in your own urgency, breathless as he leads you through the hallway into the open space. Your legs bump against one of the machines, but he never wavers. You get a bit paranoid, wanting to peek and make sure you were, in fact, alone. You wouldn’t survive something interrupting this. One part of the studio is cast in gold from the completed sunrise pouring through the window, the rest of the blinds pulled down. The cold from the mirror’s glass meets your back, sharp and startling – but Joel is there, warm and inviting.

Joel’s hands slide up under your tank top, the compressive material molding to your body. You feel his thumbs dig into your hips as he pulls away. Your eyes are closed as you relish in the fact you now know what he tastes like, a tinge of bitterness mixed in. You take it you were right about the coffee. 

“Take this off f’me,” he requests.

“Gonna need help,” you laugh softly, no time wasted as you move to pull it up, the stubborn fabric unforgiving in your haste. 

“Relax, baby,” Joel steadies your hands, his smile reaching his eyes for the first time all morning. You huff and shake your head, heat rising to your face. You let him take the lead and lift your arms up, momentarily blind as he pulls it up over your head. Joel tries not to stare, but like every time before, he fails. His touch grows more confident, more consuming. You feel it in the way his lips press in a pattern over your neck, the way his fingers deliberately press through your leggings right where you’re aching for him.

“These off too,” he mumbles, already peeling away at your matching leggings. He’d imagined taking these little outfits off of you so many times, and he wanted to take his time, but god he’d been waiting for what felt like years. 

Your breath hitches as he traces his fingertips over your back, body shuddering from the chills he left behind. The fact he’s still completely clothed doesn’t escape you, but a part of you likes that. The fact he’s here, in your space, staking his claim and undressing you. 

“Joel, wait –” You interrupt him, his eyes flickering up at you in confusion. 

“You want me to stop?” He asks, about to stand back up and help you with your clothes. 

You lick your lips, hyper-aware of your heart pounding. A few seconds of silence pass before you’re shaking your head. “No,” you whisper, “I just… I want to see you too.”

That earns a pause.

Joel’s gaze softens, something tight in his expression releasing as his hands still at the curve of your hips. He tilts his head, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. 

“Yeah?” he asks, voice warm. You nod again. 

You reach for him as he moves, fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt. The fabric drags up over rigid muscle and sun-kissed skin. Your eyes rake over him – the strength in his chest and arms, the scattered scars, the way his shoulders stiffen with your eager eyes drinking him up. 

You press your palms to his bare chest and feel his heart kick. Then, he takes your wrists and turns you towards the mirror, hovering behind you. His hands trail down your sides, thumbs tracing the skin just beneath your ribs before they settle on your hips. You try not to squirm when you feel his hand dip lower. One is running down the length of your back, the other nestling between your legs. He presses two fingers against your clit, rubbing small circles as your body tenses. He feels it, and glances up at you like he knows you’re in your head. 

You hear your name and look at him through the mirror, lips parted in awe that he was touching you. “I’ve got you, okay? Just relax,” he tells you again. His voice is rough, breath warm against the back of your neck. The rough denim of his jeans scratches against your bare skin when he ruts into you, and you feel all of him – even through the thick fabric. You’re unprepared when you feel his fingers circle your entrance before they’re slipping in up to his knuckles, slow and brushing over every ridge. You gasp and dig your palms into the wooden barre. 

“Look how fuckin’ beautiful you are,” he murmurs behind you, his hand steady at your hip.

His words aren’t lost on you, but you can’t bring yourself to look; can’t watch the way your mouth parts with every stuttering breath as he works you open after months of being touch starved. You squeeze your eyes shut and dip your chin down, flustered, but he notices.

“Nuh-uh,” he says, the hand at your hip shifting to your jaw, moving your chin back up to center. “Let me see that pretty face, wanna see you feel it.”

It’s not a demand – it’s a plea. Joel thinks he should slow down, ease up and let you process what’s happening. But you’d stirred something in him that he thought had gone dormant for the foreseeable future, and he just couldn’t get enough of you. 

A noise of protest sounds from your lips but you listen anyway, looking at yourself and taking in your already disheveled appearance. Then, you look at Joel. Your eyes meet again, and despite his clenched jaw and furrowed brow, he looks back at you with a tenderness you’ve never received. 

“Fuck, Joel –” you whimper, hips rocking helplessly against his fingers. “Feels so good…” Your hips stutter, back arching as you start to match the push and pull of his fingers. Each stroke is measured, not hurried, like he’s trying to memorize how you come undone. 

He feels your pussy clench around his fingers and groans, unable to stop thinking about how much he wishes it was his cock. But this was about you, not him. He listens for every catch in your throat, every tiny twitch of your hips, adjusting his touch like he’s tuning an instrument.

And God, do you feel it – the dragging weight of his fingers as they bury inside you. The nights chasing this feeling felt ridiculous, your own fingers no match for his. Your grip falters on the barre as he moves with unshakable focus. Not a single part of you feels untouched; not with his breath ghosting over your ear, his hand buried between your legs like he belongs there. 

Your thighs clench and Joel can feel it before you say anything, the sound of your moans like music to his ears. Two thick fingers stay buried inside you, curling with maddening precision. They move just right, pressing into the soft spot so deep in your pussy it makes your whole body lurch forward. He tightens his grip on you and chuckles in realization. 

“Shit – there, huh?” he mutters, almost to himself, and the pads of his fingers rub slow, earnest circles against that soft spot inside you while his thumb finds your clit again. He watches you unravel in the mirror, lips parted, skin flushed, straining toward every stroke. 

Your breath stutters when he curls his fingers again, his name leaving your lips like a prayer. “You’re crazy,” you say with a weak laugh, and Joel shakes his head in amusement. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “‘Cause of you.” His fingers go impossibly deeper, like he’s carving his name into you. The mirror captures everything: your parted lips, the desperate crease in your brow, the flushed skin blooming over your chest. His hand never falters, fingers relentless now, faster, messier, wetter – until you cry out, your whole body seizing against him.

Your knees buckle but he’s already there, holding you up as your orgasm rolls through you, wave after wave. Your walls clench around his fingers, and he groans into your skin, biting down gently as if to anchor himself through it.

“Attagirl,” he growls, helping you through the end of it, slower now. “Jesus, baby. Feel so fuckin’ good, makin’ a mess all over my hand.” You sag in his arms, panting, skin damp and shining in the low studio light. Joel doesn’t let go, holding you to his chest.

You’re in a haze, acutely aware of Joel guiding you to sit on the nearest reformer slowly, letting you catch your breath. The carriage shifts under your weight, none of the springs keeping it steady, making you brace yourself on the frame. Immediately, his brow knits.

“How the hell d’you keep this thing from moving?” he mumbles, frowning down at the machine like it’s insulted you.

You let out a faint, dizzy laugh. “You’ve gotta put the springs on, all of them keep it pretty still,” you explain.

Carefully, he reaches under the carriage, fingers brushing over the cold metal until they find the spring hooks. One by one, he pulls them forward with quiet effort, securing them into place until the carriage holds steady. 

“What about you?” you ask, reaching out to latch your fingers into the top of his jeans, wanting to return the favor. Before your hands make any progress, he catches your wrist firmly.

“I’m okay, don’t need that from you, sweetheart.” Joel shakes his head once, his eyes scan over your body like he’s already thinking about what to do with it next. You open your mouth to insist, but the moment falters when he interrupts you.

“Lie down for me.” 

You blink at him, still swimming in the aftershocks. “What?”

He says it again, more pointed this time. “Lie back, on the machine, baby.” 

There’s no edge in his voice – just heat, thick and steady, anchored by the quiet rasp of someone who’s holding back far more than he’s letting on. His palm slides to your lower back, coaxing you down gently until your spine meets the carriage. He moves then, straddling the machine and pausing when it groans under his weight. 

“This thing gonna hold me?” he asks, and you roll your eyes. 

“It’ll hold,” you reassure him. He hums skeptically, but settles down anyway, his back to the footbar. You watch him adjust, and it wrecks you a little. Because you’re not sure when this stopped being about flirting, or power, or just the thrill of wanting someone impossible. You want him. Want him when he’s steady and quiet and full of things he’ll never say out loud; and also like this, in power and unafraid.

“What’s that move you do?” he asks suddenly, interrupting your thoughts. He asks like he’s been saving the question. You blink, caught off guard and he clarifies. “The one with your ass up in the air.”

You lift your head from the headrest and laugh, eyebrows arched up. “You mean bridging?” 

“That’s the one,” he drags out the first word, his hands running up your calves. You smile knowingly. 

“Knew that one would stick, you liked that move, huh?” you ask, and Joel smirks. 

“Couldn’t get it outta my fuckin’ head,” he admits, laughing with you. You both trail off and you meet his eyes, a suspicious glint in them. His gaze lingers, heavy and fixed – and that’s when you realize where he was going with the line of questioning. His thumbs skim the soft crease behind your knees, pulling up gently and you feel your breath hitch. 

“Do it for me,” he says, almost pleading. He guides both of your legs up on top of his shoulders, and you’re completely stunned. How can you say no to him? 

You breathe a little hard from your nose amusedly and lift your hips from the platform with slow precision. You shake a little this time, legs still aching from your first orgasm, but anything Joel wanted – you would give it to him. Your spine peels from the carriage in a slow roll, just like you’ve done a thousand times. You remember when you did it in class, intentionally putting on a show for him while he struggled with his own desire in the corner of the studio. 

His mouth parts slightly, eyes dragging over the new shape of you; exposed, tilted, perfectly on display for him. He’d seen it from that bench in the corner, but now up close, he was losing his mind. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. You go silent, every nerve pulled tight like the springs beneath you. 

And then he leans in, no more hesitation, like he’s got something to prove – with his mouth, this time.

The first brush of his tongue is featherlight, but it’s enough to steal every thought from your head. When he hears you whine, he flattens his tongue and licks a stripe from your entrance to your clit, slow and considerate, like he’s memorizing the taste of you in case he never gets to have this again. He stays there, focused, with one hand steady at your hip while he wraps his lips around your swollen center, a soft cry echoing this time. 

“Jesus, Joel –” you choke out, head thrown back, both hands clutching the side rail. 

He pulls back just a touch, teasing now, cruel in the only way Joel can be, with praise that tears your heart open. 

“You taste so fuckin’ good, baby,” his voice is thick and guttural. “Knew you’d sound pretty like that when I finally got my mouth on you,” he tells you between soft kisses to your thighs, his beard scratching the skin.

Before you can reply, he lowers his mouth to you, his tongue parts you, warm and searching. Your hips twitch under his hold, toes curling as he pulls you tighter against his mouth. Thankfully he knows you can’t hold yourself up, one of his hands gripping your hip and the other supporting you just under your tailbone. Your body bows, thighs tensing around his neck. 

You say his name repeatedly, chest heaving, and that only seems to drive him deeper. His hand brushes behind your knee and he grunts, sending a vibration through to the pit of your stomach. He draws circles, then suckles gently, alternating pressure until your grip on the frame turns white-knuckled. He hums low in his throat, pleased with the way you respond, the way you buck your hips towards him. Joel’s in a trance, his brows furrowed with concentration while he devours you. 

“Oh my god,” you whine, the air in the studio starting to feel stuffier. His only reply is a soft growl of encouragement and the tightening of his grip as he pulls you closer, lapping up your wetness like he’s been waiting his whole damn life for the chance. Like you’re the center of the fucking universe. 

He pulls back just enough to talk, his voice rough as gravel and thick with praise. “So fuckin’ good, can’t get enough of you.” The sound of his voice alone makes you whimper, head tilting back. 

“Please don’t stop,” the words tumble out before you can catch them, raw and aching with need. They crawl under his skin and burrow there, hopefully for a long time, he thinks. Hopes. The coil in your belly tightens with every pass of his tongue, your body beginning to shake for the second time. He hums, hungrily and intentional, sending a pulse through you that makes your vision blur. You’re back on that ledge faster than you anticipate. 

“Joel,” your voice breaks, a warning more than anything. 

He doesn’t let up, doesn’t pause. If anything it only fuels him. His mouth seals over your clit while two fingers slide into you again, immediately finding your sweet spot after memorizing it like scripture. 

Your hips jerk, thighs trembling around his head, but his grip holds you firm – one hand on your ass now, the other working in time with his mouth, and it’s too much. Too good. The pressure builds fast, white-hot and blinding. He groans again, savoring it, and the vibration is what does it.

Even when your cum coats his tongue he doesn’t stop, holding you through it, mouth and hands steady, guiding you through each convulsion until all that’s left is the soft, trembling aftermath. Your leg threatens to slide from his shoulder, but he steadies it, finally pulling back only when your head falls back onto the headrest with a thump. 

When your eyes flutter open, he’s already there; watching you like you’re the only person in the world. Lips glistening, eyes dark and endlessly soft. There’s nothing cocky in his expression, just something reverent – like he’s grateful to have been the one to bring you there. You force yourself to sit up, dabbing at your forehead with the back of your hand. Joel’s hands are there at your sides, helping you up. 

There's too much to say, too much swelling in your chest that you’re not ready to name. So instead, you let your fingers curl around his shoulder, dragging him in close, and kiss him. He doesn’t hesitate. His mouth meets yours hungrily, tongue pushing past your lips so you can taste yourself on him. You groan against his mouth, and Joel grunts, like it’s taking every ounce of control he has not to press you back down and fuck you right there on the reformer – if that was even possible. 

“You with me?” he asks, voice low, hands cupping your face now.

You nod, barely able to speak. “Fuck – I mean, yes. I’m with you.” You correct yourself with a shake of your head, and Joel smiles. 

“Good,” he says, and his eyes don’t leave yours, not even when your fingers trail to his waistband again. This time, he lets you pop the button free and his shoulders relax when the zipper follows. His breath catches when your hand brushes against him through the fabric, warm and straining – waiting for you. The sound he makes is nothing short of wrecked.

“Lift a little,” you whisper, and he does without question, just enough for you to ease the denim down his hips. His legs spread slightly for balance and you move to straddle him, calves pressing against the wooden frame. 

You shift forward on your knees, reaching between your bodies until your fingers graze his cock. He’s already hard, sucking in through his teeth when you wrap your fingers around it and squeeze. With your hips lifted you guide him to your dripping core slowly, pushing only the tip through your slick folds. 

Joel’s hands wander; up your back, on your waist, to your thighs – like he doesn’t know where to touch first. They only settle with his fingertips digging into your hips the moment you begin to sink down, lips parting as you relish in the stretch. It isn’t too uncomfortable, thanks to Joel’s incredibly thorough services. His hands are there, guiding you not to take too much at once, letting you go at your own pace despite the overwhelming temptation to fill you up the rest of the way. 

“Here,” he mumbles, helping you angle your hips. You wrap your fingers around the footbar behind him for balance, eyes locked on his as you take the rest of him. He’s big, thick and hot and perfect. You both exhale like it’s a relief to finally, finally feel this. The moan he lets out is guttural and desperate. You grin, teeth dragging lightly across your bottom lip as you start to move. A quick drag up, a slow slide back down onto his cock. His breath shudders out, and you feel that he’s still tense, like he's holding himself back. 

“Christ,” he rasps, and you can feel his thighs tense under yours. “You feel so fuckin’ good, baby. Like you were made for me.”

The words make you clench around him, his head tipping back for a second before he’s looking at you again, unable to miss another second of it. “Don’t stop,” he begs, and you don’t – you can’t.

Your rhythm stays steady; a slow grind that leaves you gasping each time you take him a little deeper. Your grip tightens on the footbar, the metal cool under your palms, grounding you as the pressure builds. He lets you take what you need, lets you move at your own pace, but his hands never stop roaming; thumb stroking your thigh, palm sliding up your back, hands guiding you  while you tuck your face into his neck. The closeness allows you to feel every breath he takes, hear every strained noise he makes. 

The reformer creaks beneath you with each rise and fall of your hips, the tension cords beneath the frame stretching in tandem. His mouth grazes over your collarbone, warm and wet, and then without warning, he starts to fuck up into you. It makes you sit up straight, and Joel’s hand comes up to your neck, his fingertips grazing your throat. He’s all concentration as he looks between your bodies, watching you take him like it’s his last chance. 

In his fervor, you feel his fingers dig into the side of your neck, but he’s so absorbed in you he doesn’t notice. His fingers flex softly at your pulse like he’s feeling how hard your heart’s racing. Your legs work to meet his thrusts, one of your hands leaving the bar to rest on his shoulder. The muscle contracts each time he moves, and the sight of him so focused, jaw tight and brows tense, makes you melt. Your pace quickens, the sound of your skin slapping together echoing in your ears. 

And then, his fingers tighten. Your breath catches in your throat, and your pussy clamps around him even tighter like it’s been waiting for it. Joel feels it instantly. His eyes rip up to look at you, catching the pleasure written in all of your features. 

“Oh, you like that, baby?” he asks, brow ticking up in amusement at yet another discovery. You can only nod in response, breath slipping out in a fractured moan.as he continues bucking up into you, deep and sharp. 

The pressure in your belly builds fast again, molten and consuming. His hand tightens, just holding you there and squeezing the sides in a way that makes your mouth practically water. A firm reminder that he’s the one guiding you now, that he’s been controlling you this whole time, bending you to his will. Your hips stutter, thighs shaking, and Joel speaks up, voice rough at the edges. 

“Gonna cum for me again?” he whispers, voice rough at the edges. Your hips stutter, thighs shaking, and Joel keeps his grip on your throat secure. 

“I can’t –” you whine, the words fragile and disbelieving, more plea than protest. Your body is heavy with the weight of sensation, the sharp edge of overstimulation skimming close to pain, but it only winds you tighter.

“Yes, you can.” His lips brush your cheek, his words sounding more like a demand than encouragement. “Ain’t so easy when someone else is in charge of your breath, is it?” His voice is thick with satisfaction, power lacing every syllable, and something about the way he’s so in control, so certain – it only makes you burn hotter. 

You laugh, breathless and wild, but it turns into a whimper as he bucks into you again, perfectly timed with the curl of his fingers at your throat – and the tension snaps. Your head falls forward against his shoulder as your body jerks in his lap, thighs shaking uncontrollably. A third orgasm rips sharp and stunning through you, a strangled cry lost against his skin. Your remaining grip on the footbar slips, both hands squeezing his shoulders instead, clinging to him. 

Joel holds you through it, easing the pressure at your throat immediately, his other hand stroking up your spine as he murmurs against your neck. “That’s it, baby,” he whispers. “So good. So fuckin’ perfect.”

Your whole body sags into his, boneless and raw. He cradles your back like you’re something precious, chest rising and falling in sync with yours. You can feel he’s still inside you, still hard – but he makes no move, doesn’t chase his own release. He just holds you. You lift your head slightly, eyes fluttering open to find him already watching you with something that guts you. .

“Still with me?”

You nod, barely. “Yeah. Just… need a second.”

“Take all the time you need,” Joel says earnestly. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

You smile, heart hammering, breath still shaky. You press your forehead to his, grounding yourself. His touch never falters, just warm and steady like an anchor. He notices you’re still shaking and traces shapes on your back, trying to assist. 

“Gotta breathe, darlin’," and you do, letting him coax air back into your lungs one breath at a time. His thumb strokes your cheek in soothing circles. His cock is still pulsing inside you with need, begging for something he’s ignoring. 

You shift slightly in his lap, your thighs still trembling but pliant now. You feel the way his breath stutters when you clench around him, slow and gentle. It makes him grunt softly in disapproval, his head shaking once. 

“Baby,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “You don’t gotta do that.”

“Let me,” you whisper, insisting. Joel pulls back just enough to look at you. His pupils are blown wide, lips parted, forehead creased with something deeper than pleasure. He cups your face like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth. 

Your hips roll forward with care, not rushed this time, but steady; giving him what he wouldn’t take for himself. His hands twitch on your hips, not guiding anymore, but bracing. He buries his face against your neck like he’s trying to hold on, trying not to break too fast.

“Took such good care of me, you deserve it too,” you say, barely audible above your shared breath. That undoes him. He finally lets go, hips thrusting up into you again in slow, devastating strokes. You meet each one, nails digging into his shoulders as you let him bring himself to the edge with your pussy. You're still reeling from your own high, breathing through it the best you can.

You feel the tension winding tighter in him, the way his breath falters, each sound caught between a groan and a prayer. His hand trails down, settles at the base of your spine, pressing you down to meet each thrust.

“Fuck, baby, I’m –” His voice breaks off as his head falls back, jaw slack. You ride him through it, holding him steady, giving him the same patience he gave you.

“Give it to me,” you whisper against his mouth. 

It’s a full-body thing; a shudder that takes him over completely, pulling him under in waves. He lets out a broken moan as he spills inside you, hips stuttering, one arm banding tight around your back while the other cradles the side of your face. You stay with him through it, stilling only when he does, pressing your lips gently to the line of his jaw, then his cheekbone, then his temple. 

His heart is racing. So is yours. Joel lets out a long, shuddering exhale, forehead dropping to yours again. His voice is soft, breathless. “Fucking hell,” a shaky laugh catches in his throat. “Can’t believe you’re real.”

You smile, stroking a hand through the sweat-damp curls at the nape of his neck. “The feeling is mutual.” 

His arms still holding you close, bodies still joined and glittering with sweat. 

“Was that three?” he asks after a beat, eyes fluttering open. You nod with a faint, dazed grin, and he groans, like that knowledge alone is enough to destroy him all over again. “Shit, I’m sorry.” 

It makes you pause, your forehead touching his. “Sorry?” you echo. “If that’s what sorry looks like, I hope you mess up more often.”

He smiles, corners of his eyes scrunching and you can’t help but stare. For just a moment, the world outside of the studio doesn’t exist. There’s only this. Neither of you moves, not wanting to be anywhere else. 

Joel breaks the silence with a tap on your thigh, motioning for you to stand up. He helps you, steadying you until you find solid ground again. You’re still dazed, but start to pull your clothes back on – the thought of his cum filling you makes your heart soar. You catch him watching you like he’s half expecting you to disappear.

He dresses himself while you spray down the machine, unable to bite back the smile on your face. Every damn class, he’d be imprinted on your mind, the machine taunting you with reminders and flashbacks. Then, as you toss the towel in the bin, you hear him speak behind you.

“I ain’t good at this,” he says. “Talkin’ like this, feeling like this. But I swear, it’s been damn near impossible to think of anything else lately.” His brows twitch like he wants to smile more, but something vulnerable tugs at the edge instead.

You close the distance, instantly reaching up to caress the edge of his jaw, catching the coarse stubble there. You can see something hovering over him, almost like he’s still waiting for permission from you, to have you outside of the studio walls. 

“I’m not asking you for anything you can’t give,” you say reassuringly. “I just didn’t want to pretend like it wasn’t there. And… I really like you.” You admit it out loud, and he lets out a stunned chuckle. He’s floored, not quite able to believe you’re equally as fascinated with him as he’s been with you. 

“I really like you too,” he says, quiet but sure. “More than I probably should.”

That earns a real laugh from you. “We’re way past shoulds, don’t you think?”

He huffs, amused but in agreement. His head dips just enough to brush his lips against your forehead. 

“Should’ve said this before I had you ridin’ me on that damn machine,” he mutters, gesturing vaguely toward the reformer, like the memory alone short-circuits his brain a little. “You maybe... wanna get dinner sometime?” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but your face for a second.

You smile so wide it hurts. “Joel Miller,” you chide, tilting your head, “Are you asking me on a date?”

He smirks, eyes crinkling in that way that already feels like home. “Think I might be.”

You lean in close, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. “Then yeah, I’d like that.”

That charged, delicate silence that always hummed between you two is still there, but neither of you feels strange about it now. He squeezes your hand once reluctantly before stepping back, going to the bathroom to collect his tools – but not before you give him your phone number. 

As he opens the door, sunlight spilling into the quiet studio, he pauses with one hand on the frame. He glances back at you, lighter now, like the weight he’s been carrying finally lifted.

“See you Saturday?”

You meet his eyes, warmth blooming in your chest. “Yeah,” you say, light but certain. 

“See you Saturday.”

Joel steps through the front door just after lunchtime, toolbox in hand, shirt wrinkled and clinging faintly to his back. He’s quieter than usual, like he’s moving through a dream he hasn’t quite woken up from.

Sarah doesn’t look up from the couch right away – she’s mid-scroll, headphones half on, but her eyes flick toward him when the door shuts.

“How’d fixing the sink go?” she asks, one brow arched.

Joel sets the toolbox down on the floor with more care than necessary, grunting as he stands up straight. “Went fine,” he says plainly, avoiding her eyes. 

Sarah’s eyes narrow, and before she can comment back, they zero in on the back of his shirt: the tag sticking out and wiggling as he walks past the air conditioner to the kitchen. A slow, knowing smile takes over. 

“Your shirt’s inside out,” she remarks, smirking triumphantly when Joel freezes mid-step. 

His hand lifts automatically to the back of his shirt, fingertips brushing over the telltale edge of the tag. He frowns, mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “God damn it.” 

Sarah watches him retreat toward the stairs, his inside-out shirt like a billboard for guilty as charged. His boots thud heavily against each step, and before disappearing, he throws a glance over his shoulder; a sharp look that’s more of a warning than denial.

“Don’t start,” he mutters gruffly. 

“I didn’t say anything!” she chirps, clearly enjoying herself. The bathroom door clicks shut a second later. Sarah barely holds in her laughter as she pulls out her phone, putting the other headphone back over her ear. She opens her text messages and clicks on the thread with Vic. 

dude... i think my dad just hooked up with our pilates teacher.

[reveryfics]

Knife play

Parings: Loki x Male reader

Summry: You're training with your throwing knives, while Loki watches. Loki gets turned on when you teach him how to throw a knife without his magic

A/n: Got this idea based off a rant my friend and I had, and decided I needed to write smut for it. Warnings are in order, there is slight knife play but nothing extensive. As always thank you and enjoy

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Sweat glistened on his brow, a testament to the grueling workout he'd just endured. Now, he stood before the training stall, a glint of determination in his eye as he prepared to unleash his next throw. Each movement was precise, each throw deliberate.

His boyfriend, Loki, watched from a distance, a hint of admiration in his gaze. The air was thick with anticipation, and the silence was only broken by the soft thud of the knife piercing its target.

"Ready to join me, or will you continue to ogle from afar?" he teased.

Loki sputtered, "I wasn't ogling!"

A small huff escaped Loki's lips as he approached, snatching a knife and assuming a stance. "I'm sure I can do better. I'm a connoisseur of daggers, darling."

“Perhaps, but I don’t need fancy magic to hit a target.” He chuckled, a smug smile playing on his lips.

Loki grumbled under his breath, determined to prove his skill. His throw was mediocre at best, barely sticking into the wooden pallet. He groaned in frustration.

“Here, let me show you,” he said, taking another dagger and stepping behind Loki. His chest pressed against Loki’s back, and his breath was warm against Loki’s ear. “Spread your feet, hold your arm straighter... there.” He kissed Loki’s jaw and guided his hand. “Release sooner and step forward.”

The knife struck the bullseye, a look of surprise crossing Loki’s face.

“See?” he said, kissing Loki’s cheek. “You did it.”

Loki blushed, melting under his lover’s praise. He turned, pecking Loki’s lips. “That’s for... well, such an impressive display.” He playfully pinched Loki’s chin. “And for making me stutter.”

A sly smile crept onto the other’s face. “I think you’re forgetting who has the knives here, Prince.” He trailed the blade along Loki’s neck, a dangerous glint in his eye.

Loki gulped, his eyes fixed on the blade. His expression was a mix of fear and desire.

“God, you’re so pathetic, Loki,” he murmured, trailing kisses down Loki’s neck, the knife pressing into his skin. “Everything about you.”

“Our room, now,” Loki growled, his voice low and husky.

He lunged, snatching the other's shirt before a word could escape. A sloppy kiss followed, a prelude to the night's darker desires. Pulling away, he hissed, "Bring the knife, darling."

The man's smile, predatory and knowing, was a chilling promise. "Of course, dear."

Moments later, Loki lay trembling beneath his lover. The blade danced across his skin, tracing a path of anticipation. "Tell me," the man purred, "what do you truly want?"

Loki's breath caught. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he teased, his eyes locked on the blade.

The pressure intensified, a mere breath away from breaking the skin. "Answer the question, my dear."

Loki hesitated, his secret desire a source of shame.

"Fine," he whispered, "turn over."

As Loki obeyed, the fabric ripped, the knife slicing through his shirt. The discarded cloth lay like a discarded promise. A shiver ran through him, a primal response to the violation. Kisses trailed down his spine, and his pants were stripped away, leaving him naked and vulnerable.

"Hardly fair," Loki muttered, his eyes drawn to the other's own naked form. The man, a vision of raw power, crawled over him, his gaze fixed on Loki's erection.

He pressed kisses to Loki's skin, the knife tracing the outline of his erection. "Tell me what you want, baby."

The pet name ignited a spark within Loki. "I want you," he whimpered, his eyes wide with need.

"Don't be shy, my love," he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to Loki's forehead. "Just be yourself. Now, why don't you shed those boxers?"

Loki nodded, a soft smile playing on his lips as he slipped out of the restrictive garment.

"Ready?" he asked, his voice low and husky.

Loki's eyes sparkled as he wrapped his legs around his lover's waist, his fingers tracing the curve of his neck before tangling in his hair. "Always, my darling."

A chuckle rumbled in his chest as he pulled Loki into a deep, lingering kiss, teasing him with a gentle prod. Loki whimpered, his body arching involuntarily. With a low groan, he slid into Loki, feeling the tight embrace of his lover.

"God, you feel so good," he breathed, his face buried in the soft skin of Loki's neck.

Loki's nails raked down his back as he began to move, his hips swaying rhythmically. The friction was intoxicating, and Loki's moans grew louder with each thrust.

"Please," he begged, his voice barely a whisper.

"Please what, my love?" he whispered back, his hips grinding against Loki's.

"I need you. Please, fuck me," Loki pleaded.

A low growl escaped his throat as he intensified the pace, his teeth sinking into Loki's earlobe.

"You feel so good," he murmured, lost in the moment.

Loki's jaw slackened, a slow, indulgent smile spreading across his lips as a bead of saliva trailed down his chin. "Wait," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "I want to be on top."

The shift was electric. Loki settled atop his lover, his weight sinking into the yielding flesh. With a gentle sway of his hips, he began a languid dance, his eyes fluttering closed as he savored the sensation. His fingers dug into the taut muscles of his lover's chest, a primal grip that mirrored the intensity of their coupling.

A low groan escaped his lover's lips as he arched into Loki, his head thrown back in ecstasy. The sight ignited a fire within Loki, fueling his movements. He rode the rhythm, each thrust a deliberate, possessive claim.

As the intensity grew, Loki's movements became more urgent, his hips slamming down with a force that echoed through the room. His breath was ragged, his eyes wild with desire. "Fuck... I'm so close," he gasped, his voice a mere whisper.

His lover, driven to the brink, held Loki's hips steady, his own body convulsing with each thrust. Loki's grip tightened, his nails digging into the soft skin as he surrendered to the overwhelming pleasure.

A wave of ecstasy washed over them, a shared moment of pure, unadulterated bliss. Loki collapsed onto his lover, his body limp and spent.

"You alright?" his lover asked, his voice laced with concern.

Loki managed a weak smile. "Yeah, just... feels so good," he mumbled, his voice thick with satisfaction.

As the afterglow settled, Loki's eyes drifted closed. His lover traced gentle patterns on his back.

"Knives, huh?" he chuckled, a hint of amusement in his tone.

Loki's eyes snapped open, a dangerous glint in his gaze. "A word to anyone, and I'll have your head," he growled, his voice low and menacing.

[yan-lorkai]

Hey Lorkai <3

I would like to request Sebastian x female noble reader darling, who gets treated horribly by her family, abused physically and emotionally. (Relationships weren't quite healthy back then in the victorian era as far as I know) And even abused by her fiance, she doesn't like him but will have to marry him in the near future due to being forced. So when kidnapped by Seb she's just constantly stressed and unsure, perceiving everything as a threat because of past experiences. Darling doesn't try escaping though, since she has nowhere safe to go. Also very quiet and apologizes way too much for things she doesn't need to say sorry for.

I like angst with a little fluff <3

It's completely alright if you don't feel like writing this :3

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ﾟ a/n: hihi darling! It's been a while since you requested this, and I finally found time to finish it. I apologize for the delay, and I hope you enjoy it!

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ﾟ warnings: soft yandere content, necrophilia mention, violence mention, poison mention, pregnancy mention, fem!reader.

A Vivaldi song played from the record player, the melancholic tones of Valse Sentimentalle seeming to make your heart spin over and over inside your chest as you watched everything that was happening from your balcony. You could only glimpse the world this way.

The clouds raced across the dark sky like snow falling to the ground, visibly shaken by the cold wind that blew, as they were so fast that they quickly disappeared over the horizon. This was your little paradise after having spent so much time in hell; a lifetime of enduring your mother's insults regarding your "slovenly" appearance or your father's comments about your poor etiquette, about the role he expected of you, or how much your future husband wanted to have a dozen children, even though he was a terrible man with a terrible temper.

The truth was that all of this was unnecessarily useless. Today's society was useless. So many rules, so many political games going on. You couldn't understand the need for it all and you didn't need it anymore. Not when you were now a bird trapped in an unknown cage.

A beautiful cage. The bed was built against a thick brick wall painted black, curtains falling down the wooden posts flowing across the floor, beside it, a single flame glowed on the almost extinguished candlestick, its flames trying to communicate with you and failing, as you preferred to isolate yourself and observe the world outside the bars that trapped you inside, the snow so free and beautifully overwhelming.

Running away made no sense. But the feeling and need for freedom was something that kept beating in your chest millions of times, that screamed in your mind for you to act. And you were too much of a coward for that; or rather, where would you go if no one would welcome you? If no one was good?

Better a known evil than an evil that is little known.

Hands snaked over your shoulders, a mere caress that once soothed you, and, soon after, the voice of that being who had bathed in blood and guts to supposedly save you from a mediocre existence.

"You should be near the fire," there was apprehension in his tone, but a hint of something else. It wasn't desire, but it was like it, a yearning for control and care, and a range far more infinite than you could only guess.

He leaned over you, black hair falling down your neck. "Well, it doesn't matter, if you get sick, I'll take good care of you."

You shivered. There were so many meanings to those words. Was it a promise? Or a threat? Based on your past experiences, it was definitely a veiled threat that made your head spin and your stomach tighten with an almost instinctive fear - this fear was already well-known to you. It was a friend.

"Sorry." Was all you said as you let him guide you, like a doll, to your seat and place your favorite hot drink in your hand.

It was strange, you thought. The liquid moved as it swirled up the cup, the stark contrast of how warm it was compared to the cold outside. It was strange to have someone like that. It was strange that he never got angry, never yelled or tried to hit you. It was all strange.

Still, you drank.

It wasn't poison.

Your fiancé once threatened to poison you. And he said he would desecrate your body afterward again, and again and again, he would crush your bones till there was nothing more but dust.

Sebastian's hands took yours, red eyes staring into yours, searching for any ghosts from your past. A smile crept across his lips.

"Don't wander for what has been. Keep your head up for what is to come," he whispered, taking the cup from your hands and bringing it to your mouth. The ceramic cup touched your lips so gently that you could almost cry. "Enjoy, my love. Just enjoy it. I could never be like those insects."

Knowing this didn't change anything you had been through. But at least you knew he would never do anything hurtful and that he would listen to your apologies.

To him, you were a shiny, precious jewel, something to hide and love inside those necessary walls. You found that you didn't mind if you had to live like this; the routine was serene and not at all anxiety inducing. His love was gentle. His laugh like a serene promise.

You smiled for the first time since coming here. And you let him see it. You let him caress your face softly and kiss your cheeks, your breathing hitching when he ghosted your lips - you had never been kissed like that, and he was waiting for your permission to do it.

To let the past go, one must embrace the future, even if the future is scary. You closed your eyes and let it happen.

[flwrfields]

NEW PUPPIES & BIRTHDAYS • E.W

a/n: first time writing, kinda nervous....!!! expect some mediocre or bad writing! might not make long fics because i'm not used to doing these and i am not a pro writer. still, sit back, relax, and enjoy reading! 🧡 (ellie is 23 and reader is turning 21 in this story!!)

warnings: pure fluff, amateur writing, lowercase intended, just ellie being a big softie for reader !

one evening, ellie, your darling girlfriend, was out. meanwhile, you were at home doing chores and doing your thing. in a few days, you'll be turning 21 and you've been talking about it for a while now, it's clear you're excited. you've planned this party with ellie, inviting friends, buying cake, candles, balloons, food, everything.

while you were waiting for ellie at home, ellie was driving to the pet store. for months, you've been talking about how much you wanted a puppy, and ellie always adored how your eyes shined whenever you talked about puppies. every time, it melted her heart. she eventually arrived to the pet store, exiting her car and going inside. immediately, she was met with the sounds of barking and whimpering and the sight of jumping and excited puppies.

"hey, you must be ellie! i'm aria, the person you talked with on the phone." the person behind the register immediately called out to ellie, introducing herself with a small smile. ellie nods, returning that small smile. "well, you have plenty of options to pick and i know the puppies are dying to meet you... so, shall we?" aria guides ellie to the place where the puppies are, and boy, she wasn't lying. there were loads, maybe hundreds, of puppies. one puppy caught ellie's eye, though. a small but adorable golden retriever was staring right at her, jumping up and down as she grabs her attention. aria notices ellie staring at the puppy and says, "that pup was taken here a few days ago, it took him a while to warm up here. i'm pretty sure it'll be the same for you and your partner." ellie nods slowly as she listens, her eyes locked onto the puppy.

"that pup's the one." ellie suddenly states, her eyes finally looking away.

aria's smiles widens, nodding as she walks towards the puppy's cage and gently grabs him. "hope you love him as much he will." she says softly, allowing ellie to grab him and let him settle into her arms.

"we will."

days go by, it's finally your birthday, your long, awaited birthday. you can't believe it, you're 21. the party was simple but fun, everyone was smiling and interacting with each other. and before you know it, it was time to blow out your candles and receive your gifts.

you silently wished to yourself, blew your candles— the candles that read the numbers, "21", and listened as the people around you cheered. you opened your gifts, laughed, cried, and you're overall thankful for them. but, there was one person who hasn't given their gift yet, ellie. ellie looked like a nervous mess, fidgeting with her fingers in the corner. you look at her, your eyes softening. "els?" you whisper, calling her. "you okay?" you ask. ellie nods, clearing her throat to wear off the nervousness. she lets out a breathy sigh and goes into your bedroom.

it was silent for a while. it was an awkward silence, waiting for your girlfriend to come back out. the silence didn't last long, though. you heard it. you heard the familiar whimpering noises, the soft tapping of excited paws. the door opened and ellie came out. she bought you a puppy, the one you've been talking about for months! you feel tears well up in your eyes, your arms reaching out to hold the puppy. "when did you get him?" you weeped out, your voice cracking from the tears. "few days ago." ellie answered, handing the puppy over to you.

"i love you so much for this." you mumbled, holding the puppy tight.

"is that the only reason why?" ellie jokes, tilting her head and crossing her arms.

"'course not." you quickly say, letting a laugh leave your mouth.

"c'mere." ellie opens her arms, bringing you into a tight hug. the hug was warm, comforting. this is the best gift ever. ellie is the best gift ever.

"y'know what i wish?" you say, sniffling. "what do you wish, babe?" ellie responds.

"to more puppies and birthdays."

ellie chuckled, hugging you tighter.

"happy birthday, baby."

© flwrfields

[sirjaketkiszka]

Jake Kiszka One Shot: Talk to Me

You come home from a long day at work. Jake is determined to make you feel better while you tell him about your day.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Jake x Fem!Reader

Word count: 2,306

Warnings: 18+!!, sexual content, thigh riding, dirty talk, a sprinkle of praise, cursing, and, of course, mediocre writing.

Disclaimer: apologies for any potential spelling errors or grammar mistakes.

Jake One Shot Masterpost

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

I huff out a frustrated sigh as I open my front door. Today fucking sucked. However, my mood slightly lightens when I see a sleeping Jake sprawled out on the couch, breathing quietly through his nose. Setting my keys down on the side table by the door, I lock it behind me.

“Baby?” I hear Jake call from the couch, his soft, husky voice laced with sleep.

“I’m here,” I reply, offering a soft smile, the long day still weighing on me, “Did I wake you up?” I ask, knowing I did.

“No, no,” He pushes himself up from his lying position so he’s sitting up, and leans against the couch cushions, a content smile spreading on his lips, “I was waiting for you.” His voice is sweet, and still a little hoarse.

Setting the rest of my stuff down, I walk over to the couch and sit beside him, an exasperated huff exiting my lungs when I slump against the cushions. I turn my head to look at him, and he’s already looking at me, his eyebrows knitted with concern.

“How was your day?” He asks, probably already knowing the answer, but wanting to ask anyway.

“It sucked,” I reply simply, “Nothing went right, and I’m just so tired and I feel so stressed.” I admit honestly, my eyes closing and head turning away as I think about my day.

“Come here,” His soft voice pulls me to look at him again, with his arms held out toward me. I lean over into his hold and his hands find my waist, guiding me to sit on his lap, now facing him in a straddling position. “Tell me about your day.” He encourages.

A heavy sigh leaves my lips, my back slouching slightly as I recall my entire day, “Well, it started this morning when I was late for work.”

“Uh huh,” He nods, repositioning one of my legs to sit between his legs, making me straddle his thigh, and resting my center on the strong muscles. Gently wrapping his long fingers around my wrists, he places each of my hands on his shoulders, releasing them when I grab a hold of him. I don’t acknowledge any of this, however, because I’m distracted by the events of my day. “What else?”

“It was a shit show, Jake,” A frustrated groan comes out and I throw my head back to let out my raised voice, “No one was doing what they were told!”

“Mhm,” His hands find my hips, nudging me to scoot up his thigh. Most likely helping me get into a more comfortable position. “That’s terrible, baby.” He mumbles, his attention seemingly elsewhere.

“Are you even listening, Jake?” I ask, a little annoyed.

“Of course I am,” He looks me in the eyes, his pupils dilated, “Keep going, I’m listening.”

Shooting him a questioning glare, I continue with my explanation, “I just feel like I didn’t do anything right today, and I feel like shit.” I sigh.

“My poor girl,” He says, leaning forward and capturing my lips in a soft kiss. He kisses me tenderly, almost like he’s trying to absorb my frustrations. My lips move against his slowly, the building tension replacing my previous irritation. I breathe heavily through my nostrils when his hands on my hips scoot me backward on his thigh, creating friction on my cunt, “Tell me more.” He urges, breaking our kiss, and pulling my hips forward.

“Jake, what are you-”

“Shh,” He presses a quick kiss on the corner of my lips, “I’m making you feel better,” His plan is no longer subtle as he unapologetically grinds my clothed pussy on his equally clothed thigh. My breath quickens when the pace picks up slightly, my thoughts clouded by desire, forgetting what I was talking about in the first place. “Talk to me, baby.”

“I don’t– I can’t remember,” I moan.

“You were telling me about your terrible day,” He reminds me, his hands still guiding my hips to ride his thigh.

“Right,” I let out a breathy sigh that disguises a moan, closing my eyes to think, “It was– god, it was a long day,” I conclude, no longer being able to focus on forming coherent sentences.

“There’s more,” He pauses my hips, “Keep talking, baby, or I’ll stop.” He warns, his sweet, encouraging voice turning dark and demanding.

My eyes shoot open, being met with a cocky smirk plastered on his face, “Fine.” A frustrated groan catches in my throat, “My boss made me stay late, oh god–” I let out a shaky breath when he resumes my hips, building the friction back up, “Fuck, Jake.”

“Focus for me, baby,” He slows my hips down again, his eyes watching my every facial expression, “Keep telling me about your day.”

“O-okay,” I stutter, a bit flustered, “I stayed late– fuck– to finish my boss’s paperwork,” Words become harder to form when he speeds up, a rush of heat pooling in my panties, “and he made me lock up alone– god, don’t stop, Jake.” I beg with a sigh as my eyes close in satisfaction.

“I won’t, as long as you keep talking,” He keeps the same rhythm, “Look at me, baby.”

My eyes open again, catching his gaze already on mine. His eyelids are hooded, pupils dark, and soft pink lips slightly parted— lust intoxicates him. Regardless of the swift pace, the heat in my lower belly stays at a steady level. My eyebrows scrunch together when the repeated grinding creates an uncomfortable, and overstimulating sensation on my pussy.

“I just wanted to get home to you,” I continue, a slight quiver present in my tone, “but traffic on the way here was so bad– shit!” The end of my sentence comes out in a higher pitch when he moves my hips faster. The rapid friction is becoming unbearable. “I can’t— I need more, Jake,” I beg, “I need you.”

“Hold on,” He stalls my hips, earning a whine from me, and pushes me so that I’m standing, “Can I take these off?” He hooks his fingers in the waistband of my pants and underwear, looking up at me with begging eyes. My bottom lip gets caught in my teeth, and I eagerly nod, willing to do whatever he asks. He pulls both clothing items down, stretching over my ass and hips, and pooling at my feet. When I step out of them, I catch his eyes locked on my pussy, “You’re so wet, baby.” He points out.

Crimson cascades along the bridge of my nose and the hills of my cheeks, heat prickling my ears. “Can you please touch me, Jake?”

“Come here,” He leans back on the couch, not removing any of his clothes, “Sit back down.” He orders, holding his hands out for me to grab on to. Reaching out to him, his warm, calloused hands support me as I sink back down on his leg. I suck in a sharp breath when my bare cunt rests on his jeans, the fabric rough on my swollen clit. “How’s that? Is that better, baby?”

Unable to speak, I quickly nod, earning a smug grin from him. His hands find my bare hips, his fingertips sinking into the soft, tender flesh. A small moan exhales out of me when he begins a slow pace on his thigh, the rugged material of his jeans adding a more satisfying sensation.

“What else happened?” He asks, continuing the conversation. The coarse fabric beneath me catches on my clit, causing it to be nudged with every swipe on his thigh. When no words come out, he stalls my hips once again, “Come on, baby, talk to me. I don’t want this to stop either.” His words cause a choked moan to release from my panting lungs.

“I- I sat in traffic for nearly an hour,” I manage to rush out, “I wanted to see you so bad,” I whine at the memory of waiting in traffic, but mostly because he pushes my hips harder and faster. “Fuck, Jake, that feels so good!” My thighs twitch at my rising climax, the familiar feeling of flames and warmth licking at my core.

“Is that all?” He grunts. His chest is rising and falling rapidly with his gaze fixed on my pussy— as if this has as much of an effect on him as it does to me.

“Yes,” I moan breathlessly, “That was my entire day– shit!”

“Promise?” His voice is hoarse, like he’s losing restraint.

“Yes, Jake, I promise!” I cry out.

“Good,” is all he says before losing control. His grip on my hips strengthens and borders on bruising, somehow quickening the already relentless pace even more. The vigorous friction causes me to palm his shoulders, needing support. I try to keep up as best as I can, my breathy sighs quickly turning into heavy pants.

“Yes, yes, yes,” I absentmindedly chant, my head hanging back and back arching.

“You look so fucking pretty riding my thigh,” He praises, his lips landing on my exposed neck and leaving wet sloppy kisses on the damp skin, “I could watch you like this all day.” He mumbles against me, “Absolutely filthy.”

His words cause a wave of pleasure to fly straight to my cunt, the delicious warmth spreading evenly. My skin feels like it’s on fire, although goosebumps prickle at the anticipation of an intensified orgasm. Low grunts leave Jake’s parted lips, and needy moans catch in my throat. Our mixed voices and heavy breaths create a pornographic melody that hits every surface, wall, and corner.

“Jake,” I attempt to talk in between pants, “let me touch you,” I beg as my knee in between his legs rests against his hard bulge.

“This isn’t about me, baby,” He nips at the sensitive skin on my collarbone, earning an exhausted whimper from me, “let me take care of you.”

Looking down at him, I frown, “But-”

“Just focus on you,,” He interrupts me, lifting his thigh slightly to add to the firm pressure on my clit, “Doesn’t that feel good, baby?”

“God, yes–” I admit, losing focus with my head tilting back again, “Please, I’m so close.”

“That’s right, baby, ride it out,” He encourages me, leaning forward and placing his lips against my ear as warm breaths spill on my earlobe, “you have no idea how good this feels for me.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” The string of whined curses push past my parted lips, my peak growing and coming close to tipping over the edge. “I’m almost there, Jake.” My voice is small, growing tired and needy.

“That’s right,” He urges, “You look so fucking good, baby. Can you look down for me?”

When I do, I see my naked cunt dragging along his thigh at an intense speed, leaving behind a rapidly growing wet spot. The sight is ungodly; the dampened fabric of his jeans, the outline of his erection, and his hold on my hips causing his knuckles to whiten.

“Come on my thigh, baby, show me how good this feels,” He whispers in my ear, his lips gently grazing the heated skin.

“Fuck!” I cry out with my head falling back for the final time. His words are enough to push me over and my release washes over me, causing my vision to blur and breathing to stop. My hips vigorously ride out my orgasm on his thigh, the surrounding fabric becoming soaked in the process. I feel my pussy walls violently fluttering around an empty void, pushing out the final stages of my climax. Toward the end of it, the last orgasmic spasms jerk on my clit, causing small gasps to enter my lungs.

“Oh fuck,” I hear Jake whisper beneath me, catching my attention. His face is flushed, and his lips a darker shade of pink, glistening from his tongue shooting out to lick them. With his chest heaving, he looks at me, eyebrows furrowed in what looks like pleasure.

“Can I take care of you now?” I ask eagerly, still out of breath.

“No need, baby.” He lets out a tired chuckle, an embarrassed smirk pulling at his lips.

“Why not?” I frown.

“Because,” He pauses, grabbing one of my hands off of his shoulder, shoving it down his pants, and into his boxers, “Look what you do to me.”

My hand is met with extreme warmth, the fabric of his boxers soaked and sticky with his own release. I suck in a small, surprised gasp, my pussy clenching around nothing once more.

“See?” He adds, “You drive me insane, baby.”

With no further words, I lean in to kiss him. My hand remains on his cock, now beginning to soften from his climax, while my lips move hungrily against his. He keeps up, groaning as his tongue pushes forcefully past my lips. I moan at the taste of him, and he swallows it instantly, a low growl dangling in the back of his throat.

“You can’t get enough, can you?” He teases, pulling away and catching my lower lip in his teeth, releasing it with a small tug, “How do you feel now?”

“Much better,” I smile, leaning forward and brushing my nose against his neck, causing him to tilt it. Leaving tender kisses along the side of it, I nibble the spot he loves so much beneath his ear. A satisfied chuckle bubbles in my throat when I feel his cock grow harder in my hand, “But it was a really stressful day.” I say, pulling away to look at him, batting my eyelashes.

“Is that right?” He chuckles, his plump-kissed lips flashing his perfect teeth.

“Yes,” I breathe out, aroused when I feel his cock hardening in my hold.

“Then I guess we better fix that.” He says, mischief wrapped around his tongue.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

A very short one shot, but regardless, I hope you enjoyed!

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

[blingblong55]

Cola- John Price NSFW

Based on a request: Ma’am, hello & how are you? I hope I’m not bombarding you with a lot of requests. I was listening to Older by Isabel LaRosa and I have imagination of Fem!Reader x Price (PeePaw) Reader (early twenties), fresh graduate and a newbie in TF141 handling weapons stocks (or whatever you call it, lol). Met Price for the first time and her daddy issues vibrating. Both taken a liking of each other (im sucker for love at first sight)….. I leave the rest up to your imagination and creativity ☺️. Please ignore this request if goes against your FAQ. Thank you 🫶🏼 ---- F!Reader, smut, 18+, MDNI, oral!sex, age!gap ----

A/N: short...I know and also a bit shit...

When you met him, it was like something clicked. The smiles you both flashed towards each other were something rather sweet. Your heart flutters, cheeks reddened and you became nervous. Your mind scrambles, trying to find an excuse to approach him and for him, it was the same. His mouth dries, eyes not being able to look away from you. What is it about you that makes him feel like a teen once more? Would you two have the chance to even talk?

You are new to base and the team your mentor, Laswell, listed you in. You became an armourer for the team and being your first day, you needed to have a meeting with the captain of the team. Fuck, I hope it's him, you think. Your eyes are on his body. Why must you be into men much older than you? It's a curse but a blessing. 

Once in his office, he sighs and nods you to sit down. "You must be Y/N?" He sits down and lights up his cigar as he sizes you up. A smirk plays on his lips. Fuck, I can't think of her this way, he thinks. 

....

The meeting is long, a rundown of what the team does, the values it holds and what you'll be doing later in the day. He smiles but tries to fight it off. He asks you to talk about yourself, a mediocre excuse to listen to your voice for longer. It's like he needs to know you for more than just being in the same team. As John leans back into his seat, he lets the smoke fill the room. Between laughter and comments, he and you can feel the attraction arise. 

He smiles, and leans in, "You said men your age don't treat you write?" Oh what a comment this could lead to. As you explain why, he smirks. Maybe a man like himself can fix the little issues you have. John begins to take notes about you, the way you talk and how you smile at fond memories that you mention casually. 

....

With days, he calls you back to his office, this happens over and over. From light conversations to the ones that make you tear up that lead to him playing the role of the man you truly need. "C'mere doll," he says and pats his leg. With teary eyes you sit on his lap and nuzzle your face on his neck, his strong arms wrapping around you. One of his hands cups your face and wipes your tears away. 

Is it wrong he wants this so much more when you cry and depend on him? Can you be his little secret? You'll understand when he asks that your sweet lips lay on his, right? or how by now, his breath is close to your lips. 

"Kiss me, yeah?" he asks with a whisper. 

You lean in, letting him take control of this moment now. Your body wrapped around his and now he cups your face, needing you closer than before. 

Fuck does he need your mouth wrapped around something else. He shakes his head and pulls away, "On your knees, doll," he commands and you obey so perfectly. 

He unzips his jeans and pulls your hand onto his cock, your lovely hands playing with his balls. Slowly, he pulls his cock out and he groans as you slowly lick his tip, your pretty eyes on him. "Oh fuck..." he whispers and pushes your head in. His hand gripping your hair, guiding you to his own need. You gag, eyes teary as you suck him off. Your sweet lips make him more aggressive, he curses you and his grip tightens on your neck when he feels his cock bulge inside of you. 

His balls tighten, his head thrown back and then he bucks his hips. "Fuck....oh fuck you're so good," he groans and just as drool falls from your mouth, he cums in your pretty throat. "Oh the things you make me do, Y/N. I promise next time, I'll show you why men like me are so good for pretty things like you." His lips meet your forehead before they kiss your swollen lips. 

A/N: This was rushed..sorry pookie

Tags:

@liyanahelena @goldenmclaren @ghostslillady @moonsua1 @frizzseaberries @frazie99 @idklols @katybaby00 @saoirse06 @vampsquerade @alxexhearts @baldwinhearts @Juneonhoth @tiredmetalenthusiast @jinxxangel13 @strangepuppynightmare @enarien @Simonssweetgirl @luvecarson @nellsbobells @coralwitchdreamland @ikohniik @nobodys-coffee @strawberrychita @sae1kie @queen-ilmaree @Llelannie @Macnches2 @anonymuslydumb @avidreadee123 @talooolaaloolla @skelletonwitch @bittermajesties @1234beeandpuppycat @sparky--bunny @honestlyhiswife @who-can-appease-me @ghostwifeyy @konigssultwithghost @pinkblossomsworld @lovelyvqer @the_royal_bee @beansproutmafia @soapybutt17 @asianbutnotjapanese @a-goose-with-a-knife @foxface013 @born4biriyani @thegreyjoyed @mychemichalimalance @marshiely @iruzias @sleepyycatt @noodlezz-bedo @trinthealternate

[pvlvsdog]

how easy or hard is it to make the sinners finish? also are you fine with yandere stuff? I want to ask before requesting. Also if your requests aren’t open then feel free to ignore.

Oh my! I made a whole tier list with a friend^^ just need to pull it up. Over half the credit goes to the skinny dipping ask anon, haiii^^ also I’m all good with yandere stuff. I just might have difficulty with certain characters (base ID for Greg to name one, that might not be very long if I’m asked to write something about him; I’ll still write about him, but there’s not a lot to work with for the yandere theme in my eyes) but I will absolutely write it^^ also you will get bonus characters. Because it’s fun^^

TW: 18+, UNEDITED

Not finishing (sorry!):

Faust - sorry but I don’t think she ever came during sex. You can use toys or she can do the job herself and that works, but that’s it honestly. It’s not that you’re doing something wrong, she’s still choosing to spend time with you in that way, but I just think she would finish from touching herself. After all Faust knows Faust the best

Takes a long while:

Ryoshu - it’s not hard to make her finish but if you rush it, she won’t react well. It’s a whole process, getting to that first orgazm. She likes playing around before it, holding it off until she’s satisfied with the act. Like, she won’t ignore you in favour of her pleasure, she wants the both of you to get the most out of this. Which means neither of you is finishing quick, sorry

Sonya - also not that easy. He’s a chill guy, he doesn’t seem like he would mind. He likes you and it was a decent time either way, so it’s not a big issue if he didn’t come. I just feel like, despite his easygoing demeanour, if anything from the book carries over to the game, he miiight have a hard time letting himself be vulnerable during sexual encounters. Participates still, but it’s not a carefree ordeal and it makes orgasming harder. Can use his hand just fine though and doesn’t consider it a wasted night

Demian - kinda hard. Like, I just feel like it would be hard for him to reach a release, but he’d be damned if he still didn’t try. He’s fairly confident and knows himself well, so he has no problem guiding you a little so both of you can orgasm. With his tips it’s not really hard. Side note, but I feel like the experience you’d get is worth it, come on, in the book he’s such an agent of chaos it’s iconic. Yeah he’s calm. But like, if I asked that man to tie my shoes he could as well run off with my shoelaces to prove some point he made earlier hhh

Last above average:

Verg - kinda hard? Like, it’s easier than with the ones above, but you will have to put some effort into pleasing him. He’s guarded and keeps most at an arm’s length so to have a genuine sexual encounter with you, he needs to trust and know you a bit. I don’t think he would be a 10/10 at communicating so you also wouldn’t have a lot to go off of. It changes with time, the communication part, but he still takes a bit to finish

Ishmael - she takes some time as well. I think she’s pretty experienced and has had many amazing as well as mediocre encounters so given that range, don’t expect to just waltz into her room and make her scream your name upon your touch. Good thing is, she has a good idea about what works, just take her suggestions and you’ll get there (she’ll do to ;3). Other component could be the fact that she often doesn’t feel comfortable letting her guard down and not being in control. So, especially if you’re more dominant, I could see some issues stemming from that early on, because as open as she would be to give things a try, if you’re a more dominant person, it could be difficult for her to work with. Not your fault, just give her some time. In bed and outside of it

Hong Lu - I can’t explain it much, I just think it’s not super easy as well. Again, you won’t have him panting and moaning just from doing the bare minimum, but let our curious man explore, make it worth a while, and he’ll reach an orgasm at his pace

Kromer - takes a bit too. She’s pretty horny with a high sex drive but she likes to have her time with you. Likes that you have you to try a bit before she’ll come too

Standard timing 😌😌:

Dante - i feel like they have a pretty average timing. Perhaps it would be faster but they overthink a bit and it’s all a little bit „new”. They don’t even fully know (or well, remember) what they like so that also plays a role. Again, it’s easier than with the characters above but they don’t come super fast

Yi Sang - also pretty much within what you would expect, you have to get him a bit worked up, it’s not as long of a process as it is with some other sinners, but definitely enough for you two to get a bit creative with the foreplay and such

Meursault - I think we just figured getting him placed in the middle of the tier is just funny considering his demeanour. That man is the standard, the average, the perfect representation of the mean. Sex with him definitely isn’t vanilla, I just think he finishes at a very predictable timing, never having you too worked up but also not rushing it

Hopkins - adding him as a silly bonus, I just think it’s funny he stuck in my brain. He also takes a pretty expected amount of time, he has to have some solid foreplay but it’s not like, really hard for you to get him to finish. Just let him have his fun first

Fairly easy:

Don - if you know where her „weaknesses” lay (and it’s not a difficult thing, she’s pretty obvious, I think. Again, I’m keeping in mind how easily she gave herself away when she was questioned about her feelings on being beaten up in CIII, that woman was stuttering like crazy. So like, just go for whatever flusters her and that’s your cue as to what you should do during sex) it’s a very short road from there to having her orgasm. Being easily excitable seems to seep into that part of her life as well :3

Rodya - she knows herself well and is used to putting herself first (since life taught her that if you don’t, nobody else might. Not so say she isn’t a generous person when she can, but like, it is often something she does for attention or praise in general, I think sex is a bit of a different case) so her objective is to have a good time. It might change as you two grow closer, but for the main part she just uses her own knowledge in what gets her off and works from there. Not saying you don’t have to put any work in on your part, but she will make it very easy. If she wants to have sex with you, at least before you two get closer, it’s so that she can have a release, so that will be her main priority. She’ll be nice to you sure, she knows how to be sweet and charming, even when there’s sweat rolling down her face and her back is arching while she adjusts your hands to grip her just right. But before she’s ready to be vulnerable, the sex is more so to fulfil her needs (coming, feeling important, so on) than to grow closer to you

Outis - my funny explanation is “fast but only if you’re Dante” but my actual reasoning for saying that she would be rather quick to finish is that I think it’s been so long and she’s so pent up that it just makes sense. Like, she’s not about to ask for sex from just anyone, she ignores that need too much. So when she finally has sex with you, oh, she clearly means it and has been wanting to do so for a very long time. All in all, she’s on the brink anyways so getting her off is a very easy task

Gregor - that man is starved and kind of easily… well affected by your actions, let’s say. He has no real experience with being desired by someone so you don’t have to try much to get him worked up. Your honest advances and the way you treat him oftentimes leave him exasperated (he can’t believe over the half of things you’re saying, especially given that he would probably make you aware how his modifications will affect any intimate relationship you might want to have with him), but he’d be lying if he said that whatever you were doing wasn’t working. Like, he’s not surprised he’s into it, he just can’t believe that you would want to make such advances towards him in the first place. Honestly if it wasn’t for his self deprecation and fear of hurting you, he’d be on the bottom tier. But those dark thoughts accompany him even when he’s being intimate (or, well, especially then) so he’s still only somewhat below average. He probably blames it on his stamina (which also could be a factor, he’s not as senile as he makes himself out to be but he certainly does struggle keeping up in bed) and probably mumbles something about being “too old for this” and how “you’re going to end him if you keep doing things like this” (his very roundabout way of saying that you affect him greatly). So, with all that in mind, he doesn’t last very long. The only thing keeping him from coming undone upon your touch is concern for your safety should his body act up because of the strong emotions you cause him to feel

Gotta go fast (sorry):

Heathcliff - not sorry about putting him in this category, only sorry for the joke. I mean, that man is pent up, worked up and so, so oblivious to his own feelings that you won’t be having any troubles with making him come. I mean, for the past few years he dedicated himself to the thought of what could (or in this case - couldn’t) be and his ability to reflect and own up to the fact that you’re making him feel a very specific kind of way is hindered as a result. That man could get a raging boner every time you touch him and he still would hold off on reflecting on his feelings. So when he’s finally in a position to have sex with you, you will have him all worked up in record time. Heaving, panting with drops of sweat rolling down his forehead. He desires you greatly, even if he has a hard (hihi) time admitting that (well, that would mean that his whole… thing was a waste of time and also would call into question if he was ever wanted by the person he’s been chasing this whole time, I mean, he couldn’t imagine having her act towards him in the same way you do. Which… well, he doesn’t love the thought). That and his lack of experience with all things sexual leads him to release around the time you’re trying to get started. He tries to last longer and he won’t leave you hanging if he doesn’t. Well… I can certainly tell you that he won’t. But he’s going to try anyways. Just don’t tease him about it, that might actually work in the opposite way. Or do tease him, if that’s what you’re into ;3

Sinclair - if you two getting heated, you’re already halfway done with making him come. He gets horny easily and fast, but usually (always, prior to meeting you probably) his hand has to do. And in the book he is quite filled with thoughts of pretty sexual nature (that are quite a cause of his shame). But insecurity and guilt play a part here too, making him believe that he doesn’t really deserve to experience nice things like that. So when you’re so close to him, something he fantasizes about quite often, it’s making him overwhelmed in the best, most alien way. All the thoughts that could hold him back are gone and instead he is overcome with lust. Which then leads to a very fast release. Just like Heath, I totally see him worked up, heaving and absolutely coming undone. Buuut with the way he is, I don’t think it’s just him being all shy and cumming cutely just to lay down and stutter out a ‘thank you’. That lad is filled with so much anger issues and unprocessed, strong emotions that what you are more likely to get is an extremely horny, awkward, rough encounter and after you blink he’s done and in the process of folding under the weight of post nut clarity (saying this lovingly, not to be biased as the author of this, but this is absolutely a ‘would’ for me. I just don’t think he’s what you would consider… conventionally “good”. Which is subjective, even if there is a ‘popular version’ of what good sex should look like)

[aintnoloveintheheatofthesun]

Why I go so hard for Pearline

Jayme Lawson's face card, talent and screen presence aside, I fucking love Pearline. Two years ago, I made this criteria to help guide my consumption because Lord knows I have endured enough mediocre, thoughtless slop. Ryan Coogler's writing, in regards to cheating ass Pearline, meets every single one of these points.

My checklist (Inspired by Helen Young's book on Whiteness in Fantasy)

[ ] Are there black female characters?

[ ] More than one?

[ ] Is she three-dimensional? Does she have strengths, goals, an interesting past? Pet peaves? Complaints? Blind spots? Flaws? Sexuality? Friends? Humour? Family drama? [ ] Are they killed off? Is their death nuanced? Do they die with dignity? Are they mourned? Are they remembered after their death? [ ] Are there black women behind the scenes? As researchers, producers or writers?

Shout out to Voice Memos for the void. She helped me clarify why Sinners hits so hard. It's not just Pearline, or Annie, or Beatrice, or Mrs Moore.

Its the little girl that Smokes teaches to negotiate.

Its the Clarksdale, Mississipi journalist that attended the local screening that asked fantastic questions.

Its the real musicians that elevated the soundtrack, like Brittany Howard and the McCalla sisters.

Its Zinzi Coogler, its Ruth E. Carter, its Hannah Beachler. He respects Black women and represents them beautifully in his work

I am here for art that respects this criteria. Here is a snapshot of what I'm fucking with heavily rn:

Arcane, The Old Guard, Sinners, The Sea Beast, Rye Lane, Duster, The Gilded Age, Moonlight, Sister Act, The Haunting of Bly Manor and Titans

[blacksheep28]

Phoenix Song 30

Yue Qingyuan called an emergency peak lord meeting to deal with everything. No one had been happy with what was laid out. Everyone had agreed that the threat of a new heavenly demon was a serious one, and also agreed it wasn't something they could deal with until Luo Binghe surfaced again. It was decided that Ming Fan would be trained up to become the next Qing Jing peak lord. He had done the duties of head disciple well. It was not his fault that he had trusted his shizun, especially when they had all fallen for the imposter's lies as well. 

A senior disciple from An Ding had been pried away from Shang Qinghua to act as interim peak lord and live beside Shen Yuan to ensure that nothing that would harm the sect occurred. Shen Qingqiu would be making a 'quiet' retirement, with Shen Yuan only appearing as absolutely necessary.

Shang Qinghua sent summons to both of the Shens shortly after the peak lord meeting. A lot had been revealed that he straight up wasn't aware of. Look, he was busy with endless paperwork and trying to please Mobei-Jun. He knew about the canon divergence but he didn't expect another transmigrator! Now both Shens sat across from him with matching looks that could kill. He'd brought them to his home for privacy, but now was starting to worry this would make it easier to hide his body. 

"So. Please don't kill me." He prefaced. "But I also died and was transmigrated into Proud Immortal Demon Way. And now I need to know what you two have been up to since I can't talk to the system anymore and now we can talk about our existence." 

Shen Yuan sat up straighter, his eyes widening subtly. "You've also been here this whole time? What the fuck, man! I thought I was the only one."

"Another imposter?" Shen Xue gave a dangerous smile. "When did the original Shang Qinghua die?" He was pleased to hear that what he had done had also removed the death threat hanging over the An Ding Peak Lord. Unlike many, however, he was fully aware of how important An Ding was to keep Cang Qiong running. If this second imposter was a threat he would remove him and no one would find the body.

Shang Qinghua quickly shook his head. "No, no, it's nothing like that!" He said quickly. "I came into this body as a baby. I am definitely Shang Qinghua. I had to cultivate myself and everything." He laughed nervously in the face of Shen Xue's horrifying smile. 

"What was your user before?" Shen Yuan spoke up. "I was Peerless Cucumber, you may have seen me in the comment section." Shang Qinghua visibly paled. Oh. He'd definitely seen him in the comment section. 

"Ah- I'm the author." He admitted. "Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky. Always a pleasure to meet such a dedicated fAn-" He yelped as Shen Yuan suddenly stood and lunged at him, frantically backing away.

"So you actually know the responsibilities of An Ding Peak Lord," Shen Xue concluded. He grabbed Shen Yuan when he lunged forward and smacked him. "Behave with some manner of decorum! Have you zero sensibility? You are as wild and willful as a child!" He looked back at Shang Qinghua. "You wrote the horrible porn novel my imposter is using as a life guide?"

Shang Qinghua trembled under the withering glare Shen Yuan sent his way. "Look, I'm sorry about your horrible backstory and terrible fate! If I had known I'd end up inside this place I would have removed half the danger and probably implemented air conditioning."

"I'm more pissed about your horrible writing." Shen Yuan snapped, "At least the danger and death resulted in plot intrigue. You never finished wrapping up plotholes in the actual story and instead chose to have your story become an endless loop of mediocre porn!" 

"Look, a guy has to eat." He mourned. "I wanted to finish the plot but all the readers hated it! Every time I tried to make it more interesting I would get so many complaints about Binghe not having sex."

The temperature in the room dropped. "What was that about a horrible backstory?" he asked as sweetly as he could manage. He wasn't surprised that Shen Yuan cared for none of the actual impact on this world. Shen Yuan was a self absorbed man, he would never notice his impact on others. He could even care less that Shang Qinghua apparently had wrote terrible porn in order to live. He knew how difficult life could be. Shang Qinghua knowing things he should not, however, was far more concerning. Especially if he had loose lips.

Oh great, both of the Shens are going to work together to kill him and bury the body. "I mean- I never actually wrote it into the book, but I saw that some of the stuff I just wrote down as notes or headcanons made it in. I'd assume that- you know- the whole thing with Yue Qi and the Qiu's happened?" He shrank back, his voice growing smaller as he spoke. He already has to worry about one pissy ice demon! He doesn't need another!

"You will tell no one, or An Ding will find it needing a new peak lord," Shen Xue informed him icily. His mind reeled as he took in what Shang Qinghua had said. What he knew was far more accurate than what Shen Yuan did. Was Shang Qinghua a seer?

Shang Qinghua immediately snapped his mouth shut and nodded. Yep. Ok. Got it. No spilling Shen Jiu's past.

"What are you two talking about?" Shen Yuan asked scathingly. "The Qiu's? What happened with the family he killed?"

"Nothing that concerns you," Shen Xue said smoothly. "You have your own problems to be focusing on. Now, Shang Qinghua. You said you wished to discuss with us the disruption to your visions?"

"Ah. Yeah." Shang Qinghua quickly composed himself. "The system is gone. Binghe turned into a demon early. Cucumber-bro's transmigration was apparently botched to the point the original goods got dropped into a random bird. I've been trying to keep my head down and get my work done, what the heck have you two been up to?"

"I had not initially planned to reinvolve myself in matters, but learning that my corpse was still up and about was, as you can imagine, concerning." Shen Xue lifted his tea and sipped it uncaring that it was cold.

Shen Yuan sighed. "I started being nicer to Binghe just because I didn't want to die. Shen Xue showed up and things spiraled out of control after that. He managed to get rid of the system through Binghe and then promptly exposed the truth to the whole world. Liu QIngge found out he's a heavenly demon while bringing me back here and, you know." he waved a vague hand.

"Liu Qingge's hatred for demons won over," Shang Qinghua guessed before looking back at Shen Xue. "Speaking of him, what have you been doing with Liu Qingge. He's supposedly watching you, but he's weirdly relaxed around you."

"It was necessary," Shen Xue said firmly. "I wasn't going to let you go about ruining things using my* name." He looked at Shang Qinghua. "You are aware how ridiculous your fellow....traveler is, yes? He seems to be under the impression that everything here is fake. And has made some very erroneous assumptions about my relations with those in Cang Qiong."

Shang Qinghua looked down sheepishly. "That may be my fault." He mentioned. "I wanted to write you as this flawed antagonist who only hurt others because he was hurt first and had good intentions. But...nobody wanted the guy who tormented the protagonist to be sympathetic. They just wanted you tormented." Shen Yuan saw Shen Jiu as he was in the published work, not how he was in his brain. 

"Will you stop calling me ridiculous? This place comes from a novel. It is by definition a fictional world." Shen Yuan shot Shen Xue a dirty look.

Shen Xue casually hit Shen Yuan with his fan. He turned back to face Shang Qinghua. "That is understandable. Those in your position tend to...have difficulties. I am sure you are relieved that your visions are broken."

"I'll be more relieved after the immortal alliance conference. That's the original turning point of the story when Luo Binghe began to blacken. My k- ah- Mobei Jun is still going to attack. The abyss will still open. As long as we don't let Binghe fall inside we should have changed the plot enough to not risk Cang Qiong being destroyed." It's surprising, seeing Shen Xue be so lenient towards him. The last pathetic thing he was faced with he started beating on the regular.

"Do you think the brat could find a way through the conference and break through the barriers in order to fall in?" Shen Xue asked. Heavenly demons were different from regular demons. They would have to act with far more care.

Shang Qinghua snorted a small laugh. "He could probably break into the conference but he's not a complete idiot. He wouldn't jump into the abyss on his own. That being said, now that the rest of the sect knows about him, I wouldn't put it past someone else to throw him in. Especially Liu Qingge."

"I will speak to him and warn him the abyss will not be an efficient way to deal with the half demon," Shen Xue said politely. He understood Liu Qingge's desire to kill the heavenly demon brat. He would not stop him from attacking him. A warning should be more than enough to suffice.

"Will he listen to you?" He asked, unsure. Liu Qingge would never take Shen Jiu's advice before. If anything he'd be more likely to go against his words.

"Why would he not?" Shen Xue flicked his fan open and hid his face. "We have come to an understanding." If Shang Qinghua pushed he would not be pleased with what he learned. He understood the An Ding Peak Lord had watched them terrorize each other for years and hate each other. He had also only just caught up on what was happening. He should still trust Shen Xue's word.

“If you’re sure…” he said doubtfully. Those two had been spending more time around each other. Maybe their relationship had changed drastically enough. “Anyway I should- maybe tell the sect leader I’m a transmigrator too.” He groaned and rubbed his face. “Ugh this whole mess is obliterating the fourth wall.” 

“Should we want the other sects to expect a demon attack?” Shen Yuan finally spoke up. “We can say we got word of it from a captured demon or something. They should know their disciples might be in danger too.”

Shen Xue tilted his head. Ah, there was another problem he had forgotten about through all of this, wasn't there? "Shang Qinghua is consorting with demons."

Shang Qinghua choked, his eyes widening. Oh come on Cucumber bro did you spill his cover? “What- how-“ he sputtered out. 

“That’s right. The original worked as a spy for Mobei-Jun.” Shen Yuan tipped his head at him. “I’d assume you’re still in that role.”

"The System had very firm ideas of what Shen Yuan should be doing. I should have realized it would not have left something as crucial as an opening to the Endless Abyss to chance." Shen Xue frowned. "We will need to free you from that predicament." Shang Qinghua was not only a necessary peak lord, but one they could not replace. Not when they were already struggling.

“It’s really not a good idea to go after my king.” He said sheepishly. He’s been doing fine thigh hugging Mobei-Jun! He’s only lightly beat up every time they see each other. “I don’t think he would appreciate if you took me away.” They can’t protect him like Mobei-Jun can.

"You do not believe the sect can protect you?"

The sect doesn’t have big tits and the emotional availability of a rock! Sure he wishes he wasn’t regularly beaten up, but it’s a price he’s willing to pay! “I would rather not cause a war between an entire demonic kingdom and the sect when it’s already weakened.” He said quickly. He doubts he’s worth that much to Mobei-Jun, but a guy can hope! He’d probably just break in to kill Shang Qinghua.

Shen Xue pursed his lips. He wished he could assure Shang Qinghua that the sect was willing, but he didn't think it would be. They would be less forgiving than he was, so unaware of the work An Ding did. It wasn't his place to step in any way, not since he was no longer tied to Cang Qiong. "Very well. Tell me everything you can about the plans for the demonic invasion. I will see if there's room to change things."

“I don’t know much other than what I wrote. My king doesn’t really tell me anything other than what to do. The invasion was part of a plan to wipe out the sects’ disciples while they were separated from each other and their masters. Several powerful demonic beasts were released in the arena where they started picking off disciples.” It’s a pretty straightforward plan, but it worked well. At least it would have gone off smoother if Binghe wasn’t there.

"I expect your king wouldn't be sympathetic to switching to less powerful demonic beasts at this stage of things," Shen Xue said dryly. An attack on children, how despicable!

“He would probably kill me on the spot.” He agreed with a nervous laugh. “He’ll also probably kill me if he finds out I told you any of this.”

"Unfortunate." Shen Xue shook his head. "We will have to see how far warnings will go." Huan Hua would ignore them of course. The Old Palace Master was an arrogant overblown moron who refused to admit anything could go wrong with his plans.

“Knowing the other sects this probably will not change a thing. At least people will be aware.” Shang Qinghua sighed heavily. “I just want this thing to be over with.”

Shen Xue looked away uncomfortably. He didn't think he had anything he could offer to help his former shidi, even if he wished to.

"Is that all you wished to know? What had changed from your visions?" Shen Xue asked politely.

"Mostly, yeah. And I wanted to meet the two that gave me all this paperwork." He griped. "Good to know I'm not alone in this whole shitty transmigrator thing."

"I wouldn't rely on this one." Shen Xue indicated at Shen Yuan. "He is highly untrustworthy."

"I wouldn't exactly trust you either." Shen Yuan snapped back, shooting him a withering glare. Shang Qinghua sighed as he watched them snap at each other. It's like a couple of cats hissing at one another.

"Shang Qinghua is fully aware of what he is capable of asking from me. He has no such awareness or guards for you," Shen Xue snapped back

“As adorable as you two are, I’m going to need you to leave if you’re just going to snap at each other.” Peerless Cucumber finally found someone who can match his petty rage. They’re perfect for each other. 

Shen Yuan turned his irritated glare Shang Qinghua’s way before huffing out a ‘fine’. “Go back to kissing Liu Qingge or whatever you do on Bai Zhan.” He got in the final jab before sweeping out of the house.

Shen Xue grumbled unhappily and leveled a sharp look at Shang Qinghua. "Try not to die from your stupidity," he sniped. He headed out himself internally seething. Who did Shen Yuan think he was, saying such things about him? He was most certainly not doing anything with Liu Qingge!

Shang Qinghua turned back to his paperwork once those two left, unable to stop grinning to himself. These two have so much drama around, he almost wants to spend more time around them to get all the tea. Oh woe is him, left to clean up their messes instead.